David Lister: The perils of being friends with the boss

The editor on my first newspaper had a habit of standing behind you as you were writing. Eventually, unnerved by his presence, you would stop writing. "What are you doing?" he would ask, amazed. "I'm thinking," the hapless reporter would answer. "Don't think! Write!" he would bark, emphasising the point with a jab of his finger between the shoulder blades.

Those little exchanges probably formed my view of the nature of bossdom. A boss is someone who creeps up on you from behind, tries to catch you out, makes ridiculous demands and inflicts pain.

It is not a view of bossdom shared by Liverpool footballers Steven Gerrard and Fernando Torres. The two multi-millionaire internationals have been quoted as having the odd reservation about their manager Rafa Benitez. Gerrard is reported as saying that Benitez rarely puts an arm round a player's shoulder. Torres says of his fellow Spaniard that when he let the manager know that his wife was pregnant, Benitez made no comment on that but instead congratulated him on a near-post run he had made in the last match.

It's ironic that in one of the few remaining areas of British life where the boss is still called "Boss", he is expected to act like your best friend. Gerrard and Torres are lucky they didn't play under Brian Clough. One of his charges, Lee Chapman, has written of what life was like. When Clough spotted one player emerging from the toilets he shouted at him in front of the rest of the team: "Now go back and wash your hands."

The fact that this was a grown man with a family and a mortgage cut little ice. On another occasion Clough came in to the dressing room to deliver a half-time team talk and said to a striker who had missed a few chances: "Do you know what it's like to be punched in the stomach, lad?" The striker, assuming this was a metaphor for how life's misfortunes can creep up on you unexpectedly, answered that he did not. Clough then punched him in the stomach. That was the half-time team talk.

That may have been taking notions of bossdom too far. But the Gerrard/Torres dream of boss-employee relations can be just as problematic, even in the matey atmosphere of sport. As Benitez said of his players in a recent interview: "I am their coach, not their friend." It's true in every walk of life. The boss, man or woman, who puts a comforting arm round your shoulder or who inquires earnestly whether morning sickness is proving too much of a problem is the same boss who, a few years later, will have to tell you that your services are no longer required. And the pain of that is much more severe if you feel that it is coming from someone you regarded as a friend.

One of the consequences of the new age of emotionalism in Britain is that the boss is expected to be friend, counsellor, confidant and well-wisher. I certainly know one or two who achieve that and still manage to run the show brilliantly. But it's not an essential skill to combine all those attributes. And the employee who expects it, and revels in the friendship, will nearly always have a nasty shock. This is the one friend who has the power of hire and fire.

The actress Billie Whitelaw tells a story of her time at Laurence Olivier's National Theatre in the 1960s. He called her into his office before the start of a season and mused in admiration at how wonderful she was. Then he looked down his list of female roles in the coming productions and lamented how he could not possibly offer one of those trifles to someone of her dazzling brilliance.

Only when she had left the room and was halfway down the corridor did she realise she had been sacked.

Christmas with Dylan? Let's tell it like it is

Critics have been puzzled by – but largely polite and respectful about – Bob Dylan's new Christmas album, Christmas in the Heart, which treats the listener to the bizarre sound – and in October! – of the one-time king of the counter-culture growling his way through the likes of "Here Comes Santa Claus", "O Little Town of Bethlehem" and "Winter Wonderland". Perhaps the fact that the proceeds will go to charity explains the respectful reactions.

It's not the first time that Dylan has confounded his admirers by going into Bing Crosby territory. Relatively early in his career he brought out Self Portrait, an appalling album, which included standards such as "Blue Moon", all sung in a sugary-sweet high voice. Fans were unsure what to make of this; was it some opaque irony? In those days, Rolling Stone magazine was the rock music bible. And its review was eagerly awaited for enlightenment. Written by Greil Marcus, it began pungently and inimitably: "What is this shit?"

Such a critique may not be the most elegant, but I'd like to see a little more of the Rolling Stone approach to Dylan's latest, utterly misguided, venture.

Who really cares if you're driving well?

"If you think I am driving well, please ring this number and tell them..." Sitting in a traffic jam on the A40 Westway (there being an "r" in the month) I was able to study and ponder this sticker, which appears on the back of far too many vans and lorries, urging you to ring the company boss and praise their driver.

Why on earth should we do this? Is there really in this country, I wondered, a single person who has the time and inclination to inform an anonymous switchboard operator that one of the company's drivers has been spotted driving properly?

Besides, isn't driving well what one is supposed to do? Wouldn't it be far more useful – to the driver, to the company and to other drivers – to report those who are driving badly rather than those who are simply doing what is expected of them?

And why is this commendation for good driving restricted to drivers representing a company? We private individuals like to be praised as well. I propose that we should all take to putting stickers in the back windows of our cars: "If you think I am driving well, please ring my mother. It will be a nice surprise for her."