I had quite a colourful time as an apprentice and ended up being fired by two companies before finishing my apprenticeship at a third. Here's the story of my second sacking.

As a 16-year-old apprentice, I and my young colleagues were often subjected to harsh treatment by our master tradesman, all in the name of building character.

One Monday morning, my foreman demanded to know why I had yet again failed to show for overtime on Saturday. I reminded him of the conversation we'd had on Friday:

Foreman: You working tomorrow?

Me: No.

Foreman: Why not?

Me: Playing footy.

Foreman: No you’re not, you’re working!

Me: No, playing footy, I’ve worked 12 hours overtime already this week.

Foreman: Be here at 5am.

Me: No, I earn more on a Saturday at footy than I do all week here. Come on, you played footy at Richmond, you understand.           

Foreman: Be here at 5am.

Me: Won’t happen, mate. 

It may sound like I was cheeky, but the same conversation happened every Friday, and always resulted in me skipping work the next day. The only exception was when we played Cranbourne, because I was terrified of their enormous fullback.

I usually got away with it, but my foreman wasn't in a forgiving mood that Monday morning.

Foreman: Where the bloody hell were you on Saturday?

Me: I told you, I was playing footy.

Foreman: Yeah, but I told you, you were working!

The foreman was furious; I was terrified. Was I going to be given a warning or was I going to get sacked? Suddenly, an ominous smile crept over his snarling face. He told me to wait.

He wandered off and returned with a mop and a metal bucket. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the men's changing room and toilet.

Me: What are we doing in here?

Foreman: We're doing nothing. You, my fine friend, are spending the rest of the morning cleaning the dunny.

Me: No way! I'm not cleaning the dunny! I'm an apprentice printer.

Foreman: No, you were an apprentice printer. Now you’re an apprentice toilet cleaner, so get cleaning.

My boss walked out, leaving me cursing him and feeling sorry for myself. I started mopping the floor, and by the time I reached the ink-stained door close to the dunny, I had spent a good 40 minutes wallowing in self-pity and building up a head of steam.

So when I pushed open the toilet door and spotted what could only have been the remnants of the giant foreman’s breakfast left floating in the bowl for me, I completely lost it. I let fly with my size 11 steel-capped boot straight into the front of the porcelain bowl.

Big mistake. A fine crack appeared, which slowly became longer and wider, and then gradually started leaking a small amount of water. I decided to get some glue to seal the crack.

I ran into the press room, found some superglue and rags, and returned to the ever-so-slightly-faster leaking toilet bowl. Getting on my hands and knees, I started trying to stem the flow and dry an area to glue. Suddenly, the bowl split in half – at about the same time as the foreman decided to turn up and check on my work.

Foreman: What the hell have you done, you idiot?

Me: Nothing. I was just mopping the floor and accidentally hit the bowl. It's not my fault if your dunny is crappy!

Foreman: Stop being a smart arse and go get some rags!

Soon after, I was summoned to the owner's office and handed a pink envelope. The rest you can guess.

[Related: More Industry Insider columns]

Stuart Dinan is the managing director of Art of Packaging

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