Listen Oswald, I'm Not The Same As you...

Forgive me Manuel for I have sinned...

You get to know your regular customers. I mean other than what they like to eat and where they like to sit and that they like their steak medium with just a little blood but not so much blood that it runs etc etc etc. After a while they volunteer all sorts of information, where they are going on holiday, who in the family just got pregnant/married/promoted, how drunk somebody got last Saturday night. And it's not just the good stuff either you get to see their scars from operations and have to act as referee during little fights. You get let in on private and intimate secrets such as the lady who told me about her miscarriage. Months later she told me the IVF treatment had been successful and she was pregnant again. It was sweet to hear the end of the story.

People tell me the strangest things. They seem to trust me. Maybe they wouldn't if they knew about Well Done Fillet! Hell maybe they wouldn't if they knew I was blabbing to the kitchen staff minutes after they told me some deep dark secret. Well not all secrets are shared.

Customers make the terrible assumption that I am the same as them, that I have the same problems as them. I've never owned a Mercedes C-Class so how the fuck would I know how difficult it is to get reasonable insurance for one?! As a waiter I don't have the disposable income for weekends in the South of France so I have no frame of reference when it comes to the problem of finding a good chalet with staff. I am the person that brings you extra napkins and pours your wine, not your bloody golf buddy. Jesus wept!

But all that is tolerable, bearable, even welcome, in comparison to one particular strain of conversation that has reared it's very ugly head over the last few months. Here's how tonight's version went...

"Good evening. I hope you're all well. Can I get you something to drink?" I enquire in my affable and polite way.

"Oh good your local!" Exclaims suburban Nazi lady "Tim, the waiter's local! What a relief. We've had such trouble lately with, well you know, these damn Polish types."

"Don't speak a word of the language you know. Bloody terrible trouble trying to get a Gin and Tonic the other night. Brought me bloody Bacardi! Terrible night." Adds suburban Nazi man.

I blank them. You wont drag me into your Monday night rascitfest.

"They are coming for your job your know." Warns suburban Nazi lady in her sternest Gin soaked voice. Suburban Nazi man nodded along as he scanned the wine list.

I had a quick look around me but couldn't see any Polish waiters hiding anywhere. Maybe they were under table 7 or they were discussing tactics in the toilets.

"Oh I'm so glad you speak English. I couldn't bear another night of repeating myself to the waiter over and over again" Suburban Nazi lady was getting more than a touch melodramatic. It as if she had just arrived into the last remaining restaurant in Belfast.

I couldn't resist following with "Pardon?"

And on it went. They made numerous references to how glad they were that I wasn't a "bloody Pole or one of them Romanian gypsies".

It was the casual manner of their racism that got to me. They spoke to me as if we were all in the same club, "Middle Classes For Forced Repatriation". And that fucking got to me. They got to me. But what really got to me was that I never said anything. I never pulled them up on it. I never said "Go fuck yourself you dirty WASP bastards." (Or even something less likely to get me fired) I never stood up for the Polish waiters and barmen that I know. That I like and work with. I just blanked them. Silence. I didn't nod along or agree with them but I didn't defend people I know. That's cowardice. And I'm angry with myself.

It's the third or fourth time that this has happened. But no more silence. I'll be putting the little Brown Shirts in their place. They will be told firmly that I ain't the same as them and to stick their opinions up the asses. Or words to that effect.

And another thing whilst we are at it, I'm on a roll here, people who have affairs are getting on my tits too. Are they just dumb as fuck or what is it? There is a regular customer who has been eating at the restaurant for as long as I have worked there who it turns out is having an affair. Now I don't care about that. I don't like it, but it's not my concern. The younger lady who he regularly dines with, kisses across the table, feels up when he thinks no one can see him isn't his wife. I now know this as he brought his wife and son to the restaurant on Sunday for lunch!

ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS?

ARE YOU FOR REAL?

ARE YOU THAT FUCKING COCKY?

WAS THERE NO OTHER RESTAURANT YOU COULD HAVE GONE TO?

And to make it worse he pretended like he didn't know me. What a dick. God I hope he gets caught. That'll teach him to ignore me....

Now who else wants some? I'm in the mood for dropping soup on someone.

Anti Nazis and The Happily married Subscribe in a reader

Found one...

"you can be my hero baby..."
El Hijo del Santo chases down Sewageman

Following on from Saturday's lamenting....

Heroes eh?! Your illusions are shattered and you take to your bed praying for an early release from this mortal coil then a Mexican Wrestler in a Mexican Wrestling Mask (what else would it be?) turns up and your world is okay again. The birds are singing, the sun is shining and life is bearable for another while at least. Believe me when I'm up, Im up and when I'm down I'm very fucking down.

But the story of El Hijo del Santo the Mexican Wrestler has perked me up again. And restored my faith in human nature. This unlikely hero has joined with environmental group WILDCOAST to help them promote their campaigns. You see the problem is that people don't listen to men in suits or hippies in hemp trousers and tie dyed shirts. Only a man in Lycra shorts and matching mask can save the world from environmental disaster. He will put an end to the Mexican taste for turtle meat, promote marine protected areas in California, empower people to clean the Tijuana River, and support grey whale conservation in Baja California. And that's just next week.

It's not just turtles and trees...
El Hijo del Santo saves a lady who has lost her cardigan

Now there is someone for the kids to look up to. The world actually needs actual superheroes, men and women in sparkly outfits who get changed in public toilets and phone boxes. In a world of Playstations and x-boxes kids only respond to characters. And anyway who says the voice of a Mexican Wrestler is any less valid than the Governor of somewhereville? And if anyone dares suggest it is just a self publicity stunt I will Tope de Cristo you, which is one of our hero's signature moves and I'm sure it would hurt. So be warned.

El Hijo del Santo saves a man from choking by performing
the Heimlich Maneuver

I salute you El Hijo del Santo!

Real Hero's Subscribe in a reader

(I really must post about waiting tables...)

Where have all the heroes gone?

another proud winner of the yellow jersey...

Seriously what is going on the world? Anyone who is even thinking of having a child at the moment should be shaken until they agree that it is a stupid idea. There are no heroes any more. There is no one left for our children to look up to and be inspired by. And if you think I am overstating the point lets just have a look at the news over the last week or so.

Astronauts
Friday brought us the news that Astronauts enjoy an alcoholic beverage or two. Nowt wrong in that but not when they are due to fly a plane costing $1.7 billion. What the fuck? As a lad of just 16 I crashed my BMX on the way home from the bar. I was loaded on cider and whiskey. I nearly got smashed all over the road when I inevitably crashed. I have never even contemplated doing it again. I was 16, drunk on cider and whiskey and overcome with teenage hormones. I was not a highly educated Astronaut at the peak of my mental and physical condition. I had an excuse! I also didn't have hundreds if not thousands of people ensuring I didn't get on my bike as drunk as an Astronaut. I had my mates telling me "Aye you'll be sweet wah...."

Spaced....

If Astronauts aren't racing across the country in nappies to chase down their love rivals they are going to work hammered. I can still remember seeing the first Space Shuttle blasting off. I was in awe and wonder at it. If I am being honest I still am. For the human race to escape the bonds of gravity and be able to leave Earth is just amazing and gives us hope of finding other life out there in the Galaxy. It is testament to humanity's ability and skill. These people were heroes to me. I read Moondust : In Search of the Men Who Fell to Earth which interviewed some of those who have been to the moon. It was inspiring and gave me hope for humanity. These men were real trailblazers, modern day pilgrims. Now... now Astronauts are just drunk assholes. I'll never be able to hear a countdown again without thinking they are doing Tequila slammers in the cockpit.

Sports

Before the news of the drunk Astronauts there was the never ending shamefest that is the Tour De France. It is testament to how far humanity has fallen. The premise of the race is simple, get on your bike and race to the end. Pit your mental and physical strength against yourself and your opponents. Test yourself against the mountains of the Rhone Alps and against the torture that it must be. OR get some dodgy doctor to inject a load of "clean" blood and steroids into your system and you can cheat your way to fame and more importantly loads of lovely cash.

I can remember as a child watching the Tour with my cousins. We would cheer on our own Stephen Roche and Sean Kelly and pretend to be them on our bikes as we would chase each other about on the narrow little farm roads around Grandad's farm. Such a sweet and wholesome image. But we also used to play a game called EmerDallasFarm. Which was a cross between Emmerdale Farm and Dallas. It was a borderline incestuous and social workers should have been called. But less of that for the time being. Who do you cheer now, the rider or the doctor who administers the dodgy drugs? What a bunch of cunts. As are the cheats who spy and get away with it. As are the cheats who attempt to destroy the records of true heroes. As are the thieving owners who don't give a fuck about the fans. It's all so corrupt and depressing.

In a time when Rock Stars are more influential than politicians and the politicians are doing more drugs than Rock Stars it's not easy working out who to trust anymore. I miss the old certainties of yesteryear. The Rock stars were drunk and off their tiny minds on drugs. Sports stars shagged Miss Worlds and saved the drugs until after the game. It rained in the winter and was sunny in summer. Politicians kissed babies not hookers. And then there is the Church. A place of refuge, a source of solace when all around you was crumbling apart. Not anymore. Those days of innocence are well and truly over. If they aren't fiddling with the alter boys they are dipping into the organ fund to pay for their secret family.

So there are no heroes anymore. We have to figure it all out for ourselves. We have to be inspired by those close to us, by parents and siblings. By the finds we make ourselves, whether it be a moment of mental clarity or a stunning view we never knew existed. Or by Snoopy...

...Snoopy is my hero now. Snoopy has never let me down, ever. Woodstock was a bit of a dick but you cant have everything.

Fuck the Astronauts, idiots.

God like....

Sarah Jessica Parker, Lovely...

...on the inside.
Face like a foot on the outside.

(this image was in no way altered)

I would have made a great butcher

I was tagged an age ago by Cybez from the Bog Standard Blog and then by Other Manuel (original Manuel you could say) from Manuel Stimulation. I'm not sure what they want from me but here are 8 things about me. Specifically 8 other things I would have liked to have done if I wasn't so lucky to be a waiter.

1. As a child I was really into Lego. As a result I wanted to be an architect. Oh how the world would have been so very different if I had followed that through. All those lovely houses with yellow/blue/red bricks. Who wouldn't have wanted to live in one of those? Ever been to Craigavon? Take that Norman Foster, I could have been big man, so very big...

I made this, honest....

2. I spend a very high percentage of my available cash on music. If I'm not trawling ebay for rare and lovely vinyl I am talking about it and even listening to it and so on. Most of my chums are in bands or involved with music in some way. As a talentless oaf who can't even dance, despite years of ballet, or even play the spoons I was constantly relegated to carrying things in order to gain free access to their gigs. As a rule I wouldn't want to be a rock star, as Dave Pajo from Slint/Zwan/Papa M put it "I have tasted fame and it tastes like dog turd, just give me the money". That in mind I would have liked to have been a producer or manager. All the cash minus the hassle. Nice. Wouldn't kill anyone though, or allegedly kill anyone.

Manuel Spector.....

3. Now I know what you are thinking "All little boys want to be astronauts" but I didn't. Now I do, but not when I was a youngling. I mean I really really want to go into space. I would die happy if I could gaze upon the earth from the cockpit of a Space Shuttle. Not very likely I will make it unless I become a Russian Oligarch. So that said, I am likely to die very bitter and unfulfilled. Bitter I tells ye......

Cullybackey we have a problem....

4. I cant play chess. Never been able to learn. It's true I never tried to learn. But I would like to be a Chess Grand-master. They seem like a fun sort. Look at Bobby Fischer, he has millions of fun! As a Chess Grand-master you get to sit about all day wearing turtle neck shirts whilst stroking your chin in a wise and sage fashion. Saying that Deep Blue now works for American Airlines, handling ticket sales. That's a bit sad, and I wouldn't like that.

Knight 3 to prawn 4, you sunk my battleship!

5. I would have made a great revolutionary. Like Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos I would have got myself a handy gimmick so that the people would recognise me easier. Che had his hat and cigar, Marcos has his balaclava and pipe, I would have Adam Ant makeup and a Chuppa Chupp lolly pop. The kids wont remember Kojak so I would get away with it. Seriously though the pipe/balaclava thing is just brilliant. I haven't quite decided yet what I would be rebelling against but I would have lots of worthy sound bites that would fit nicely on t-shirts, hats, bumper stickers, and so on. Hey the revolution needs financed. Viva la General Manuel, Viva la T- Shirt sales!

Subcomandante Insurgente Manuel,

who says it's not me?

6. I lie awake at night thinking about what it would be like to own my own club/bar. I don't mean some modern soulless hell hole called Panda Panda or something equally shite. I mean a classy 1930's style swing club. I would really rather just go back in time to the roaring 30's. Classy suits, "dames", Louis Armstrong on piano, burlesque, vodka martinis, cigarettes in silver holders, the Charleston, big bands. God I want that so much. If there are any time lords out there is there any chance we could meet to discus how we make this happen?

Its not Rick's, it's Manuel's.....

7. I would have made a great butcher. You have licence to call people "Love" and "Dear". Butchers are jolly chaps with a penchant for cutting things up. What's not to love about that? It's good honest work and you get tins of beer as presents at Christmas. And think of the fun you could have on the bus on the way home as you sit there covered in blood with knives poking out of your bag! Magic stuff! Jesus, animals really don't stand a chance with me do they?

Here love I've got some lovely chops today...

8. Really I just want to be old. In a family were the men rarely make it past 60 it's the best I can hope for. It's not much to ask is it? I'm off for a smoke and to think about being old....

I have a dream.....

I'll not be tagging anyone back, so carry on as you were.....

What a fantastic idea! But why stop there Gordon?

Gordon "The Dandy Highwayman" Brown
Fuck the poor lets eat Swans!

Son of the Manse, as we are constantly told, and British Prime Minister Gordon Brown has struck upon a great idea to... well actually I don't know why he is doing it. But he plans to reduce the minimum wage in Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales and the north east of England. That would be everywhere except most of England. Fuck knows what the Geordie's have done to piss him off.

The minimum wage is currently set at the princely sum of £5.35! I know I know it's far too much! You should see the poor where I live, it's all Mercedes and BMW's. I myself have not one but 2 bicycles. Bourgeois bastard! You have to queue for caviar and don't even think about trying to get a decent bottle of bubbly unless you order in advance.

But seriously, what? Reduce the minimum wage? Make it smaller? Less money? Jesus Gordon if you are going to reduce it from £5.35 why not just do away with it all together you fat greedy hypocrite. By taking money out of the hands of those of us on the bottom run of the wage ladder you are effectively putting it back into the hands of the very rich. Like some sort of twisted Robin Hood.

But why stop there Gordon? Why not put our income tax up too? Or whilst your at it if you fancy a bit of "blue sky thinking" why not force us to clean the gardens of the rich or wash their cars, voluntary of course! When wages in the North of Ireland are 16% lower than the rest of the UK it makes great sense to help lower this. Fingers crossed we can get it down to 20% lower than the rest of the country next year. And it's not just the wages Gordon that could be reduced. Here are some other figures for you peruse whilst you rub yourself with Fillet Mignon. There are 350,000 people living in income poverty in Northern Ireland, lets get that up to a nice round half million. There are 100,000 children living in income poverty in Northern Ireland, spoilt bastards lets get that number up and whilst you are at it take their PlayStation off them too. There are 50,000 pensioners living in income poverty in Northern Ireland. Come on Gordon that's easy, lets just turn their heat off!

Gordon Brown you sir are a cunt for even thinking this out loud.

"...from man to pig and from pig back to man, they find that they are unable to tell the difference."

Socialist my arse.

If there is one phrase I really hate it's...

offensive bastard....

..."political correctness gone mad". Makes my blood boil. It is normally used by racists, apologists for racists, and people who like to use terms like coloured and pillow bitters, or who think that gay equality and human rights in general are abhorrent. Prime examples of people who use this phrase are members of the right wing press like Jeremy Clarkson, that fuckwit Gary Bushell from the Sun "newspaper", the ever so tiresome Richard Littlejohn, and most probably the Fox news network. In fact I'm sure that News International have it as both a company trademark and a prerequisite in all editorials, no matter the issue.

That said, this story from the Daily Mail, of all places, actually warrants it's use. Or something similar. Cant be bothered to follow the link? Don't want the Daily Mail on your hard drive?I understand. Let me summarise for you....

Belfast based restaurateur Eddie Fung is planning to open his next Fat Buddha restaurant in Durham next month, having spent a not too shabby £1.3million. He has one in Belfast at the moment and whilst it's not my cup of rice (see what I did there?) it is very popular. So what's the problem eh? Well the ironically named HEAD OF CULTURAL SERVICES, Tracey Ingle has demanded that Mr Fung change the name of his restaurant as she believes it is "provocative" to Buddhists.

In a letter to Mr Fung, Miss Ingle wrote: "To use the name of a major religion's deity in your restaurant brand runs contrary to this city's reputation as a place of equality and respect for others' views and religious beliefs.

"The generic descriptive adjective of "fat" is not in itself a derogatory term when applied generally ...the name implies an Eastern offer [>sic] as it is associated with a religion that grew from Asian countries .It does not, however, offer vegetarian cuisine solely nor does it refer to Buddhist belief systems. The name is provocative."

Mr Fung, 39, (old enough to know better) said: "I cannot believe that this woman should go to so much time and trouble to take issue over an inoffensive name like Fat Buddha.

"No Buddhist is going to be offended by this. The fat Buddha is a symbol of health and happiness." [trumpet fan fare] "It is political correctness gone mad."

And so it is.

For fuck sake even the Buddhist Society said: "Buddhists regard the fat Buddha as lucky. To suggest this is offensive is to misunderstand the faith."

And anyway do you really think we were likely to have rivers of blood as the Buddhists go on a rampage? I don't think so.

I'm pleased that Durham City Council has a head of cultural services. Honest I am. It is genuinely an important position but idiotic decisions like this make a mockery of the position and give the Daily Mail something to get upset about. And leave people with no choice but to say "It's political correctness gone mad!" If Mr Fung had named his restaurant "Chinky Charlie's" or something equally as offensive well then Ms Ingle would have a cast iron complaint. But he didn't, and she doesn't.

In separate but sort of related news the Daily Mail managed another good story recently. This time about Manchester City Council using fake testimonies from fake Manchester residents to explain why congestion charges for motorists would be a good thing. I know it's a good story because it was spotted by and blogged by Toast, Thomas McEldowney, on his blog ysr23.com. It's well worth a look.

Two good stories form the Daily Mail? I need a lie down....

Culture, Spanish Style

probably not stuck for a date on a Saturday night.....
(right click to save-LMM)

At some point in my life I have boycotted/try to save everything. I have marched to save Wales, sorry I mean The Whales. I have signed umpteen petitions to state my unhappiness at water charges, various wars, the destruction of landmarks and so on. I have sported badges to show support for down trodden tribes from Larne to Lesotho. I have championed the cause of arse holes and animals alike. Whether it was puppies with lipstick or hens in cages I was either for or against it depending were the "man" stood. If "he" was for it I was against it. Good grief I was even a vegetarian for a couple of years. That was a difficult period for my carnivorous father, prompting him to ask my sister if I was gay. I was all gothed up at the time as well so you can understand I suppose.

happy days...

So when it was first mooted that we might attend The Plaza de Toros to watch a bullfight my first reaction was "Not a fucking chance...". But within seconds I had changed my mind and was eager to revel in some hardcore blood sport action. But man was I conflicted. I thought that it was wrong to support a ban on fox hunting with doggies and at the same time go to a bullfight. I thought that it was utter hypocrisy to worry about the conditions of farm raised animals and at the same time pay good money to watch one being speared and tortured for a bit of craic. Then I realised it was culture! Thank fuck for culture, you can get away with any old nonsense as long as you can claim you have been at it for a long time and that it is vital for your peoples survival. So with my guilt some what assuaged, if not my impending illness (did I tell you I got sick?), I escorted my Little Miss Manuel to the romantic sounding Plaza de Toros. (If you find blood and gore romantic...)

The building itself is magnificent. Located on the banks of the Guadalquivir river it is regarded as Spain's finest centre for bull fighting. It was started in 1762 but not finished until 1881. It holds 14,000 punters and was immortalised in the opera Carmen. But all this was lost on me as all I could think about was Monty Python's "The Life of Brian".

"Larks' tongues. Otters' noses. Ocelot spleens...." and so on. Well it's that sort of theatre...

We had the "turista del idiota con demasiado dinero" seats. Culture has a price, $60 apparently. Which meant front row. So close you smell the bull pee. Actually our seats were fucking mint. The matadors waiting area was right in front of where we were seated, so you could smell their pee too.

The arena swirled with the sounds of tourists and locals chatting excitedly about the upcoming event. There were families of local Sevillians gathering all round us but not in the same row as us. What did they know that we didn't? The evening sun was setting and the arena was getting darker and moodier, the tension was rising. Flashes of bright white light from hundreds of cameras sparkled all over the auditorium. LMM gabbled away about "the dress on yer woman" and "did you see a toilet anywhere?" and "I think I know him" and other such babbling.

Then, with a fan fare from the band, the Matadors were lead into the ring. They bowed at the dignitaries and waved to the crowd who cheered and blew kisses. God the life of a Matador must be a rough one what with all the available sex and interesting stories. The Mickey Mouse ears hats made me laugh all the same. It was at this point we discovered that we had the world's largest bullfighting fan behind us. She had all the required gear including soft sponge to keep her huge ass comfortable. She even had pictures of the Matador to get autographs. If she wasn't yelling out "OLE" at the top of her voice she was stuffing sandwiches into her huge mouth. More that a few times she tried to do both at the same time. I had to use my hat to cover me from the rain of sandwiches jamón and spit!

The Matadors just below us were going through their pre rumble routines which seemed to include a lot of blessing themselves and patting each other on the back. There were flashes of swords which prompted LMM to ask what they were for. It was at this point that I realised LMM hadn't quite grasped what we were about to see. I think she was expecting some sort of Riverdance for cows and that the star turns would be relaxing with a nice bale of hay in an hour or two. Crikey was she in for a shock....

Then after more trumpeting from the band we were up and away. The bull came flying into the ring like he had been promised some hot bull on cow action. Which is probably why he was so pissed off only to find 3 lads in, and some one has to say it, very effeminate outfits. If you have never been to a bull fight here's what happens (with thanks to wikipedia):

Tercio de varas ("the third of lancing"), the matador first confronts the bull and observes his behavior in an initial section called suerte de capote. Next, two/three picadores enter the arena each armed with a lance or varas. The picador stabs a mound of muscle on the bull's neck, which lowers its blood pressure, so that the enraged bull does not have a heart attack. The bull's charging and trying to lift the picadors with its neck muscles also weakens its massive neck and muscles.

In the next stage, the tercio de banderillas ("the third of banderillas"), the three banderilleros each attempt to plant two barbed sticks (called banderillas) on the bull's flanks. These further weaken the enormous ridges of neck and shoulder muscle through loss of blood, while also frequently spurring the bull into making more ferocious charges.

In the final stage, the tercio de muerte ("the third of death"), the matador re-enters the ring alone with a small red cape (muleta) and a sword. He uses his cape to attract the bull in a series of passes, both demonstrating his control over it and risking his life by getting especially close to it. This is when you can expect large Spanish ladies to shout "OLE" and cover you in spit and ham sandwiches. The faena ("work") is the entire performance with the muleta, which is usually broken down into a series of "tandas" or "series". The faena ends with a final series of passes in which the matador with a muleta attempts to manoeuvre the bull into a position to stab it between the shoulder blades and through the aorta or heart. The act of thrusting the sword is called an estocada.

Now the first bull to be killed happened right in front of us. LMM nearly ripped the skin of my arm as she clung on to me. The bull, and you wont see this in any holiday brochures, stopped dead in it's tracks, coughed up a bit of blood, pee'd itself, then coughed up a whole lot more blood then keeled over. Nice. Fuck me with a ham sandwich that was rough.

there used too be a bull there, used to be....

And on it goes. The Matador was cheered as he took his victory lap. Flowers were thrown to him along with fans, and match day programmes. He must have been okay for fans as he kissed them and threw them back. And that ladies and gentlemen is bullfighting. I did cheer into myself when a couple of the bulls decided not to follow the script and have a bloody good go at their persecutors. One chap end up in an ambulance after a particularly nasty goring and another ended up covered in blood and shame as he made an absolute mess of the whole thing. The bull knocked him flying a couple of times but God bless him he kept coming back for more. The other Matadors were none to impressed though. He took a bloody, very bloody, age to kill the beast and it was bordering on cruelty and torture by the end. There was no lap of honour for this guy. He was sent from the "dug out' after his fight.

Matadors are indeed very brave, as witnessed by the guy who wouldn't give up and the one that ended up in hospital. But the funniest part of the night, true there weren't very many laughs, came at the start when a large dragonfly landed on one of the Matadors in front of us. There was near panic in the paddock as they tried to "save" their friend from this most deadly of beasties.

"Get it off, get it off, get it off...OH MY GOD!....Did you see the size of that?...Anyone got a Fresca, I need a hit after that?"

Matadors? HA! Wouldn't go again though. Culture eh?

That's enough about my holiday for the time being. Back to work today. Jesus I want to cry......

la Noche de Sueños Locos

Manuel Street

We had seats reserved on the train from Madrid to Seville for the Wednesday morning. As we were leaving early we decided in our unerring and infinite wisdom to collect the tickets in advance. We had the requested documentation and my credit card. I thought it would be a matter of showing up, queue for a bit, present requested documents and off you pop sort of thing. The chaps from the Spanish rail operators had other ideas. This involved queuing up to get a ticket in order to join another queue so that someone could send you to yet another queue. There was sweating, swearing, and general upset as we traversed our way round the train station trying to guess what way the system worked. Any way an hour later we emerged victorious, clasping two "second class" (as the snooty chap behind the counter had put it) tickets to Seville.

I opted to get the train to Seville rather than plane as I wanted to see the Spanish countryside. And I also enjoy a good train ride through new and exciting surroundings. The sleeper from Bangkok to the south of Thailand was one of the highlights of that trip. So I was all a quiver as we pulled out of the station. LMM as predicted fell asleep within minutes. Love is not getting upset as your girlfriend drools and dribbles on your new t-shirt in her sleep. As we pulled clear of the city the Spanish countryside opened up in front of me, well to the side of me, but you get the point. Dry and barren in places, charred from the relentless heat but with pockets of green grass and crops to offer something to focus on and add to the beautiful vistas. In the distance little houses on little farms popped out to reveal themselves, the perfectly white washed walls contrasting against the natural landscapes. As LMM was asleep I hit play on my iPod and really got into the whole experience, the silky sultry almost lazy Latin sounds of Juana Molina hit the spot just right. Heavenly. Then....

....then the bastardo behind me decided to pull the blind down. Are you trying to ruin my magical moment? Have you any idea how much you are fucking with my "special journey?" I wouldn't have minded but we were about 30 minutes into a 2 and a half hour trip. Nuts. When we arrived in Seville I stood up to get a look at the ruiner. A fucking child! A ten year old brat had sabotaged my fun. It's not the getting there and all that though is it?

Manuel and the magic eye view....

Seville
If Madrid was too fast the Seville was just right. The hotel, Las Casas del Rey de Baeza, was located in the old Jewish Quarter of the city, I wonder if it used to be the old Palestinian Quarter. (It's like reading The Guardian isn't it) The hotel was beautiful, light, airy, calm, peaceful. The staff were so nice I became worried that I had booked us into some sort of happy clappy cult like commune. They were the polar opposite of the stern and laugh free staff from the Madrid hotel. There was either Ecstasy in the water or these people actually cared about good customer service.

Seville was great. Narrow winding streets opened onto little squares that were bordered on all sides by a chapel, tapas bars, shops selling all sorts of el crapo. Shops selling el crapo are my favourite, they are the same all over the world, you simply take thousands and thousands of years of culture and mythology and music and religion and all the things a people hold dear and you get a company in China to make it into a plastic doll or lighter or ashtray. Genius. Hey I'm not knocking it, I myself came home with plastic castanets, a cigarette lighter with a flamenco dancer on it, a T-Shirt with a bull with very large balls, and various other bits of tat that will clutter up a drawer for about 3 years before being chucked. Ah the cycle of life....

Talking about cycles we arranged to hire some bikes for a days cycling but the morning we were due to pick them up we had a huge change of mind and cancelled them before they arrived. This was due to the "la Noche de Sueños Locos" (The Night of Crazy Dreams). This was the most freaked out I have ever been in my life, and I have been married! Earlier that day I was feeling a bit groggy a bit run down. I was standing in the pool shivering with cold and I thought to myself that "This is a bit odd, it's 38oc and I'm shivering cold." Not being one complain (HA!-LMM) I said nothing but thought it wiser to get out of the pool. We were going to the Plaza del Torros that night which had me a bit excited and I didn't want mother, sorry I mean Little Miss Manuel, using my impending illness to call it off. I just had to fake it and try and conserve as much energy as possible. A couple of well placed 20 minute hugs could be turned into naps if played out right. I'd be busted if they turned into sex all the same. I would have to fight my normal instincts.

The bull fight came and went, more of that later. It was a great experience, especially as I was seeing everything in slow motion and on 2 screens in my head. It was like watching the Matrix live! We got back to the hotel and I dropped on top of the bed and revealed my illness to LMM who said it was nothing more than tiredness. Tiredness eh, we'll see. Within minutes I had drifted off to sleep. Well I say sleep but it was more like a hellish parallel universe inhabited by repeated words, repeated words, repeated words, visions of men dancing with horses (actually dancing with horses on their hind legs cheek to cheek), a drawer that kept opening and closing, and plates of fish! It was like an episode of Twin Peaks meets Dali! I was in Feversville and I had just been made mayor. At first the only thing that woke me from this nightmare was my new best friend, my big chesty cough. It didn't arrive on it's own it brought Mr Phlegm to play as well. I woke at one point oblivious to the fact that LMM was now not on the bed but instead reading a book on a chair in the furthest corner form the bed. I stumbled of the bed and in a rush to stand up and look normal I stubbed my toe on the wee table. What a picture I must have looked as I bounced round the room trying to grab my toe with sweat lashing off me whilst trying to focus on the wall.

LMM took over when she got back bed. My heart was racing like a humming bird and I was hot, not hot like a matador but hot like someone with the Ebola virus. (How's that for hyperbole?) My breathing had apparently become a concern too. Jesus! I was thinking about final words and how would LMM get my body home and would my sister come out to get my remains. And what was on the hard drive of my computer that might cause embarrassment even after death. And the more I fretted the more my heart would react. Then I started feeling sorry for myself. Well who wouldn't?! I think that's when LMM had had enough. Boyfriend with a fever is one thing, whinging boyfriend with a fever on holiday is something else all together. She put damp towels on my head and forced cool water down me every 20 minutes or so. And after a couple of hours this seemed to take effect. I began breathing normally again and my heart was down to it's usual relaxed humming bird mode. The fever had passed and I drifted off to a happy place where men didn't dance cheek to cheek with horses.

la Noche de Sueños Locos

I had been awake for an hour or so before LMM woke that morning. I just lay there soaked in sweat. The sun filled all the cracks in the window blinds and you could tell already it was going to be another scorchio day. I just lay there contemplating the night before and how happy I was to have LMM to get me through it. I also thought that it was a scene reminiscent of Apocalypse Now. You know the one at the start before Marty Sheen goes up river and he is holed up in his hotel room? (Have I still got a fever?) I couldn't hug LMM enough. I thanked her and told her how much I loved her and that I didn't know how to repay her love for me. She said she knew how and would show me the brochure when we got home....

[seriously there is still more to come such as the bullfight and the meeting with future Manuel]

Mispronounced Soups no.4

...they may take our lives but they will never take our
Scotch Wrath!

Keef, we hardly knew ye...

Keef and his wife Dave

There was very little interaction between guests around the pool. By little I really mean none what so ever. The American family amused themselves with games, the Italians, Germans, and French contented themselves with baking themselves under the sun. What few British people there were kept themselves to themselves occasionally peering from behind their Daily Telegraph's to cast disparaging glances at the frolicking South Americans. No shame some people. Tut!

Now for the most part I welcomed this. I spend most of my working day making small talk with people I don't really give a fiddle for so I don't want to have to do it on holiday. But I did get a bit restless from time to time. People came and went at regular intervals but were always replaced by another clone. You lose one tall oil soaked Italian you get another one within minutes. Something was missing from the pool area, a dynamic or well something interesting.

Then Keith showed up. Keith, or Keef as he pronounced it, was the epitome of a Diamond Geezer. In he strode all gold chains and cheeky winks from behind his over sized sun glasses. He wore a pair of shorts that were certainly not on their first venture abroad. He said hello to everyone on his way round to get a lounger as if he was Dean Martin at a Vegas Hotel.

[You should read Keef in the voice of Mike Reid/Frank Butcher]

"How you doin?

All right dahlin?

Luverly init?

(H)O laaaaaa ladies

Good to see ya"

And on it went. I was perked up right away. Little Miss Manuel and I looked at each other and burst with laughter. We couldn't take our eyes of him. He was a cross between Ray Winstone in Sexy Beast and Boycie from Only Fools and Horses. There was no whispering wif Keef, you got a running commentary on everything he was doing.

"Just move the lan ger ovah here into the suun.
Noice...
Get me some beer and o'im all set aren't I...."

I was just aching for him to say lovely jubbly just once. If Keef wasn't relaxing on his "lan ger" he was talking on his phone. It turns out that Keef had been working very hard of late and deserved to get away. So he came back from work (I'm guessing second hand car dealer) on Friday and "Bish Bash Bosh five hundred sheets later we're on a plane". Noice...

Keef seemed a nice sort of chap but I still felt there was more to him than met the eye. When I found myself alone with him in the pool, still with his over sized shades on, I wasn't sure if I was swimming with the proprietor of Keef's Kquality Kars or a 1970's bank robber. I wasn't for taking any chances and hauled my ass out quick sharp.

But Keef really came into his own when he was dealing with the hotel staff. He spoke Spanish the way most of us do, a little bit of Spanish, a little bit of English, and a whole lot of talking unnecessarily loud. Oh and each syllable for him was like a word in it's own right.

"[H] O LAA Sen yor aa. Ave you got [pause for no reason]... a list for drinks por fa vor?" requests our hero whilst making the international hand signal for menu. He gets handed the food menu.

"No dear" he smiles at her with his lovely milky yellow teeth "AIILLL CO HAWL" replies Keef laughing. Keef cant laugh outwardly like most people, expelling air. He has to laugh whilst drawing air in, too many smokes there Keef my son. The poor Spanish waiter has no idea what this crazy man with his arm round her is on about.

Keef tries again with "Cervezas? Ave-you-got-a-list-of-Cervezas?

She hands him 2 Cervezas thinking the riddle has been solved. Keef lets out/in one of his big laughs and gives up. He waddles back to Mrs Keef just as cheery despite not getting what he wanted. There's a lesson there for all of us, apart from the obvious one of learning the local lingo.

Keef's phone would ring all the time. He would move out of his wife's way so as at not to annoy her. Invariably that meant he was closer to me. Every phone call was answered with the same opening line "All roight my son, how ya doin?". They were quite a sight sprawled on their loungers, both topless with their sweaty hairy boobs. Put me right of my sangria I can tell you. Keef and his "Princess" were a right pair what with their toplessness and laughing out loud. The French were not amused, and the Germans were beside themselves. The latin lovers never noticed. The two Irish people were delighted!

Gawd bless you Keef, I hope you do have a couple of dozen gold bullion bars from some job in the 70's tucked away nice and safe. But it's most probably just a couple of dozen fake DVD's.....

[More tonight]

Sketches of Spain part 1 (With apologies to Miles Davis)

soundtrack by Mr Miles Davis

Getting There

I got a message from Little Miss Manuel one afternoon that read "CHK SVLLE HTL WBSTE". I replied with "Yup, no problem" and then just carried on with what I was doing. Then an hour or so later I got a phone call from a more than upset Little Miss Manuel. She was insisting that I "do what I'm fucking told" and check the hotel in Seville's web-site. And there it was a message in red reading "Please note that the hotel remains closed from 01/07/2007 due to refurbishment". You mean the hotel I have had booked from Christmas is closed with no proper warning? The hotel that has already been paid for? That hotel?

I'm sorry what? Closed? Is that pain in my chest? Is my left arm all stiff? Who am I talking to? Oh there was shouting, screaming, and threats of violence, and I was in the house on my own. I calmed myself down then called LMM to calm her down. Some job seeing as I was fit to fucking burst. And burst I did all, over the phone to the travel agent. My opening line was something like "Hotel in Seville....Closed...Christmas!!...Crying Girlfriend...What's going on?...." To which the nice young lady on the other end replied "Ewwww I've got a heavy breather on the phone..."

Three days of frantic phone calls and face to face shout off.'s and we had established a list of hotels that were unacceptable including one that wasn't even in Seville, one that was beside a football stadium, and another that was actually just an old factory were they used to make plastic Flamenco dolls, and another that may just have been a car on the side of the road. Now let me tell you there were more than a few sleepless nights, this was happening just days before we were due to travel. Then we found a boutique hotel in the old Jewish quarter of Seville. I wondered if Seville has as many quarters as Belfast which at the last count has at least 32 quarters including The Cathedral quarter, The Irish Quarter, The Linen Quarter, The Mugging Quarter, The Rent Boy Quarter, The We are so rich we wish we could build a wall round ourselves to keep the rest of you out Quarter.

Las Casas del Rey de Baeza Hotel Seville. And it looked jolly nice. I had to suck up that it was a 4 star and not a 5 star but what you gonna do. Better than a sleeping bag in a cracker factory. It took a few days more to get them to refund the difference back into my account but we all got there in the end. Saying that, Shirley from the travel agents and I will probably not be doing Christmas cards this year. Pre holiday trauma before I had even packed wasn't what you would call a good omen...

We were flying from Dublin Airport at silly o'clock on the Monday morning so I had booked us a room in Bewleys Airport Hotel for the Sunday night. Whilst the "hotel" (more an extension of the airport's departure lounge than an hotel) was nice to look at it was soulless and without any real warmth or even genuine hospitality. It made you want to get your flight even more. The food is terrible as is the coffee, but the rooms were okay and sleep was easy. But I was relieved as 4 am arrived and it was time to go. You will rarely find me with a grin from ear to ear at 4am but today was different....

Madrid

Spanish capital city. One of the fashion capitals of the world. A city of magnificent architecture. A city full of the most beautiful people. A city of history. A city of economic and cultural importance. A mature city of sophistication but with youth and energy. The sun shone bright and hot, the air was dry and arid. When the wind blew it was gentle and warm. The streets, though busy, were easy to navigate. The strange hubbub of a hundred different languages being spoken at once swirled round my head making me dizzy. The street vendors hustled their wares with a lackadaisical force. The shop windows glistened and sparkled radiating the sun and camouflaging the trinkets behind. I walked hand in hand with my love who was as content as she was excited. She moved with ease through the crowds as if she had lived there all her life. Spanish words rolled of her tongue with all the passion of a local. Life couldn't have been any easier or sweeter.

But you know what? I didn't care for it at all. I didn't care for Madrid. I probably wouldn't go back.

I was glad I went. I enjoyed it to a point. The various Plazas are all very sexy and all that, the food was amongst some of the best I had on holiday, my first experience of a Michelin Starred Restaurant. The tour of the Santiago Bernabéu, home of Real Madrid, was another highlight (it's no Stade del Gigg all the same). But for some reason I felt a little short changed or uncomfortable in Madrid.

real Manuel

Maybe it was my normally left of centre attitude picking up on some left over Fascism from Mr Franco's reign. Like at any moment we could be rounded up and forced to march in line or something similar. Hardly likely but you know what these foreign types are like. The hotel in Madrid was certainly a left over from Franco's fun times. The Emperador Hotel on Madrid's Gran Via left me seething a bit. Our room was a shoe box with a toilet. Now I know you don't go on holiday for the hotel rooms but sweet baby Jesus when you lash out the green I had you expect something more. The staff were all rude and pushy save for one particular Manuel who couldn't have done enough for us. Although he did spook me out a touch we he informed me very sternly that he was "there for me at any time, any time". Little Miss Manuel said it was nice that I had found a holiday romance. Ha!

I felt relieved to be on the train a few days later to Andalucía.

Andalucía, Andalucía couldn't you just say it over and over again...?

More to follow tomorrow, including bull fighting did or didn't we go? And Manuel meets his future self with hilarious consequences....

Mispronounced Soups no.2

"Chicken Poodle"

The Chicken Poodle soup was as cute as it was tasty...

Home...
...more later.

Emails from Manuel...

Some Roger Runt has been sending emails from my account telling people to Fuck Off. This has nowt to do with me and I'm gonna get upset any minute..................now.

Anyone who gets such an email from me ignore it. I love you all to much to say that, well almost all of you.....

I'm back home this time tomorrow, I will apologize properly then.

Mispronounced Soups no.3

"Red Yentl"

The soup that wanted to be a stew...

It's so damn hot. But my God it's so so good. The holiday that is....

The restaurant is now self service...

beached whale? no that's the chap from Belfast

...so help yourself. I'll be back in a week or so. I really should be packing but why do today what you can do in a last minute rush tomorrow. Don't be flirting with the other wait staff when I'm away, they will only get your order wrong.

Ta ta now...

Mispronounced Soups no.1

"Broccoli and Hilton"

Manuel always thought it was a very over priced and slutty soup...

Beneath this warm and cuddly exterior, lies the heart of a killer...

You want some do ya...?

Well not really but when pressed into action I can become more than a bit animated. But I am more Raging Lamb than Raging Bull. But I was prepared to lay down my fists of fury the other night when a lady came out of the bathrooms all a flutter and shocked announcing "There's a man in there!"

Oh really is there now...

I press-ganged The Princess into coming with me into the ladies conveniences. I didn't want to enter such a sacred and hallowed place without a female with me. The judge has warned me about this.

So there we were in the ladies toilets, oh what joy. I was thinking this wasn't going to end well. How could it. Why would there be a chap in the ladies? What could he be doing? That particular thought had me very vexed. I have had experience with these sorts before when I worked in a coffee shop. There was a regular customer who it turned out like to expose his "Grande" to all the young ladies. It's not a fun situation...

[knock knock] "Hello, who's in there?" I enquired in the sternest "man" voice I could muster.

The reply was more than a bit of a shock "Hello? Eh there's no toilet roll..." Said the confused and somewhat cheesed of lady.

Lady? What the fuck!? We were at the wrong cubicle door. We hadn't checked to see if there was anyone else there. The Princess ran to get the lady some toilet roll and duly passed it over the top of the cubicle door to a well manicured and painted hand. So again..

[Knock knock] "Hello, who's in there?" I asked again getting really annoyed

"Aye mate...I know I know. I shouldn't be here...." replied the anxious chap

"SHOULDN'T BE HERE? SHOULDN'T BE HERE? GET OUT OF THERE NOW!" I was not in the mood for this messing about and became very aware that there was no one working in the restaurant as The Princess and I were both in the ladies toilets. She was manning the door to prevent any ladies from entering. We didn't need any one else in there. And we still hadn't established what he was up to.

"What the hell are you doing in the ladies toilet?" I asked towards the cubicle door. "In fact I really don't care just get out..."

"But listen mate.."

"Don't you "mate" me, just GET OUT!"

"Aye... but.... here just let me explain..."

"I swear to God if you don't get out of that toilet now..."

And then the door opened. Good job too as I had no idea what I was going to do if he hadn't opened the door. There was no way I was going to break it down. Imagine the horrors that could have faced me on the other side. He stood there all sheepish and thankfully, smaller than me.

"Right, you are out of here. Don't even try to explain, you know very well you shouldn't be in the ladies toilet."

I was ushering him towards the door, well trying to. He wanted to explain his actions. I just didn't care. I wanted him out of the toilets, and out of the building. I was also aware that the lady who needed the toilet roll was still in her stall. That's not good. Very not good.

As I frog marched him downstairs to the bar he told me that he had to use the ladies toilets as he had thrown up in the gents and the smell was making him sick. So rather than throw up again he thought he would use the ladies instead. What a regular Stephen Hawking! Bravo genius boy!

"So let me get this straight, you threw up in the gents toilet, didn't tell anyone or attempt to clean it up, then decided to use the ladies toilet?"

"Aye mate... But here..."

" Nah, don't want to here any more, you are out of here"

We were now standing beside his five much larger friends. Who were giving me the "What's your problem mate?" look of death. Now my serene and jovial night had been torn asunder by a midget (anyone smaller than me must be technically a midget) going pee pee in the ladies toilet and I wasn't in the mood for any more arsing about.

"Listen you lot can knock it off too. He's out of here for throwing up and for being in the ladies toilet. So if you want to stay that's fine but this one is a goner. Good? Right!"

I made sure he went and then bombed back up to the toilets to find a pool of ...

Well you can imagine. When I got back to my section my tables were giving me a look of abandoned children. But twenty minutes later all was back on track and the midget who likes to pee in the ladies toilet was but a distant memory.

I could have beat his ass. Bitch.

Sometimes I frighten myself....

Have you got nothing else to fret about?

Manuel's ring of fire...

I came across this tirade against waiters via "Google Alerts". It didn't refer to bad service. It didn't refer to lazy waiters nor did it chastise rude waiters. Or even Smelly waiters, incompetent waiters, slack jawed arse scratching nose picking waiters. No this piece was about that most heinous of crimes when the waiter refers to the customer as "You Guys".

From THE BUSINESS LEDGER (The Business Newspaper for Suburban Chicago)

Can We Be Something Other Than "You Guys"?

I’m not big on formalities, but why is it that virtually every waiter and waitress in virtually every restaurant one enters these days addresses customer diners as “guys?”

Offensive and insulting? Not necessarily, but I wonder why they can’t come up with a different appellation just for the sake of variety or, for that matter, to exhibit a modicum of upgraded sensitivity for those who may dislike the term, or perhaps are just tired of it.

Or maybe I should blame the training programs these people undergo. If the trainer thinks that all customers like to be called guys, then naturally the students will continue this irritating and boring new tradition foisted on men, women, boys and girls, with ages and races notwithstanding.

Further, it doesn’t seem to matter whether it’s a hot dog stand, a national restaurant franchise or a pricey establishment, you and your party are guys.

I don’t mind a bit if a clubhouse waitress says “What would you guys like?” after 18 holes with my partners, but I do squirm when my wife and I are called guys as we prepare to spend $150 on a nice bottle of Merlot and a couple of steaks.

A few weeks ago I almost said to a smiling, guy-repeating waiter, “Look, friend, I may look like a dock worker, you know, just like one of the guys, but my wife looks and is dressed very much like a lady.”

Here’s exactly what my wife and I heard at one of the more upscale chain restaurant franchises just recently: “Good evening, you guys, and welcome. Is there any particular place you guys would like to sit? I’ll give you guys the menus and your server will be here shortly. You guys enjoy your meal.”

I began to think that maybe this man’s mother, father, wife, sisters, brothers, children, friends and job boss must all be named Guy.

Just as we guys took a sip of our water, the waiter, an otherwise friendly, efficient chap, appeared at our table to ask, “I’m Paul, your server. Can I get you guys something to drink?”

My wife said we were called guys at least ten times between the time we entered the place and finished dinner. I accused her of a vast undercount and helped prove my point when, while I was paying the check, Paul said, “Thanks and you guys have a great evening.”

I wanted to fill out a comment card suggesting they change the name of the place to the You Guys Inn. At least the title would add promotional connection to the constant guying, just like at the old downtown Chicago restaurant where everyone was greeted with “Hello, Senator.” At least that made you feel kind of special.

One of these evenings I plan to look at the waitress’s name badge and before she has a chance to say a word, I will burst out with: “Ah, I see your name is Tina. Well, Tina, my name is Mike, this is my wife Kathy and these are our friends Mary Ann and Ed. Please remember that if you dare refer to us as guys, I will tell the large party at the next table that the shrimp bisque is a swimming pool for a family of ants.”

There is a simpler solution, of course, so listen up, restaurant owners and waiters wherever you are. Revise questions just to say, “Good evening, folks,” or “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” if you really want to restore some old world class.

Better yet, don’t use personal terms at all, unless you know the names of the guests. There is absolutely nothing wrong or irritating about just “Good evening” or “What can I get from the bar tonight?” My guess is that the softball team ravenous for burgers after a game would be as stunned as members of a seniors’ club to be addressed as something other than “you guys.”

Maybe we could all get together and demand a dollar off the bill for every time we are called guys. Some establishments would wind up owing us money and that surely would force a change overnight.

Mike McGinty is a Business Ledger reporter and commentator

Seriously?
Are you for real?
You have nothing more important to write about than that? Are you that insecure that being referred to as "You guys" upsets you so much? You could have covered the story of the Chicago Pizzeria owner who claimed he was forced to hand over lots of dough (couldn't resist) to the mob. You could have covered the story of the Funeral Home boss who cleared off with lots of cash and stiffed (again that was a bit easy) the families of the bereaved. You could have but you didn't. Instead you had a go at waiters. So here are just a few of the ways I'd greet you given half a chance...

[clears throat]

Good evening..
BIG FELLA, LITTLE UN, DICK, PRICK, ARSEHOLE, MUPPET, WEENIE, WHINY, FUDGE TOUCHER, SPIT LICKER, WIND BAG, McGINTY'S GOAT, BOAR HOG, BUM SNIFFER, YOUR MAJESTY, OH GLORIOUS ONE , OH EXALTED AND SUPERIOR BEING, well you get the point. Now go and do some real work before I drop this soup on you...

Oh and happy 4th of July to all you Americans out there. Who say's terrorism doesn't pay?

Only joking....