Manuel in the Twilight Zone, ooohhhhhh

"there is something afoot at the circle k...."

Whilst perusing the restaurant booking sheets last weekend I became very aware that this week would be a challenge for so many reasons. The last week of June is never a fun week to work. I've known people to book this week off, grown men cry at the thought of it, support groups have been formed to talk through the losses of previous years battles, chefs drink more, bar staff snort more, the place is gripped by fear. What, I hear you ask, could cause so much pant wetting and gnashing of teeth? What hideous beasts could leave even the bravest of waiters shaking in his size 7 (don't laugh) slip on's? The answer is simple....

...TEACHERS

LOTS & LOTS OF TEACHERS.

They finish school this week and, as is their custom, they got out for a jolly old knees up. Now if the thought of thousands of shitty little snot nosed brats roaming the streets during the day isn't scary enough serving their teachers is. Teachers can't stop being teachers when they are not in school. I swear one of them shouted "boy" at me last year! Dick. They shout, huff, puff, and spend the whole time talking down to you.

You boy. Come here. What's this?

Braised lamb shank sir.

And what is it meant to come with?

Puy lentils sir

AND?

And minted jus sir.

And where is my minted jus boy?

Dunno sir.

Dunno sir?

Go to the kitchen, you do know where the kitchen is boy, and get me my minted jus

Yes sir, sorry sir....

It is very hard to take. Also they get freaked out at the price of everything. This is due to the fact that they only go out twice a year, June and Christmas.

So I was full of trepidation last night as I approached my first table of teachers this week. I took a deep breath and announced my presence to the table of 21. And they were absolutely lovely. I mean no swearing at me. No one huffed or puffed, no one threatened to go to the papers about the price of wine, no one gave me detention or a thousand lines to do. I was so dumbstruck I went to the booking sheets to ensure that I was serving teachers and not 21 puppy breeders (notoriously happy people). I was hugged. Each one of them thanked me and shook my hand. One lady even went as far as to feel me up. Which was more than a bit weird. They paid their bill including service charge and left extra on top. All very odd.

But this week has been very odd. Another problem group decided not to play by the rules of stereotype and acted all reasonable.

French tourists can be very difficult. The wine is never cold enough, the food is never sexy enough. The restaurant is always the wrong temperature and the waiter is never quick enough or too quick or not sexy enough and so on. So having 72 of them booked for lunch on Tuesday was always going to challenge my patience. But again they were brilliant! No clicking of fingers, no "What ees thees?". No complaints about the Chilean wine. No complaints about the size of my ass.

The only problem I had with serving the French was my accent. I was slipping in the bits of French that I know in order to impress my guests. This seemed to go over well. But when I spoke to them in English I kept putting on a dodgy French accent. Why would I do that? It was all very "ALLO ALLO". And not required at all.

So teachers and French people have burst my stereotyped views this week. It's all very Twilight zone-ish. What next? Christians tipping? Ha!

I have a 13 hour shift on Friday and I am positive the stereotype of teachers will be reaffirmed again....

Are you for real?

Oh you'd like that wouldn't you

United States Patent 5489887
A waiter signalling device comprising a pole having a lower base and an upper tip end, a light source coupled to the tip end, a power source for energising the light source, a switch mechanism connected to the pole and operable in one orientation to energise the light source, thereby generating a signal indicating that service is required, and in another orientation to de-energise the light source, thereby generating a signal indicating that service is not required, and a coupling mechanism for coupling the base end of the pole to a table.

and

United States Patent 6366196
A waiter paging system is provided for use in a restaurant. The system includes a plurality of table transmitters (there being one transmitter at each table) which transmit a "waiter call" signal and a plurality of pager units (there being one pager unit for each waiter). The pager unit notifies the waiter via a vibrator or buzzer that a request has been received and displays the request. In one embodiment, the system includes a central unit which receives the "waiter call" signal from the table transmitter and which effectively relays the "waiter call" signal to the pager units. In a second embodiment, there is no central unit. Rather, the waiter pager units receive the "waiter call" signal directly from the table transmitters. Each pager unit is associated with a set of tables (and hence table transmitters), each set of tables being fewer than all the tables in the restaurant. In either of the two systems, the set of tables with which an individual pager is associated can be selectively altered. In the first (centralised) system, the central unit can be selectively switched between a programming mode and a non-programming mode and includes means for altering the pager/table associations. In the second (non-centralised) system, the pager units are programmable, and can be switched between a programming mode and an operational mode.


Or

And as radical as it might sound you could just catch the waiters eye and say "excuse me". Like I say it's radical but give it a chance.

Are you for fucking real? I assume these were designed by time wasting, dope smoking, geeks in a time before robot wars and Second Life. Now roll a 14 and fuck off, your waiter will be with you shortly...

(or not as the case may be)

The King is "dead", yippee!

Awh so sweet and innocent
cunt

I really dislike Tony Blair. He is as sleazy as they come. And I'm not falling for this "oh look what he did for Northern Ireland" bollocks either. He did what a Prime Minister is meant to do, lead and sort out problems. In my opinion no politician in this country can take credit for "Northern Ireland". They helped perpetuate the pain through their preference to maintain the status quo. They made careers out of it, they got nice houses and cars out of it, they got "celebrity" out of it, they got 1000's and 1000's of column inches out of it. By "it" I mean the deaths and pain that 30 years of dirty murderous "war" produces. So no Tony, you don't get any thanks from me.

He and his New Labour government promised so much, don't they always, but delivered so very little. I detest the Tories even more, so getting them out of power was a good thing. But to then turn into Tories once you got into power was just so pathetic, so demoralising. The minimum wage for example was set too low to be really effective. All you did was keep people on low incomes, on low incomes. Us waiters will forever spill soup on your lap for that. Twat. You sucked up to big business rather than regulate them properly thus allowing rich businessmen to lay off workers whilst producing fat pay cheques for themselves and their shareholders. You allow them, in fact you encourage them, to send their operations over seas with the inevitable hardship at home. Socialist my arse. And don't even start me on Iraq. Blood Tony, lots and lots of blood on your hands. Shoulder to shoulder with a buffoon.

So Tony I'm glad you are finally gone. Now fuck right off all together and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.

"Here he come
Got no question got no love
Im throwing stones at you man
I want you black and blue and
Im gonna make you bleed
Gonna bring you down to your knees

Bye bye badman
Ooh bye bye"
Stone Roses - Bye Bye Badman

For fuck sake here comes another

Still he's a Scot so Old Bitter Balls should be pleased...

Why 34 year old bald men make the best waiters

Ramsay and his shiny things...

All most every restaurant/cafe/food outlet I have ever worked in was owned or run by men. And when it comes to hiring staff, restaurateurs are like magpies, they like to surround themselves with pretty shiny things. The logic being that if your outlet is staffed by pretty people you will attract pretty people. From what I have seen a tenner from an ugly bloke is the same value as a tenner from a Chippendale.

This doesn't work. Now don't get me wrong I am not for one moment saying that there are no hot wait staff who don't know the difference between fillet mignon and tuna. For example my own Little Miss Manuel and I met whilst we worked in a cafe. And she is both smoking hot and as smart as a man, (only joking Medbh).

Horny owners hire with their cocks and not their brains. The guy that owned the cafe that LMM and I worked in was a button for it. His penis made all the important decisions when it came to hiring staff. He would hire lovely ladies from obscure Eastern European countries regardless if they could speak a word of English. Long legs, pretty faces, perfect bottoms were all that were required. The place was well known for it's eye catching lady staff. You couldn't actually get a coffee, but what did that matter eh? He must have been going through a case of impotence when he hired me.

I'm not saying restaurateurs shouldn't hire people because they look like Brad Pitt or Liv Tyler, well actually I am. They should hire them because they can do the job, and if they are aesthetically pleasing well that's a bonus. And when they do hire the very pretty people it always comes back to haunt them. If you and your family are in the hot girls section alongside a table of four business men you should settle in for a long disappointing evening. She is going to flirt and chat and toy with these boyos until she has bled them dry of cash. Don't think ill of her, it's just going to be easier to make the cash from them rather than you. You and your lovely little family will end up getting served by the dishwasher. And it doesn't end there, there are whole groups of society that shouldn't be hired in restaurants.

Teenagers for example. There are two types of teenagers that get hired to work in restaurants. Well 3 if you include the "hot" type. But that's been covered. First you have "Emo-teenager" then you have "happy-clappy-saving-myself-for-Christ-teenager". Believe me you don't want to work with or be served by either. Both have hormonal issues which messes with their ability to take down orders, deliver food, and act in anyway resembling a normal person. Emo teenager can't work Saturdays as they are going out with Moz, or Lala to see The Nobwots or some other "dark and meaningful" shite. Happy-clappy-saving-myself-for-Christ-teenager cant work Sunday's as they are worshipping the big guy all day or trying to sign up new recruits at a homeless shelter. And when they finally do make it to work you wish they hadn't bothered. Emo teenager boy wears his trousers round his knees, has to be told a 1000 times to take his sweat type wrist band off, wears black converse instead of black shoes and cant stop flicking his fringe. Everything is an Herculean effort and accompanied by phrases like "huh maaaaan" or "what time we gonna get done by maaaan?" And if they aren't texting on their mobile phone they are self-harming in the toilets.
Happy-clappy-saving-myself-for-Christ-teenager is so freaky happy all the time you want to kill yourself. They only took the job so they could save money for their trip to Africa with the church youth group. "We are saving the souls of the soulless", you will hear that a 1000 times a day. Her boyfriend's already there setting up a well and an outdoor church. They judge you when you have a hangover and constantly invite you to their meetings. But the manager loves them as they are never late, they dress like they just stepped out of a training manual and are always available for extra shifts, except on Tuesdays as they go to church then as well. No, teenagers with spots and a love of God/dark things are best avoided. But they are cheap to hire so they are hard to escape.

Bohemian sorts get right up my jam roll too. They don't want to be there and spend all their time telling you this. Not just you but the customers too. They are just doing the job until they get their own show, or the band signs a deal or their agent sorts out an audition for some channel 4 drama.

I DON'T FUCKING CARE. I GET IT, YOUR NOT REALLY A WAITER!!!!!

Bohemian waiters do all that they can to prove this by being consistently late, looking like shit at all times, never washing their uniform, and never really mixing with the other staff. They are skinny hippy types with a collection of stars tattooed on their arm and a random selection of badges. They are what Emo teenagers become after they have left Art College. Their stinky skinny friends are always calling in on the mooch for free food or drinks. They can be an amusing distraction for a while but it all turns sour when they realise that their big break isn't coming. Then it's everybody else's fault. Bohemian waiters are in their mid to late 20's and their dreams are turning to dust. Bitterness seeps from every pore, every filthy unwashed pore. These guys get hired because they have a degree in something wonderful like history of art or media studies but cant perform the simplest of tasks like setting a table in under a half hour! Fuck off and get washed, hippy.

You should also look out for work placement guy. He has been forced to go on a Government sponsored work/training course or he loses his dole cheque. He doesn't want to there. He would rather be sniffing glue in a car park. You should ask to move table if you get him. He will try to do your handbag over. Work placement guy looks how you would expect him to look, earring,
sovereign ring, and glazed over eyes from too much dope smoking. Australian backpackers don't care either. They only took the job as they need the money to get to France or Spain or wherever the hell they are going next. They are also big fans of using the restaurant's phone to call home. By the time the bill comes in they are long gone. They don't wash well/often either.

No, at the end of the day you want to get served by a 34 year old bald man. Our hormones are in check, actually they are practically asleep. We don't text as we hate texting. We wash, regularly. And our bitterness has turned into acceptance with our lot in life. Bitterness has been replaced by routine and a happy little rut. So the next time you go out for dinner try and get into the older looking man's section. He cares just enough to make your night a good one and is still in control of his bladder. Only just...

I Believe Children/Monkeys are the Future

the future of the world is in his hands well the "waiting" world that is

The wonderfully named Tallulahbloom asked me if I passed my expertise on to the new kids that I work with. And I certainly do! As we pool our tips in the restaurant it makes sense to pass on my knowledge to the wetbacks. If I'm being honest I really enjoy it too. All I ask is that they have a modicum of intelligence, the ability to move quickly when required and most importantly of all a good personality. I can teach a monkey to set a table, in fact I have on several occasions, but I cant teach them the finer points of polite chit-chat.

And it's the chit-chat that makes the money. I've worked with some fantastically efficient, to the point of being Germanic, waiters over the years. They never made mistakes, they kept the tables clean, they were ever so polite and always well turned out. But they never made the cash that some of the other slightly absent minded and a little bit shabby looking waiters made that know how to talk (I mean me obviously). Don't get me wrong if you go out for dinner it's because you want something to eat not because you want to have a natter with a 30 something bald man. David Letterman can talk but I'm not sure he would make a good waiter. So the best waiters are efficient, knowledgeable and can talk.

More often than not I get buddied up with the new start. This can be a pain in the ass and also the pocket. If they work with me I give them a full cut of my tips right from day one. So I leave them in no doubt that they need to learn and learn quickly. I don't go for the Yoda style of training, i.e over a very long period.

"Teach you to open wine I will."

They need to get the basics down quickly and start earning cash. That's what makes the training so important.

I myself, was trained by a legend in waiting, "Our Eddie". He was old school in every respect. He himself was a product of the Grand Central Hotel in Belfast. It doesn't exist any more having been shifted to make way for a shopping centre, brilliant! Eddie worked under managers and head waiters who would have been trained by people from the reign of queen Victoria.

But Eddie himself was much looser than that might suggest. He was always immaculately dressed, this was a time before bloody polo shirts became the uniform of choice in restaurants. Eddie always had a smile on his face, and always had at least 2 Gin & Tonics in him no matter what time of the day it was. Most restaurant staff of that era were hard drinkers. Most restaurant staff of this era are hard drinkers. Clearly not me. I mean these people could neck a bottle of brandy during shift and still carry 6 soup at a time. Another waiter, "Stormy Wynne", had perfected the knack of downing a brandy/whiskey/vodka whilst carrying plates. He would kick the swinging doors open with his foot, down the drink, and balance his load on one hand all in one swift movement. I aspire to such skill levels. These people were grafters, they worked long and hard, and you never heard them gripe about needing a break or the way a manager spoke to them. They were the real managers.

Eddie never "taught" me anything, but I learnt everything from him. Well him and what became the "holy trinity", Eddie, Stormy, and my dad. All graduates from the GC Hotel, all hard drinkers, all absolute legends in what they did. I learnt the skills from Stormy, the chat from Eddie, the drive for perfection from dad. There were others too. Nora taught me how to set a room for 100 people in 30 minutes and still get 2 smoke breaks in. Now that's a skill.

Only Stormy is still in the game. Dad is done. Years of 13/14 hours shifts in a kitchen have taken its toll and he is retired at the age of 58. Nora is beaten too, washed up and well, drunk. And Eddie is serving G and T's in God's restaurant. He died a few years back, cancer, still young, still laughing, still missed...

So it's up to me now. So send me your monkeys/children and I will give you hard drinking, hard working, cash making waiters who can charm the birds from the air and percentages from your credit card.

you are all Manuel's children now....

Some girls cannot stay away from the Manuel

All roit der Manuel?

Had Sammy, sorry that's Ms Samantha Mumba to you oiks, in for lunch today. Not the first time she has used food as an excuse to come visit me. But that's just the way it is. You get served by Manuel and 2 and a half years to three years later you come running back for more. She tried to pretend she didn't remember me but I could see she was all a quiver and slightly nervous as she placed her order. She was just playing it cool.

But when she insisted on sitting on my lap for the entire meal whilst gently bouncing and singing her greatest hits I had to say,

"Mumba, your not on! I'm a human being with feelings and emotions. I'm not, just, sexy man eye candy for you to undress with your eyes. I have other customers and they deserve my time too. Now eat your goujons and stop the begging. Your causing a scene."

Ha! Now that told her. Probably why she didn't tip.....

Statement from The C.L.R.M.W.T.

The Leadership of The C.L.R.M.W.T.
(left to right) Shaz, Jaunty, Tia, & Anto

I have received an statement this afternoon from the COMBINED LOYALIST/REPUBLICAN MILITARY WINE TEAM (The C.L.R.M.W.T.) with reference to a call for help from French vineyards/winemakers action group CRAV. CRAV issued a warning recently that unless the price of wine is increased they will take military type action against the government and anyone who sells foreign wine in France. Already some supermarkets have been targeted and had their foreign bottles vandalised. They have said blood will be spilled in the pursuit of their aims. CRAV have asked the C.L.R.M.W.T. to aid them in their struggle to have wine prices raised to a satisfactory level.

But the leadership of the C.L.R.M.W.T. have responded negatively to this call to arms. The statement, lobbed through my bedroom window inside an empty bottle of Blossom Hill "wine", (oh the irony) reads as follows:

"Here mate, tell em Frenchies they have no chance. The price of French wine is to feckin dear as it is. And sure last week we had to drink frigging Chilean wine 'cos we couldn't even afford Li pee et door [sic]. Aye and here another thing wats wi corks? Everyone is using screwtops these days so why cant the Frenchies? Tell em that. It's a fucking pain trying to open a bottle wi a cork in it at 3 in the morning when your standing outside in the rain and yer hands are freezing. WAAH. So we aren't gonna help, tell em ti fack aff."

Signed by Jaunty & Anto of The C.L.R.M.W.T.

They then poured a bottle of French wine onto the pavement. This started a fight as Anto said it was a waste but Jaunty over ruled him saying it was "symbalic".

Why the CRAV thought that The C.L.R.M.W.T. were going to be of any use to them is still unclear as they are just a bunch of hoods who drink on street corners and wine covers everything from MAD DOG 20/20 to Buckfast to Carlsberg Special Brew. The C.L.R.M.W.T is in no way a made up organisation. It is in fact an amalgamation of street drinking crews that now reflects the new era of peace and love that is now found here In Northern Ireland.

I contacted "Sweet Chucks", a spokesman for the UNION of BUCKFAST & CIDER STREET DRINKERS ASSOCIATIONS (Portadown Chapter) for any comment and to gauge their interest in helping CRAV. Mr Chucks responded by saying:

"I've never been to France but I do have a beret. Have you seen my cat? I'm sure it was here yesterday.Who are you? Is that my foot or ......."

Sweet Chucks of
The UNION of BUCKFAST & CIDER STREET DRINKERS ASSOCIATIONS

He rambled on for another 20 minutes or so about cats, berets, and how he hasn't seen a white dog turd in years. It would appear street drinking plays havoc with your brain.

Rumours of help from the C.I.R.A & the U.D.A have been denied as "it's nearly July and sure that's when the fun starts."

Hard luck then CRAV on trying to get help from these shores. Sure never worry, with the French record in military conflicts being what it is you'll have no worries....

What is so wrong with sleeping at work?

the camera never lies

I have a hangover. I had a hangover yesterday. To be exact, I am now "enjoying" day two of the same hangover. I don't suffer well. In fact I am a big Jessie when it comes to hangovers.

We all went out on Monday night for our staff party. And it was a rip roaring success. We enjoyed a two hour cruise on the river Lagan taking in the sights, sounds and smells associated with river living. We pointed out all the wonderful things that were to be seen, the Titanic quarter, the sexy new buildings, the lovely trees, and the cute little ducks. Well that was the first 5 minutes....

...then all hell was let loose and we all got pished. Very very pished. People out rowing were given extra impetus to clock better times as they tried to get away from us. Have you ever seen drunk ladies in a limo? That's what we were like. No class what so ever. I started on cider, moved to champagne, (well you would, wouldn't you?), then onto red wine, then Gin and Bitter Lemon, then double Gin and Bitter Lemon. This may be where I went wrong.

After we disembarked we headed to a couple of bars to continue the revelry. From what I am led to believe we all had a lovely night chatting about the issues of the day and no one made an idiot of themselves at all. Although my decision to provide the group with disposable cameras may disprove this.

My normal hangover routine is to stay in bed until it has gone. Little Miss Manuel normally brings me my hangover survival kit of Lucozade, ice lollies, and sausage rolls. But not yesterday. I burnt my bridges with her after a heated and unwarranted argument over the phone. All my fault and I'm sorry honey. Awh love you! I also never go out drinking if I am working the next day, never! I cant do it. But of course we had 60 medical reps booked for dinner last night so I had no choice but to work. I threw up after I arrived. I threw up after another litre bottle of water. I tried to throw up after that too but nothing would come out.

I tried to go for a little sleep as well. The medical reps weren't booked until 8pm and there were 2 others on with me so who was going to miss me?! I tried a quiet corner of the restaurant but was woken by the voices of American tourists. I tried another corner of the restaurant but people kept talking to me. I then went to our private room and managed to get 20 minutes shut eye before being woken by the voices of the chefs arguing about who has the biggest fingers or some other such shite. What is happening to the world when a grown man cant get an hours sleep at work?! I despair. And why is it called "power napping" if you are a chief executive but when I try to get some sleep it's called "stop being a lazy fat bastard and go and do some work?"

Now 60 medical reps are hard enough work but when they have arranged to have a traditional Irish session playing for them in the restaurant that really is unfair. My head was pounding and stomach was churning. Grim I tell you, very very grim. "Hello my name is Manuel and I will be sweating on you today."

Some people shouldn't drink. I am one of those people. That's only my second hangover this year and may well be the last one too. Along with the headache, churning stomach, sweats, shakes, and lack of balance I always end up with a terrible feeling of self-loathing. Now that cant be good can it?

Aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrgggghhhhhh!!

I despise, hate, and am generally fucked off with Virgin Media. I have just spent hours upon hours trying to get rid of that bloody "WE'RE GIVING YOUR BROWSER A BOOST" message. Boost is it? Fuck off. I couldn't access my blogger account, couldn't post anything, couldn't comment on anything.

Instructions only applied to Window's users and for users of Firefox and IE! I'm on a Mac and use Camino. Jesus H Christ gimme a break! My head hurts and I wanna smack something or somebody. And I'm not sure if I have just given my Browser a Boost or cleared the path for the Russian Mafia to clear my bank account. Seriously I don't know what I have just done. In the end I just restarted the mac and it was all back to normal. Now if I had done that 3 hours ago then I wouldn't have this dull pain in my head.

Saturday night, an opportunity lost...

UFC 72?

...to clean up Belfast once and for all. Thousands and thousands of sweaty, testosterone filled, dripping in gold, muscle top wearing, knuckle dragging, baseball cap sporting, grunting instead of speaking, Timberland boot wearing, Pitbull dog owning, goes out with someone called Shaz, Kaz, or Stacey, taxi driving, steroid taking, works as a doorman, calls people who read books fruits, listens to Coldplay and happy hardcore, drives a Subaru, used to go on holiday to Ibiza but now goes to Orlando or Mexico, says "here be's me, wah", only wears Nike, Reebok, Gucci (fakes), Diesel, Tommy Hilfinger, eats well done fillet steak then complains it's small, hits on your girlfriend even when you are sitting beside her, goes out with his mates on a Sunday night, goes out with "her" on a Friday night, buys dodgy fags, sells dodgy DVDs, likes to whistle at school girls, but hates "pedofiles", reads the Sun and the News of The World, has a sixty inch flat screen/plasma HD ready TV, hates all the "bloody foreigners" taking our jobs, is doing the double, dyes their hair, goes on sunbeds, idiots were packed into the Odyssey Arena on Saturday night for UFC:72.

I wouldn't normally advocate the widespread and indiscriminate slaughter of a group of people but this was an opportunity too good to miss. You could have wiped out 80 to 90% of the Belfast criminal population in one go. Next time.....

"gay theatre?"

O'Ramsay's Latest Venture

An artists impression of the New Ritz Carlton Powerscourt Hotel Gordon looks pleased

Full time potty mouth and sometime chef, Gordon Ramsay, is opening a restaurant in Ireland. Now that should be fun. His new venture is located in the ever so expensive Ritz Carlton Powerscourt Hotel. He is apparently very excited about the quality of Irish produce and has indicated that the food served will be influenced by the tradition of Irish food.

I wonder if that means he will be serving £30.00 bowls of Irish stew?

Seriously I am pretty excited about this. Ireland is full of great food and great/psychotic chefs, but I always wanted to try food by the swear master. Maybe someone will take me for my birthday. [cough cough]

But I wonder how he will get on with an Irish crew in the kitchen. Not that he will be there all the time. I'd say he will have his work cut out with the relaxed attitude of your average Irishman. (Like I say I enjoy a good stereotype, even the outdated ones). It could be the death of him...

GR: Where's my fucking lamb rump? Oi fat balls, where is my lamb fucking rump?

FB: Ah now Mr Ramsay, loike me old mudder used t'say "It'll be ready when it's ready"

GR: Listen here you fat Paddy fuck get my fucking lamb ready you cunt.

FB: Ah now Mr Ramsay dat's not very noice now is it. Loike me old mudder used to say "If you have nothing noice to say, well you just shouldn't say anyting at all"

GR: Chef! Call me "chef" you cunting Paddy bastard.

FB: Sarry der Gordon, oi mean chef, sarry chef.

GR: I'll "Gordon" you, you fat piggy Paddy bastard. Eh piggy bastard. You like being called piggy bastard, piggy bastard?

FB: Ah Mr Ramsay oi've been called worse. Me old mudder used to call me terrible names when I shat meself as a cub.

Ramsay gets even more rilled when he can't get a rise out of Fat Balls and in his frustration at not getting his lamb rump on time he takes a swing at him. But Fat Balls catches his arm mid swing and drags Ramsay towards him.

FB: OH HO a boxing match is it? Listen here young fella me lad, oi'l kick your arse back to Scotchland yi dick if you don't stop wi your shenanigans. Now d'lamb will be ready when it's ready.

He pushes Ramsay away and he falls onto the floor knocking over the bin which empties over him.

FB: Chef me arse.

Well, it could happen. God I hope so....

Seamus was looking forward to working with Gordon Ramsay
"Ah oi'm sure di big fella will be great craic"

P.s I've had a very bad day today, teachers, school dinner ladies, and lots and lots of old people. Wheres my bottle of Gin...?

Say a Hail Mary and Join Amnesty.....

could have left the picture of Mel Gibson on the poster
he's just as bonkers!

Hello everybody! I've been very busy with the end of year play. We are performing "Alice in Wonderland." Which should be interesting as more than half the cast are off their tiny little minds on Ritalin. But despite being a very busy bee I still have time to get annoyed with Cardinal Renato Martino of the Catholic Church. With a name like that he was hardly going to be a Presbyterian!

Cardinal Martino, an unmarried and probably celibate man but you never know, has announced that the Vatican will not be providing any more funds for Amnesty International. And he has gone on to add that Catholics throughout the world should desist from giving any money to them as well. There was no direct threat to all our souls if we continued to donate to Amnesty but you know it's implied. Amnesty's crime was to make a slight change to it's abortion policy to one that states "We are saying broadly that to criminalise women's management of their sexual reproductive right is the wrong answer."

Cardinal Martino says, too much, but also that abortion is murder and "to justify it selectively, in the event of rape, that is to define an innocent child in the belly of its mother as an enemy, as 'something one can destroy'."

So according to the Catholic Church donating to Amnesty International is a big no no. That's Amnesty International who "is a worldwide movement of people who campaign for internationally recognized human rights. "

There has been no mention from Cardinal Martino yet on this gruesome story.

Amnesty's response to Cardinal Martino.

Little Miss Manuel says Join/Donate to Amnesty. Let's deal with the living now and worry about our souls later.

Eet as cow sheets in it....!

a Ballygowan cow
hard at work

"Ave you got a boittle of Deeeep Rivyer Rock water?" Asked the scruffy French man.

"Yeah why not" I replied.

This table had me stressed out already and they hadn't even ordered yet. It was a six top, 5 Russians and the scruffy Frenchman. Four of the Russians had been there for about twenty minutes before the Frenchman arrived. The problem was none of the Russians could speak English. This was clear when I asked them if they would like a drink. The just replied with blank stares. I gave them the international sign for drink, cupped hand to mouth, and to see their little faces light up was a joy. I say "little" but these guys looked like ex-army, shoulders you could tap dance on and fists like shovels.

"Forbish" said the leader of the Russians

"Forbish?" Now I wore the look of puzzlement.

"Bish, forbish" he explained. "Visky, Bish visky!"

"Ahhhhhhh, BUSHMILLS whiskey?" We were getting somewhere.

I should add a Russian to English dictionary to my bag list. I served their Bish Visky and left them alone hoping someone who could speak English would be joining them.

It didn't get any easier with the rest of my tables. I had a table of 6 French tourists and a 7 top who could have been the crew of a Benetton advert such was the diversity of their make up. All the locals must have been manning the sandbags.

I digress.

The scruffy Frenchman arrived along with another Russian, much to the relief of both me and the Viskied up Russians. There was much slapping of backs and hugging. The Frenchman took over.

So now we are back to the start of the story again.

"Ave you got a boittle of Deeeep Rivyer Rock water?"

I said yes, knowing fine rightly we serve Ballygowan mineral water. But waters water eh? And what was Pepe Le Pew to know! So off I popped to retrieve their waters. But as soon as I returned to the table Pepe got upset with my choice of water.

"Sir, what ess thesse? You ave no Deeep Rivyer Rock water? Eet ees the best no?"

I was getting a bit pissed off. If they were gonna get picky about the brand of mineral water we serve then it didn't auger well for the rest of the meal.

"Would you prefer that I take the water away? Maybe you would prefer some tap water? I enquired with "genuine" sincerity.

"No, no eet will do. You should serve Deeep Rivyer Rock water. Eet is much superior to dis water."

Christ, just what I need, a mineral water expert.

"Look at theese" he said pointing out the label. "Theese numbers mean eet is full of cow sheets."

"Really sir, cow sheets?" I was really hanging on to life by this point. I wanted to scream "IT'S FUCKING WATER YOU DICK!" But instead countered with a tirade against Deep River Rock and it's producer, the wonderful Coca-Cola company. I gave them chapter and verse about the whole Dasani affair and how dodgy Coca-Cola are. I really went for it. Pepe wasn't having it though and kept shaking his head saying,

"But Deeep Rivyer Rock water has no cow sheets in it!"

I served and poured their water and managed to excuse myself from the table. The rest of the meal went without a hitch. The Russians ordered more whiskey and Pepe had more cow poo infested water. We laughed about it! But Pepe wouldn't let it go.

After a while they asked for the bill, they paid and left leaving no tip. Fuck you, I thought to myself, it was only bloody mineral water. I went down to the table to see if they had left anything there. There was no cash, instead I found a business card for Pepe Le Pew. A business card for, wait for it, Coca-Bloody-Cola.

MERDE as the French might say.

all the planning in the world
couldn't prevent this case of foot in mouth

Real Men Take a Pinny and Tea Towel to Work

Manuel is very popular at hen parties
they say he's great crack

I was leaving work one night when I ran into the owner and his wife. We engaged in the normal boss/worker chit-chat, lots of doffing of cap and fake laughing. He gets nervous round me. He then pointed to my man bag and enquired as to the contents. He wasn't implying I was up to anything he was just interested as he had noticed lots of the male staff carrying them. I was tempted to say 2 bottles of vodka and half a dozen sirloin steaks, but wisely thought better of it. You would think that a waiter could travel pretty lightly, pen, paper and that's your lot. You would think so, but the truth is you need a veritable kit bag of stuff just to get through the day.

These are the 20 most Essential Items required just to make it through the day

1&2. Service Cloth and Apron. Now, most men go to work with men things, saws, hammers, computer gadgetry, trucks, and other such macho toys. Even chefs get to travel on the bus with a collection of manly cleavers in their bag. I have a "pinny and a tea-towel" as Little Miss Manuel likes to call them. Most waiters use a white service cloth,I use a black one. It just makes better sense! Your apron needs to have good deep pockets to keep your essentials in. If your are unfortunate to have an apron with a shallow pocket you end up walking about the restaurant with what looks like an erection. Which in most cases isn't so good.

3&4. Pens and Order Pad. Lots and lots of pens that is. I mean you need to keep a stash of pens that would make STAPLES the stationers proud. As pens will get stolen by customers and co-workers I never spend more than 30p on a pen. That's my pen threshold. Obviously I am not above pen pilfering myself. But I have been caught out a few times. Not by the previous owners but by the message/advertisement on the side of the pen. Pens left by medical reps. are the worst. Seriously you don't want to hand a pen to a customer with an advert for thrush cream on it. Our lot at work are a bit tight when it comes to ordering order pads, oh the irony. So when they do see fit to bless us with them you need to plank a few in your bag or you will spend the rest of the month writing orders on the back of envelopes or napkins.

5. Waiters Friend. Oh and this is critical, it has to be a good one. Not the sort you use to open your crappy bottle of Blossom Hill on a Friday night. The best types to use aren't even that expensive. One of the worst things that can happen to you as a waiter is breaking a cork when opening a bottle at the table. It's equivalent to a bank cashier not being able to count past ten. It's so very embarrassing. You also don't want to be struggling at the table. Once, when I was still a wetback the customer had to take the bottle off me to open it. That's not so good for the ego. And don't be tempted into buying one of those fancy jobbies that come in a nice presentation box. I had one of those and it cut my hand like cheese wire. Blood on the bottle is frowned upon. Get one of these, I swear you will never break a cork again or look like a dufus as you try to open a bottle. Although if you are opening Blossom Hill you should just use a spoon.

Those are the required tools of the trade the next list are the add on's that make you extra money.

6,7,8,9,10. Reading glasses, batteries, candles for birthday cake, newspaper/magazine, and something to amuse kids. At some point a customer is going to ask you for one of those. In fact customers get shirty when you don't have a charger for their Nokia 34zx62i or whatever it is. My bag sometimes looks like I've been shoplifting in WH Smiths. But it pays off. If you can produce a pair of reading glasses for an old duffer who can't read the menu you will be rewarded. If not "help" him down the stairs and just claim he didn't see the step.
You use to be able to amuse kids with dot to dot puzzles and colouring in. Now though, unless you stuff a PSP or something under their noses they just tend to cry harder. I care not for the little darlings. They can cry all they want. But if you show mummy and daddy, if he's about, that you are trying then your tip should be OK. A camera battery can really make a massive difference to the night. No one wants to forget Granny's 90Th birthday party so if you can save the day with a replacement camera battery then you will be quids in. Like I say it's all about the cash.

That's the punters taken care off, but what about me?

11. Tobacco and Mints. Nothing takes the pain away like a well timed smoke break. Mints cover the smokey breath. Hey, I care about my customers!

12. Food/Water. If you are working for 8, 10, 12 hours you need sustenance along the way. You can take your chance with a "staff meal", bearing in mind you will have to wait until customers have been fed, the kitchen staff have been fed, the managers have had their 3 courses, the kitchen cat has been fed, and so on. It's easier just to bring your own.

13&14. Book and iPod. A two hour split can be the most boring two hours of your life. It's not long enough to justify going home but too long to sit about scratching. I read, write and listen to music. Anything really to mask the screams of the chefs from lunch service.

15. Headache tablets. Sometimes the sounds of screaming chefs and demanding customers can be masked with soothing tunes. Sometimes you need to reach for chemical help. Strong prescription strength headache tablets are the job. If you can't get your doctor to prescribe them then just raid granny's bathroom cabinet. You are guaranteed to find something useful there. It's also cheaper than having to buy them out of the machine in the public toilets. Your next couple of hours should be a breeze.

16&17. Baby Wipes, deodorant, and aftershave. If you are working a split shift or a double you need to be fresh. Nothing fucks your tip up more than stinking up the restaurant. And as I normally smoke 2000 cigarettes during my split/break I tend to need a little freshening up before I go back onto the floor. You can't put a price on good personal hygiene!

18. Shoelaces and Polish. I have a recurring nightmare of being at work on a Saturday night when the place is full and I have no shoes on. Everyone laughs at me. It keeps me awake at night that one. So spare shoelaces are like my comfort blanket. And shoe polish is just good practice.

19. An updated CV. You never know who you might end up serving and you don't want to miss your chance at the big time. Also if you walkout it makes sense to start the search for a new job on the way home.

20. The name/number of a good employment lawyer. Restaurateurs are a shady bunch who will screw you as soon as look at you. Protect yourself at all times!

The Fight to Save the Rotterdam (update)

myspace

It's been a few weeks since I posted about the Save the Rotterdam Bar Campaign, so it's about time for an update.

Now when I wrote that post I tried to write a passionate and sensible piece, not just about the plight of the Rotterdam Bar, but about how soulless developers were changing Belfast beyond recognition. I thought I had helped spread the word about what was happening and how unjust the whole situation was/is. I thought the people behind the Save The Rotterdam campaign would have been pleased with a bit more publicity with their campaign.

I was well wide of the mark. See what thinking does, eh? The reaction on the Save the Rotterdam myspace was, well, less than enthusiastic.

"Hey, e fuckwit caling themselves welldonefillet called us wailing hippies! LOL check out the shit on www.welldonefillet.blogspot.com
while they seem to like the Rott and all, I dont see them getting off their arses and joining in with us lamenting hippy types as we're referred to( funny how a hippy can run a couple of effin; businesses, and the rest of them likewise)
God, its easy to knock those who do the job when all welldone fillet wants to do is sit on their holes whining.
At least if we're going down.. we're goin' down with some honour as having actually had the integrity to fight for what we love and believe in. So, screw you, filletboy."

I was dumbstruck to say the least and at first I ignored it. I read and re-read what I had written and felt that there was nothing in that piece that I would change and there was nothing wrong with it. I had just been called a "fuckwit" so I wasn't in the mood for compromise. That was a couple of weeks ago.

But then I kept getting text messages and so on from friends and family telling me they had seen it. I decided that I needed to address the issue. I needed to put my point across that I was trying to help and that I didn't understand why they were so annoyed at what I had written.

So yesterday I made contact with the lady who responded on the Save the Rotterdam Bar myspace to my original piece. She wrote passionately about what the Rotterdam Bar means to her and her friends. Not just because it was their "local" or because of the great nights they had there but also because of it's rich history and it's importance to Belfast. If the Rotterdam is lost then nothing and I mean nothing is sacred anymore to the developers and money men.

I want to clarify and correct a few things I said in my original post on the Rotterdam Bar.

Writing "....I was more than a bit cynical. Lets be honest would the owners of the building really be swayed by online petitions and what they would view as "the lamenting voices of hippy types" when millions of pounds were at stake?" isn't really a very good way to help a fledgling campaign (as it was then) get off the ground. I apologise for that. At times like these cynicism isn't going to help now is it? And calling people hippies isn't on either.

And if that isn't going to help then "It's too late to save the Rotterdam...." is just down right daft. And again, I apologise. That was a very stupid thing to say when the campaign was just getting started and really there is no room for doubters, how ever well intentioned.

But more importantly the campaign has gone from strength to strength. There has been great coverage in the media both in Ireland including local newspapers and Hot Press magazine and local radio, and in England including a piece in last weeks Observer newspaper. The Campaign are urging people to do the following, and I urge you to do the same.

1. E-mail alan.turkington@doeni.gov.uk and tell him to make the Rotterdam a listed building and state why you think it should be.
   
2. Contact the Planning Department of Northern Ireland
   2nd Floor Bedford House
   16-22 Bedford Street
   BT2 7FD
   Tel: 028 9025 2903
   And share your opinions with them on why the Rotterdam needs to be kept as it is.
3. Sign the petition
   
4. Write letters to the Belfast Telegraph, Irish News, Belfast Newsletter, and any other local paper.
5. Contact Stephen Nolan, he loves a good fight.
   

The fight is on! All ideas are welcomed! The fight has, and I don't often quote the Carpenters, "only just begun". It's building momentum but needs more people to voice their unhappiness and leave everyone from the developers to the planning department to the general public at large in no doubt that this is unjust, not needed and just plain stupid. When heritage is lost you don't get it back.

Now I'm off to think about what I've done wrong.

It's not just cash, there's singing too

black is the colour of my true waiter's hair
You're so money...

I had another hen party last Saturday. I wasn't going to let my previous experience of hen parties put me off. And more importantly why should the nearly married young ladies of Belfast miss out on the joy and fun that is being served by Manuel.

Hen parties are good craic. The participants, for the most part, are up for a laugh and I see it as my role to add to that. Others maybe happy just to bring food and drink to and from the table, but not me. I see my role as being the one who has to "take it" for the male gender. By "take it" I mean jokes and the like were men are the punchline and so on. Not actually "take it" in a penetrative way. All though....(that's just a joke honey bunny)

From my point of view there are 4 people who need the most attention to ensure a good hen party.

First you have the hen herself, you need to make her feel all important and tell her how lucky her betrothed is and tell her how wonderful she looks (that's not always easy as last weeks "lady" proved). And I think it's very important not to let her get too drunk too early. Whilst the rest of the table is trying to pour all sorts of dodgy cocktails down her I like to act as the counter balance to that and keep a jug of water close to her during the meal. Finding yourself face down in a plate of pasta by 8.30 is not what anyone wants.

Next is the organiser. She is usually the sister or best friend of the hen. She chose the restaurant so if it goes wrong it's all her fault, then mine. These people are almost always stressed out. I like to get to them early and get a drink into them and get them calmed down. There is only room for one control freak in the restaurant and I have that role all sewn up thank you. The organiser is also the one that handles the bill, so for obvious reasons it's important to keep her sweet.

Then you have the mothers! Both have different emotions on the hen night. The mother of the bride is proud of her daughter and her upcoming marriage. She might get a bit teary during the night. Then you have the mother of the groom. She may not have met her future daughter-in-law's friends so this can be a real eye-opener for her. Sometimes you notice them rolling their eyes as someone makes a rude or suggestive comment, or tries to remove my python from my trousers. (Python-hahahahahahahaha-LMM) I like to look after the older ladies most of all. The younger ones just need a steady supply of brightly coloured alco-pops, the older ladies need a bit more loving than that. I like to relax them with one of my cheesy/sleazy lines. "Gin and Tonic madam? Have you and ID as it's over 21 here for alcohol". Never fails to get a laugh. I am so money after that.

Last weeks hen was a good one. Good organiser, sober-ish hen, and good guests. They were dining in our private room so the were able to make a bit more noise than they would if they had been in the restaurant. They told stories after the meal and then they started a little singsong. One guest was an accomplished singer and she took over the entertainment. It was all a little formal for some who made their excuses and headed for the toilet. I was lurking in the shadows waiting for a break in the singing so I could clear the table. But I was spotted. They gave me a little round of applause and then sang a song for me. Now that would have been fine but they made me take a seat in front of them whilst they all sang to me. I was redder that Lenin by then end of the song. And what did they sing?

"Black is the colour of my true love's hair!"

For a bald man that is a bit cheeky! Huh! All I could think was is this song in lieu of tip? Thankfully it wasn't and they left 20%.
God bless hen parties.

And strawberry blond is the colour of my true love's hair...

dat plAc iz dirty. dun Et ther

the time has come to say "goodbye" my little friends

Belfast City Council are, today, launching a system that allows you, the great dirty, unwashed, masses (or customers as you are better known) access to Environmental Health Reports for restaurants, bars, cafes, school canteens, well anywhere that sells/makes food. Oh what fun that's going to be! Mark my words there will be tears before bedtime.


It' all part of the SCORES ON THE DOORS programme which intends to raise standards in food outlets by essentially naming and shaming those dirty little hovels that don't care if there's more than cheese and ham in your lunchtime bagel.

I don't really have a problem with this, yet. I'm sure it will impact on me over the next few weeks thus causing a change of mood . Yet more ammunition for pain in the arse customers to use when they are trying to get out of paying for something. But what is annoying me is the fucking name they have chosen for this scheme, "SCORES ON THE DOORS"! For fucks sake could they not have come up with something less patronising than that. It's all so cringe worthy.

The only people that use that phrase these days are taxi drivers and postmen and spides. Spides are great big fans of such phrases, that, and other phrases such as "How's it hanging?", "Wah?", "Here's me wah..." and so on. It is so patronising it is almost beyond words. You see the clever bit is that they want restaurants and bars etc to put a sticker on their front door with their rating. See what they did there? The Scores will actually be on the doors. AAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHH! Cunts!

But it gets better. You can visit their fancy new website and while away the minutes/hours searching for your favourite restaurants and takeaways. It's all there, in detail should you want it (well it's not all there yet but will be soon apparently). Soon you wont want to eat out anywhere in Belfast save for the Clonard Monastery Youth Club or Starbucks (both got the full five star rating). I suppose this is the "Scores on the PC" section. Not so catchy.

But, wait, they ain't done yet! There's more. Picture the scene, you are out with your lovely lady/man/ladyman and you like the look of the quaint little restaurant, but damn it there is no Score on the Door, what do you do? Never fear the wonderful people at Belfast City Council Food Safety Department have you covered. Just text them the name and location of the restaurant and they will text you right back with the details. Thanks Food Safety Department guy, we could have walked into a rat infested flea pit! Or not as the case maybe. Lets hope that there aren't a dozen teenagers manning a bank of mobile/cell phones at the other end,

"dat plAc iz dirty. dun Et ther m8"

or you might get

"dat plAc iz rly clEn. Go 4 it & hav a gr8 nyt m8"

I'm only slegging as the spides might say. It is probably a good idea, but I shall reserve judgement until it impacts on me. Chefs are under more pressure though, which is nice. Less time for them to think up cruel and nasty things to do to me and more time to be spend mopping and the such like. Nice.

The restaurant where I work isn't listed yet before you ask.

It was a dark and rainy night

Some tables are more memorable than others. Last week's hen party was one of the more forgettable. But some tables stay with you forever. I was ruminating yesterday over past glories, the tables that tip you so well you get embarrassed, the tables that want to "wrap you up and take you home", the tables that give you a round of applause at the end. All these things have happened to me, some recently, some in the past. But few tables are as memorable as the one I had on a wet and windy Tuesday night many years ago...

It was a quiet rainy night in the middle of January. I had nothing booked save for a table of 10 at 8pm. Cold, wet, dark, and rainy nights in January aren't well known for being busy, so I wasn't expecting too much to happen. I was in first gear and intended to stay there. The booking though had me intrigued as I couldn't work the name out, THELITE. Maybe it was a company name. Maybe it was a tourist group. I put it down to bad spelling by which ever idiot took the booking. But I kept running the name over and over in my mind. I couldn't work out what it was but it felt familiar.

But I soon forgot about it when I felt compelled to join in the chefs conversation. It was the usual high brow fare, Roseanne Barr up the bum for £10,000? As the money went up so did the dare, culminating in Roseanne Barr up the bum for £1,000,000 on live TV in a bath of beans with your ma and da in the studio watching? Turns out most chefs would do anything for a million quid. But this conversation helped pass the time.

It was ten to 8 so I went to check that the table for THELITE was well set and ready to go. They had requested a quiet part of the restaurant away from other customers. Not a problem tonight as there wasn't anyone else in or likely to be either. Then the door opened and my jaw hit the floor. I was literally, and for the first time, lost for words. In walked Roy Keane, Richard Pryor and Joan Rivers. Roy was at the front with the other two following behind. Joan was her usual reserved self.

"Oh yeah darling, sucked my face right off. It's the best thing I've ever done. Oh you gotta get some done darling" wailed Miss Rivers.

Richard Pryor was just nodding his head, unable to get a word in except for the occasional "Fuck yeah"

I approached Roy with my hand out stretched, my voice failed as I squeaked "hello". I tried it again with a proper man sized "Hello, welcome, welcome. Are you guys booked?"

"Der's a table fawh 10 booked under duh name of duh elite" responded Roy, in a thick Cork accent, looking right past me.

"Duh elite?" I looked at the booking sheet to see what the great one was on about. And then it became obvious. THELITE was in fact The Elite.

"Yesyesthiswayyourtablesreadyohmyohmy" I was seriously babbling now and on the verge of becoming incoherent. But I composed myself and ushered them to their table. I was practically bowing as they walked past me. Richard nodded at me as he walked past, but it could have just been his usual head movement.

Richard and Joan sat beside each other but Roy sat at the other end of the table on his own. Joan was still extolling the virtue of plastic surgery to Richard who was becoming rather agitated with her. I made for him first.

"Yeah man, how you doing?" He seemed glad at the interruption. Before I could answer he asked me for a Scotch on the rocks. I got his drink and wine for Joan and water for the really very intense Mr Keane.

"Duh rest will be here in a few minutes." Assured the ever more pensive Mr Keane. He seemed annoyed that the rest of his party were late. Ever the pro!

Again the door opened and in came Morrissey, Humphrey Bogart, Larry David, and the majestic Liv Tyler. Larry David had his arm round her waist as he had been shielding her from the rain under a large black umbrella. But he kept hold of her even after he put the umbrella down. She looked uncomfortable but was too much of a lady to make a scene. She excused herself and asked for directions to the bathrooms. Larry seemed reluctant to let go. I couldn't speak and just pointed and mumbled "there". I'm sure I was dribbling.

" You gonna hog that dame all night?" snapped Bogey. He took his black overcoat off, revealing a very smart black dinning suit finished with a stiff white shirt and thin bow tie, and Fedora hat and past them to me.

"What? You think I was hogging her? I was just being a gentleman." Replied Larry defensively. He nudged Bogey and whispered "You think I got a chance?"

Bogey, ignoring him, lit a cigarette and said "I need a drink."

"What?" Larry stood there for a moment on his own with his arms out stretched. "Yeah, I got a chance." assuring no one but himself.

Morrissey, meanwhile, was already at the table and was kissing Joan Rivers on either cheek. He tried to high five Richard Pryor but made a mess of it and nearly knocked Joan Rivers of her seat. Roy laughed into himself. I got Morrissey some wine, a martini for Bogey and water for Larry David. He asked for "hot tea" first but Bogey threw him a look and he quickly changed his mind.

When Liv got to the table all the men stood up and took it it turns to kiss her gently on the cheek. Joan rose to her feet too and loudly air kissed her saying "Oh darling you look radiant! Are your tits real? I swear to Gawd I would kill for tits like yours. Like I should be so lucky!"

Liv went a lovely shade of pink for just a little moment.

"Where's that punk kid?" enquired Bogey, sucking a long draw from his cigarette.

"Can't make it." Answered Roy. "He's fucking depressed or summat like dat. He is sending his woife instead."

What punk kid? Who where they on about? My mind was racing with possibilities. The whole table groaned as Roy shared this news.

"I hate that tramp. My Gawd she is such a lush! And that music, well I say music. I've made sweeter music having sex." She went onto to make grizzly sex noises. The rest of the table groaned again

"Now Joan be nice" countered Liv. "We have to give her a chance, for Kurt. Mozzer, she can sit beside you. At least you two have something to talk about"

"But she doesn't even LIKE me ! And I know because she said so. In the room downstairs. She sat and stared. In the room downstairs. She sat and stared. I'll never make that mistake again" Replied Morrissey

"For fuck sake not again" Shouted Roy, his face was twisted and red and full of rage.

" Listen kid, I warned you about that the last time we went out, at Sam's place. Knock it off or I'll rub you out." Bogey was on his feet and pointing at Morrissey.

" You agreed Stephen, no more song lyrics during dinner." said Liv Tyler raising her voice like a school teacher.

Morrissey just laughed and said "That joke isn't funny anymore?"

Again the door opened and in strode a man smoking a pipe through a balaclava. In a dusky Latin sounding voice he announced himself to me "Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos. I am here for dinner with some friends."

By now nothing could surprise me. "Yup over here mate." I pointed him in the general direction of his table. I figured he would find it OK seeing as he had avoided capture by the Mexican authorities for years. I went to the bar and fixed myself a quick shot of Powers. This was getting ridiculous. With two places left to be filled I wouldn't have been surprised if Jesus and Baby Spice had arrived together holding hands singing "She'll be coming round the mountain."

But before I could wipe the whiskey from my lips I heard a soft but deep French voice coming from the doorway.

"Allo, où est chacun ? It is me, Eric. Allo?

And there he was, Eric Cantona, in the flesh standing bold as brass in my restaurant. Well I could have peed.

"Table. Elite. What? This way." Each word was said with more and more confusion. My head was pickled. I walked Monsieur Cantona to the table. He greeted each person individually. Kissing Joan and Liv on the hand. He lingered a bit longer with Liv. Well you would. But his warmest greeting was for Roy. They hugged and back slapped each other for more than two minutes. Much to Humphrey Bogart's annoyance.

Bogey took charge at this point. "Well see, we are all here. The kid ain't coming so lets order. I got plans see. Hey kid, you got menus here or do we gotta guess what's to eat?"

I ignored the rather heavy hint of sarcasm and headed to get the menus. It was Humphrey Bogart after all. Was I really going to backchat one of the finest actors of a generation? I approached the table ready to relay the specials and the soup. I took a look round the table for a moment, Roy Keane, Richard Pryor, Joan Rivers, Morrissey, Humphrey Bogart, Larry David, Eric Cantona Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos and the majestic Liv Tyler. Fuck me this was going to be interesting. As I stood there staring at them I failed to realise that they were staring at me.

"Yo cutie, the cat got your tongue?" Joan Rivers voice snapped me out of it and I smiled. But before I could get my first word out the door burst open again. There, drenched in rain which caused her makeup to run and looking like she had been on a five day drugs and drink binge, stood Courtney Love. She had a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a salmon in the other.

"Hello boys, you weren't going to eat without me where you?" She slurred this with a manic grin on her face.

That's when the night really started....

It's all about me you know...

the famous "we want a smoke in doors" riots of May 2007.
(never actually happened. Which was nice.)

Thirty plus days of the smoking ban have passed without the riots and mass hysteria that some, not me, may have predicted. I have been shocked that it has passed off so peacefully. Honestly I would swear that they have added something to the water to calm our brains. It's not just the smoking ban that has gone off without a hitch but there was the rather peculiar sight of Messrs Adams/McGuinness and Paisley in their new bizarre love triangle. This alone proves that we have all grown up a bit in this country, either that or we just don't give a rats ass anymore. Take your pick!

I probably threw the biggest smoking related tantrums. What a brat! But I have few if any joy's in my life, apart from the gentle and sweet love of Little Miss Manuel, and the gentle and sweet love that is hand rolling tobacco.

I couldn't be mithered doing a monthly review for May as you have read it anyway so why go over old ground eh. Instead here are some things all about me.

1. I like to smoke. I didn't start until I was about 19 which isn't very smart but I was trying to impress a girl. Not that she was. Impressed that is, she is defiantly female.

2. I love my Little Miss Manuel. We have been together for years now. We met when I was her boss in a coffee shop. We used to meet in a locked store for mid-shift "cuddles". Nice. Her parents have never met me. I am a secret.

3. I am very happily divorced. The first in my family to do so. Aren't you proud of me Granny? We were too young, simple as that. I was friends with her after we separated, then I hated her, now there is a very very slight thaw in our hostilities.

4. I have a son I never get to see. Can't talk about him though as it makes that vein in my neck stick out and I lose all control. Fuck it hurts.

5. I love my dad and my sister more than anyone in the world. Mum got sick the day after my 9th birthday. She went into hospital and is still there today, 25 years. Encephalitis, that's the cunt. I haven't seen mum in over 7 years. Can't do it. I have my memories of the before time, when dad was happy and my world was action man and ten penny mix ups. I love you mum.

6. I was born in Ireland but brought up in Scotland. Dad worked in a hotel that got bombed. So seeing as he had a young family and that the 70's in Northern Ireland were more than a bit moody we all decamped to Ullapool. Sheep farmers and fishermen, that's all there was in Ullapool. We moved back to Ireland in the eighties. Nice move dad, things were a real bed of roses then too, hunger strikes and all that.

7. I was a Goth from the age of 16 to about 19. Ironically these were some of my happiest days. Black, black, black my wardrobe was simple and easy. I wore make-up once to a Mission concert. I listened to The Cure, Bauhaus, Sisters of Mercy, Christian Death, Jesus and Mary Chain and other troubadours of love and happiness. My phrase of choice was "What's the point man". God it was a simpler, fun time.

8. I lost all faith in any sort of God when mum got sick. Dad took her on pilgrimage to Lourdes . I thought she would come back all cured and went slightly mental when she obviously didn't. Dad told me years later that he wasn't looking for a cure, he found the strength to carry on. I still don't bother with God, and He doesn't bother with me. So that's nice.

9. I have 5 tattoos. My favourite is the Mudhoney one. Its from the cover of their best off album. Little Miss Manuel hates the one I got on holiday in Thailand. It has my name and the names of two girls I met when I was out there. It's on my wrist and reads, in Thai, "Manuel" Sadie and Rachel forever in Thailand. NOTHING HAPPENED with me and these two girls. They were just good fun to be with. I got caught up in the emotion of it all. They were getting tattoo's done so I did too. If they had been getting things pierced I would have done that as well. My time in Thailand was without a shadow of a doubt the most exciting thing I have done in the last ten years.

10. I am very emotional and can cry almost at will. I choke up watching funerals on TV of people I don't even know. I must cancel my subscription to the Funeral Channel.

11. I support Manchester United but I don't go to Old Trafford any more. Not since Malcolm Glazer bought it over. He is a cunt and no mistake, and his sons are little smelly cunts too. I am a founder member and season ticket holder of FC United of Manchester, the breakaway club. For the fans, by the fans!

12. I once had a flirtation with the Socialist Workers Party. It was after I read NOLOGO by Naomi Klein. I went to a few meetings, "Women's Liberation, has the Fight been won?", and "The North of Ireland, the future". I went on a few rallies to support the striking Firemen and to "greet" G W Bush when he visited Hillsborough. But I knocked it on the head after a couple of months. Most people on the fringes where well intentioned and people who wanted to change the world for the good. But the pricks at the top were the worst sort of egotists. Plus I couldn't put up with all the "comrade" shite.

13. I own about a thousand Cd's and vinyl records. These cover the spectrum from Jazz and blues to Death Metal and Hippidy Hop. My favourite song ever is probably "Good year for the roses", Elvis Costello's version that is. Just so beautiful. I am not a record collector, those guys are just fucking weird. But you still cant touch anything unless your hands are clean and you are sober. And don't even think about going near the stereo.

14. I don't drive and have no intention of ever learning. I own two bikes, one is a Fly BMX, the other is a Kona Cruiser. (The BMX is for sale and I will listen to any offers). I am too old and wounds take too long to heal to be dealing with a BMX any more.

15. I have made mistakes in my life. Some very big mistakes. But I regret nothing and wouldn't change a thing. I am what I am (as Ellie said).

16. I am hairy. I have hair everywhere. As Eddie Murphy put it, "You ain't nothing but a well shaved gorilla". Hair everywhere except my head. I put this down to using three cans of hairspray a week during the Goth days. I had a very punk rock haircut. God it was cool.

17. My punk rock haircut got me beaten on numerous occasions. The little shites used to flick cigarettes and matches at it when I was on the bus. And people were always looking at it and stuff, which I liked of course. At it's, and my, peak it was 12 inches long, bald back and side and up the middle leaving a tight "u" shape. God, I thought I was the daddy.

18. My Granddad's last words to me on his deathbed were, "Get your hair cut". I did.

19. Favourite book is "Reasons to be Cheerful" by Mark Steel. Very funny.

20. Worst book ever read was "American Psycho" by Brett Easton Ellis. What nonsense.

21. Current book is "Death and the Penguin" by Andrey Kurkov. Dark and funny, and a wee bit sad.

22. I have no fears. I piss in the face of fear. Except heights, heights give me the Willy's.

23. I love being a waiter. You get to meet so many interesting people and no two days are the same. And there is a lot of flexibility. Bollocks to all that the money is good. End off.

24. If I wasn't a waiter I would be the manager of an American Fast Food Franchise. So I am very happy where I am at, which isn't an American Fast Food Franchise. But I would have liked to be an Architect.

25. I want a dog, but it just isn't practical what with the hours I work. i used to have lots of fish but my cousin off'd them when I was on holiday. And then he did for my cactus when I was away for a weekend. But I still like him.

26. My wife traded me in for our younger next door neighbour. I still miss him.

27. Liv Tyler makes me want to cry. She is so hot. She's no Little Miss Manuel all the same, but you know what I mean.

28. Despite what I write on this blog, I rarely drink. I used to drink a lot. Not to the point of problem drinking, just the same as everybody else. But one day I woke up and said to myself that I couldn't be bothered with it anymore. I didn't drink again for nearly a year. Now I only get drunk 3 or 4 times a year. I like red wine and Gin and Bitter Lemon. mmmmmmmmm!

29. I failed my eleven plus and this left me fucked up for years.

30. If you want to buy me something really nice please get me a painting by Paul Bell. He paints cows. And he is genius at it.

31. "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" was Humphrey Bogart's favourite film, and is my favourite film too. That and "City of God".

32. I love a good list. My day would be a disaster without a list to guide me through. how sad is that?

33. I have a shitty short temper. I can fly off the handle at the drop of a hat and be placid and calm a moment later. This tends to leave people confused and a bit wary of me. My last evaluation at work had the wonderful line"You need to control your emotions during high pressure shifts". So I poked him in the eye with a fork and then helped him out to the ambulance. That's me!

34. I detest people who class themselves as "middle class". This normally means they are insecure cunts who want to shit over and look down on the people they believe are below them.

35. I'd like to be a tour guide when I get old(er). But I fear my dislike of people may get worse as I age thus ruling me out of such a role. Grumpy pricks don't make good ambassadors.

36. My favourite phrase at the moment is "Bate it up ye".

37. Least likely to be heard saying "No thank you sir I don't work for tips. Your happiness is all I need". Show me the money!

38. Americans are my favourite customers. And not just for their generous tipping, but because they seem to be genuinely interested in what you have to say. Bless their innocent hearts.

39. I don't vote. I wouldn't give the shite that make up local politics the satisfaction or credence. Self satisfying bastards.

40. No one has ever treated me the way Little Miss Manuel treats me. I worry that one day she will leave me. The age difference worries me too. Then I remember that I am fucking great and I calm down again.

41. I love being on my own but miss Miss Little Manuel when she isn't here.

42. I did ballet as a child. This is funnier if you know me. I am, shall we say, some what more rotund than I used to be.

43.9 11 conspiracists make me want to vomit. A group of madmen wanted to hurt your country, and succeeded in the worst way. End of story. Get over your-fucking-selves.

44. I used to boycott everything from Marks & Spencer (support for Israel) to Gap clothes (child labour). But in the end you give up such high ideals. Now I am down to boycotting Sky TV and anything to do with Rupert Murdoch and going to Old Trafford. Some boycotts are harder than others and I miss Old Trafford.

45. I consider Larry David to be a genius.

46. I love food and my favourite food at the moment is lamb, done perfect pink, served with good mash and caramelised carrots. Although pork chops, mash, and beans comes a close second.

47. I bought Little Miss Manuel and I a trip to Madrid and Seville for our summer jolly's. I paid for it with my tips from Christmas. Christmas at work fucking rocks. I cant wait for my hol's as we are going 5 star the whole way. Cause we are worth it.

48. My most favourite gig of all time was Sonic Youth in the Arts College in Belfast followed by Morrissey in Dublin. Both were very very sweet nights.

49. I hate Kav for writing 101 things. You have set the bar too high man, too high!

I will never do this again.