Bedfordshire, England.
It's Christmas Eve, a fair few years ago now. We'd be off on the 25th and 26th and back in as normal on the 27th. The office staff have had their Christmas works meal and bonuses, and the bench workers, those of us that did the actual repair work, are a couple of hours from the end of the working day. One of the owners comes out the office saying Merry Christmas, going from bench to bench handing each of us a single can of Fosters lager.
No one is happy, at all. He starts calling us ungrateful. I clear a space on my bench, hop up and proceed to down it in one while staring him in the eye and throw the empty can in his box.
I got electric shocks on a regular basis in that place, broke my right hand after slipping on a sludgey mix of dust and water, got a written warning for being off for ten weeks with said broken hand. I did ask if there was anything else I could be doing but they didn't want me around one-handed.
There's people that joined after working 40 years and they said it was the worst place they'd ever worked.
They eventually got rid of me just before the two-year mark where I'd have got some rights. It was one of the owners, the general manager and a supervisor in there with me. I just laughed and pointed out that before that meeting, the owner had said a total of five words to me in nearly two years. And the supervisor, who'd arrived about five months earlier, anytime he was at his desk in the office and there were a few people about, he'd be typing but with his screen off, looking busy. Told the three of them I was glad to be free.