If you slag off the Eagles

J D Souther
"where's that Manuel,
I'm gonna kick his fat ass..."

...then you can expect an EAGLE at your door. Or at least the guy who helped to create them and wrote some of their biggest hits, J D Souther. On Thursday I wrote about how the music at work can from time to time, drive me ever so mental. I finished with,

"You will find me in the corner rocking from side to side with my hands over my ears babbling about the Hotel California..."

So there I was on Friday morning having a crafty smoke outside work when I came across this rather lost looking American chap. I knew he was American before he spoke. Men in their 60's from Belfast cant pull off that "cool and interesting" look. It's all flat caps and moustaches and hip problems. He couldn't find the front door which I found amusing as he was standing beside it. Those kids really did smoke a lot of fun stuff in the 60's and 70's. He introduced himself, which meant nothing to me, and we had a brief conversation and a shared a laugh about something and nothing. I then directed him to where he needed to be and thought no more about it.

Ten minutes later he was being interviewed for a radio show and I was standing there agog as the interviewer rhymed off his hits and career highlights. It left me wishing I'd slagged off Slayer in my final lines on Thursday. I should add that I was also interviewed on the radio today too. (not blog related)

But I don't want to talk about it, speak to my agent if you need anything....

Guardian last week, radio this week, it's the big screen next for Manuel......

The First Well Done Fillet "God Botherer" of the week award goes to...

(This is very off topic by the way)

Drum roll please.........

Paul "the Earth was created in 7 days by some bloke with a white beard" Givan

Mr Givan wins this award for services to children and the country as a whole by helping to drag us all back to the Neolithic age via the medium of creationism. Saying that, he probably doesn't believe there was a Neolithic age. Mr Givan is a councillor for the DUP on Lisburn "City" Council. He put forward a motion that the council should write to all schools in the area asking them what provision they had made for the teaching of "creation, intelligent design and other theories of origin". And worse still the bloody motion was passed! Are you fucking kidding me? City councillors are the lowest form of political pond life as it is, now they are trying to get involved in what schools teach the young. Good Holy Fuck (pun intended) they can barely be trusted to get the bins emptied on time let alone the important task of educating our children.

not created in 7 days

Haven't the people of Lisburn suffered enough already what with having to cope with being Belfast's unwanted/illegitimate child? Now they want to confuse these children with mumbo jumbo about some big fella making the world in 6 days and taking a break on the seventh. You will be surprised to hear that this pisses right on my apron.

I have great respect for people of faith and am a big fan of religious freedom but to quote the homophobes out there, "I don't care what they do just as long as they do it in the privacy of their own front rooms." KEEP CHURCH & STATE SEPARATE! Attempt's to garner cross party/cross religious support was even more sickening,

"Deputy Mayor Ulster Unionist Ronnie Crawford appealed for cross party support for Mr. Givan's proposal pointing out Pope Benedict was a firm believer in creationism and adding there were many points on which he agreed with the Pontiff."

...reported the Ulster Star newspaper. Ha! What fucking hypocrites! As I've said before, anything and I mean anything, that unites the Free Presbyterians and the Catholic Church should be nudged right out of the way with a very large stick. Mark my words all the crazies in power in the North of Ireland will be at it soon, this mess is going to spread. Soon every half arsed redneck is going to be arguing with scientists and trying to burn down the University. And lets be clear here, when they say "other theories of origin" they really mean the Christian theory. There will be no room, I assume, for Jedi beliefs or Scientology. And if you are going to have the kids learn the the Christian theory you may as well teach them the how to feel the force too. Intelligent design my arse...

One of these is an example of intelligent design
the other isn't....

Is there anything more offensive than "Easy Listening" music?

Daniel or Kerry
take your pick....

There are many factors that can impact on the customers experience in a restaurant. Is the waiter sober, has he washed this week, does he know the difference between lamb and pork, is he writing down your order or the lyrics for his band's new song? Then there are the chefs, are they stoned, have they washed this month, do they know the difference between lamb and pork? A wonky table can leave your white linen pants with a lovely minted jus coloured stain. You could get hepatitis from the dirty glasses, or worse from the toilet seats. (Well aren't you a ray of light and a true ambassador for the hospitality industry-LMM) Hell yeah, going out can be a mine field.

But saying all that you know what pisses people of more? Bad music! They tell me over and over again. Now, you get old people complaining about it being too loud no matter what, and young people complaining that it's not belting out at 10,000 bpm. But people really do get their napkins in a knot if the music is inappropriate or even if it isn't to their taste.

The music in my restaurant is at best eclectic and at worst offensive in the worst way. It is controlled by the ghost of a 1960's DJ/hamster inside a jukebox. It's stored in a very dark corner of the building where only angels, and bar staff, fear to tread. Seriously there are 3 flights of stairs to get to it and the lift stops short of the last flight. So I ain't going near it. If Metallica comes on in the middle of a quiet Thursday lunch service by the time I get to the jukebox it's already too late and it's changed back to something more sedate.

Our music system has a nasty sense of humour. If you have a table of pensioners in for dinner it will move from nice background music to 50cent or Mr M and M's. If you are doing a funeral lunch it will quite unexpectedly play Slayer's "Angel of Death" to the dissatisfaction of all. If you have a football team from a Protestant area of town it plays Republican tunes such as "The Four Green Fields" or "The Men Behind The Wire". Why are those songs even on the machine? WHY? When is the right time to play Republican anthems? I swear it's trying to get be beaten up or at the very least fuck with my tips.

The staff were banned from using the machine ages ago after abusing the "privilege". Fair enough to be honest, you would walk in before the place opened to be met with either Hippidy hop or death metal at maximum output. And quite often it would carry on even after we were open. Managers couldn't hear it as they were safely tucked away in the office, drinking coffee and talking on the phone, or something like that.

But even when the machine isn't making your ears bleed or playing inappropriate tunes it still manages to annoy the hell out of you. When it is properly set it is supposed to play selections of "Easy Listening" during the day and moving it up to the even more upsetting "AOR" at night. It makes me want to rip my fucking ears off sometimes. These tunes are interspersed with "Oirish" music. Now I like traditional Irish music as much as the next person, but traditional this ain't. Daniel O' fucking Donnell, Paddy Reilly, and Foster and bloody Allen torture me all day long with their wrapped up in nostalgia hymns to an Ireland that never existed.

It's cringe-worthy, sometimes I pray for Slayer or even some Jazz. Now Jazz really pisses people off. Restaurateurs think Jazz elevates their eaterie and makes it appear cooler and more intelligent than it actually is. No, no it doesn't it, it just pisses most people off. I like Jazz, I used to have a lot of Jazz Mags too. Ahem.

And then there are events and holidays that require their own special music to be played. From the First of December to the 26th of December it's bloody Shepherds, Mangers, Fah la la la la's, and baby Jesus' and Mary on the Little Donkey. St Patrick's day it's Daniel O'Donnel and the Pogues all day but louder than normal. If there is a concert on in the area we tend to play that particular artist's work until the crowd all heads off to get the real thing. Now this is fine if it's something half decent like...............well I cant think of anything half or even a quarter decent that's been on recently. The night Dolly Parton played was awful, same goes for Rod Stewart and that awful cunt Keith Urban(e). The boy bands are the worst though as they only have about 6 or seven songs so they just get played over and over again for 2 hours.

Now I realise that we have to play music to suit all tastes. Left to me we would all be listening to Americana and Nu-Folk. But it seems to me we are playing music that offends all not pleases all. When I finally do go bonkers with a rifle through the restaurant it will be the music that will trigger me. You will find me in the corner rocking from side to side with my hands over my ears babbling about the Hotel California or The Gambler.....

What has the Waiter got for me?

The waiter has Jobs for you, lots and lots of Jobs, and news and events and gossip and other such stuff.......

The waiter really does know it all....

Eat your food or I'll get "The Man"

The Intel SR1500 1U
not to be confused with your waiter

I had a table of 14 tonight from a nearby computer company. The word "nerd" just doesn't do them justice. Think Bill Gates without the "personality" then double it and add bad personal hygiene and mature acne and you have it! They were difficult to serve at first as they were very clearly socially awkward outside of their bedrooms/work cubicles. I'm sure they are all a real laugh and look like God's in Second Life or in virtual chat rooms, but here in the real world they were shy to the point of being painful. Good grief one of them blushed when I asked him for his order. I tried to be gentle with them, but I was busy and didn't have time for pissing about with the Tron Fan Club.

Ten frustrating minutes later I had secured the order. I brought them their glasses of non-fat milk and diet cokes, (the order was littered with "sauce on the side" and "plain") but one of them had ordered a very nifty bottle of the Heartland Shiraz. He was the alpha nerd. You could see the way the other nerds looked up to him. He probably not only knew girls outside of work/family but maybe even had had "relations" with one, briefly. He was more relaxed than the rest, his Whitesnake T-Shirt should have been a clue as to his status. He ordered his steak medium with pepper sauce. That caused a ripple around the table I can tell you, it was as if he had ordered Bambi herself.

They were out for dinner to celebrate the end of a particular project, and a boss had flown in from Texas to treat them all. God only knows what they had created or made go faster or smaller or something like that. But the boss was picking up the bill so Alpha Nerd, or Clive as I had taken to calling him (he looked like a Clive or a Simon or something like that), ordered another bottle of Shiraz. And this is where he made his big mistake. Clive was well imbibed as it was from the first bottle but as "Hank" (isn't everyone from Texas called Hank?) was picking up the bill he decided to throw caution to the wind. The first bottle had clearly boosted his confidence, as alcohol tends to do, and he decided it was time to be funny. Whilst alcohol will make you more confident it rarely makes you wiser. And so it came to pass,

"Garçon! Another bottle of your fine vino, make it snappy, I'm nearly out here."

I spun like an ice skater and stared him down with a withering look, "Garçon? Did you just call me Garçon?"

"Eh yeah sorry..." he knew he had done wrong "can I get another bottle of wine please?" This time it was more "if you don't mind and when you have time and if it's okay."

I couldn't let it go, I should have but couldn't.

"Garçon is it? You Google that on the internet before you came out?" He laughed and then tried to explain the difference between the Internet and the Web. I wasn't listening and was on my way to get a smoke and his wine, in that order too.

I haven't been called Garçon in ages. It's always by someone trying to be bigger than they are, someone flash with bling and lots of cash on them. It got me thinking about all the terms used for waiter. Most of which I hate...

1. Waitress - You could never confuse me with a woman, ever, so you shouldn't call me a waitress. But I absolutely hate the word "waitress" and actress and the worst, manageress. No fucking need, don't do it.
2. Server - fucking hate "server". The Intel SR1500 1U is a server, I am not. A server is someone who hands out plates. It suggests no skill or training or knowledge. Call me a "server" and I'll drop your dinner on your lap, honest.
3. Steward - Maybe on a plane, train or boat or in the 1930's.
   
4. The "Man" - Used by parents to scare their kids into eating/behaving. "Eat up or I'll get The Man" OR "Sit down, here comes The Man!". I usually play along and make a scary face. Oh the tears......
   
5. The "Boy" - A favourite amongst old people. No matter how professional you are feeling or acting there is nothing like being called "The Boy" by some old person to make you feel like you are ten again. They never call you "boy" directly. Normally one old person asks the other to ask "the boy" for something. But they do it when you are at the table. You might be deaf grandad, I'm not.
   
6. Garçon - Unless you are actually French don't even consider calling me Garçon. I WILL call you on it and embarrass you in front of your guests.
   
7. Waitron - I have never been called a waitron, and I would probably beat you to a very bloody pulp if you did make the mistake of calling me a waitron. Honestly I would have to be pulled off your cold dead body as I would continue to pound it with my bare fists until there was nothing left. It was the pc compromise for waiter/waitress but it's just so ugly it makes me angry.

So think before you ask for that next bottle of wine.....

Existentialist Tuesday - Do I exist? I mean, as a waiter

Exists, doesn't exist, exists, doesn't exist
I wait, therefore I am

Old Knudsen, the bitter master, advised me to enjoy my moment in the sun (did I mention my one line mention in the Guardian?) and not to let it go to my head. Wise words indeed. And with that in mind I have taken to wearing black today, smoking French cigarettes, and quoting Sartre...

Sartre's Waiter- An example of Bad Faith

Let us consider this waiter in the cafe. His movement is quick and forward, a little too precise, a little too rapid. He comes toward the patrons with a step a little too quick. He bends forward a little too eagerly; his voice, his eyes express an interest a little too solicitous for the order of the customer. Finally there he returns, trying to imitate in his walk the inflexible stiffness of some kind of automaton while carrying his tray with the recklessness of a tight-rope-walker by putting it in a perpetually unstable, perpetually broken equilibrium which he perpetually re-establishes by a light movement of the arm and hand. All his behavior seems to us a game. He applies himself to chaining his movements as if they were mechanisms, the one regulating the other; his gestures and even his voice seem to be mechanisms; he gives himself the quickness and pitiless rapidity of things. He is playing, he is amusing himself. But what is he playing?

We need not watch long before we can explain it: he is playing at being a waiter in a cafe. There is nothing there to surprise us.

Nailed us Mr Sartre, nailed us good.

Is there any such thing as a "natural born waiter"? Aren't we all just playing a role? Some people play the roll better than others, they appear natural, less stiff, more relaxed. But essentially they are still just playing a roll.

Me? I prefer bread rolls....

I had that Jean-Paul Sartre in the restaurant one day, I approached him and asked:

"Can I get you something to drink, Monsieur Sartre?"
Sartre replied, "Yes, I'd like a cup of coffee with sugar, but no cream".
I nodded in agreement and walked off to fill the order and Sartre returned to working. But a few minutes later, however, I returned and said, "I'm sorry, Monsieur Sartre, we are all out of cream ......... how about with no milk?"

Old Knudsen has finally realised that waiting is where it's at...you must check this out

I have always read The Guardian

quality....

It's a quality newspaper with a forward thinking and intelligent editorial team, thought provoking and uncompromising journalists, and a well read and attractive readership. And clearly they know a good thing when they see it. [Cough cough] scroll down a bit

So for all the new readers who have arrived here from The Guardian here are some of my favourite stories and advice for restaurant patrons...

1. First post, Fat Man & Thumb Stubber
2. Advice, Sending your food back?
3. More advice, Late Supper eh?
4. There is sheet in ma water!
5. Some people talk more than they think
6. Sometimes even I want to cry...
7. Obvious? Not to the dining public

Ah there is so much more, but you can find it yourself. Now to delete that post where I may have said something unpleasant about the some of the Guardian's Readership.....

Democracy, shemocracy

Democracy is very overrated, it gave the world G.W. Bush, Margaret Thatcher (milk snatcher), Tony Blair, and Bertie Ahern! I am your Fidel, get me a cigar and a nice tracksuit please. So with that in mind today I reveal the newest blog in my growing blog nursery....

I am fuping delighted with how that turned out

So the two people that voted for that name should reveal themselves and bask in their glory!

With this site I intend to post all the news and views that surround the Irish Hospitality Industry, an industry that is worth billions in Ireland as a whole. The change of political circumstances in the North has seen tourist figures grow and grow over the last five years to unprecedented figures. More money is being spent in bars and restaurants now than ever before, despite the smoking bans. Restaurants open and close in a heartbeat these days. They all want your hard earned cash, the waiters certainly do, so how can you chose the right one? WhatTheWaiterKnows will bring all the reviews into one place, both the positive and negative thus making easier for you to make the best decision!

It's not quite finished as I have more links to add, actually a lot more links to add. But as the number of posts grow so will the amount of reviews and information. Visit it, and let me know what you think. Bookmark, link, subscribe and you'll never miss a review again....

Keep adding your favourite restaurants
now for blog number 4 hehehehehehe

Name them, your favourite restaurants!

answer
you must answer!

Twenty Thousand hits eh! Check 'em numbers out! That's what I call vindication. And I need constant vindication. Those are like 20,000 little hugs telling me "You're all right". I need the love, and the hits, and the subscribers, but really I need to get out more... (If you are reading this early in the morning I may not have quite got there but I will by lunchtime. I was always one for chicken counting!)

Blog baby number three is likely to go over his due date. It's proving to be a difficult birth. But hey when it's ready it's ready. Keep voting all the same.

Now I need something from you, my avid readers. Tell me about the top 3 restaurants you visit. You can be as detailed as you want, quality of the food, the quality of the service, the ambiance, the reason why you keep going back. Or you can just tell me where it is. I'm not profiling you for some CIA type agency or to target some spamtastic advertising campaign. I want to create a list of WellDoneFillet approved restaurants. If you say it's good, I believe you. It doesn't matter where you live or where you the restaurant was that you visited. And if there are particular people in these places that make your meal more complete go ahead and name them. Lets celebrate the great!!

I suppose I should repeat this exercise for the not so hot places you have stumbled out of with the shakes. Thanks again for your readership and for visiting......

The hours between 3 and 8am are wasted with sleep

The kids...
Manuel, Wayter, and little baby ??

I'm so tired it's not true. I come home from work no later than 12am most nights. Anything after that and I turn in to a pumpkin. A raging, tantrum throwing, pumpkin. But then again you already knew that. Working nights has never been a problem for me, and it's still not. Staying up to 3 or 4 in the morning tweaking my blog babies is starting to have an effect though. I remember a friend saying "Oh watch yourself with that there blog thingy, it's as addictive as heroin." Little did I know that he was right, well to a point. I'm not at the granny robbing stage just yet, and I haven't had to sell the TV to pay this months broadband bill. I may sell it as I never watch it any more.

I left the house today for a total of 35 minutes. I went to the shop and bought microwavable food, tobacco, bottled water, and mints. I never left the Mac since then, apart from going to the toilet and to lock the door after a very disappointed and bored L.M.M went home.

The birth of my third blog child is proving to be more difficult than I first thought. I had opted for the home birth method (own domain) with a different midwife (Wordpress) but blog child number 3 refused to budge from the safety of it's conception chamber (my brain). So in a fit of fury I have had to opt for the painless epidural with gas and air back up that is Blogger. I worry that blog baby number 3 wont love me like a Wordpress blog baby would have. There will be no lovely plugins and widgets for it to play with. But I will love it all the same. I know there are worries that blog baby number 2 is being left alone to play by itself. But it will be fine once I get blog baby number 3 to feed itself and then I will be able to spend more time with it. If anyone has any tips on "reblogging" I would be very grateful.

Wordpress battered my brain and I just gave up. I just wanted to get on with blogging and making nice banners and the fun stuff like that. Plugins, widgets, css, and all that was just all too much like math for my liking. I'm a Blogger blogger and that's the way I'll stay until a bigger blogger shows me what to do.

I'm torn between a number of different names for the 3rd blog child. It will be a "grown up" blog with no swearing or bad photoshopped pictures that will cover the goings on in the Irish Hospitality Industry. My intention is that in time it will be a one stop shop for customers and those who work in the industry. Or it will kill me, whatever comes first.

So help an exhausted father of 2 and a bit blogs and vote for a name from the list in the poll for my new soon to be born blog child number 3. I can't promise I will use it, but I will consider it! If you think of something better leave it in the comments. I'm off to sleep now.......

...or not.

Planning a late supper?

Now that's a late supper
Lamb and mash are not...

I served eight people on Monday night. Four tables of two, eight whole customers. It wasn't that I was being a lazy waiter, slumped over the bar reading the random flotsam that ends up there, no there just wasn't anyone in! Nothing booked, nothing to do. It was duller than an Adam Sandler movie but less annoying, but only just. I was on my own with nothing to do.

Now I could have cleaned the bar shelving, but I couldn't have been bothered. I could have written out the booking sheets for October but I couldn't have been mithered to do so. I considered re-stocking the napkins, but the thought of all that folding made me queasy. The fireplaces could have been polished, but weren't, the same goes for the window ledges. If there had been a pillow to hand I would have snuggled up (or something more manly) and gone for a few zzzzzzzzzzzzz's. Having 2 blogs under a year old and a third (yes a third) on the way takes it's toll on the older blog-father. But alas there was no pillow anywhere to be found.

So instead I paced the floor like a caged tiger (or something less macho) looking for someone to talk to. The first table of the night were Belgians and as a result dull. Trying to start a conversation with them was like trying to start the space shuttle, that is to say, very difficult. There would be no Irish/Belgian waffle tonight.

The second table started well, two ladies in Belfast on business. One was English the other Russian. We seem to attract a lot of Russians for some reason. They flirted with my attention for a while asking all the right questions about the food and post "troubles" Belfast and how lucky we all are now. Once they had sucked all the "feel good" information out of me they went back to their own conversation and I was back to being their camel again. I have to remind myself sometimes that they didn't come in to have a chat with the waiter.

Luckily enough the next table arrived a few minutes later. Again business types, one American lady (k-ching, good tip), her dinner partner was a local chap. Again I recanted the specials and had the usual conversation about how wonderful life is now that we don't blow things up anymore, "building up, not blowing up" is my usual line. And again I was cast aside in favour of various faxes and e-mails that were produced before I could even get the wine glasses off the table.

Let me in people. Let me amuse you with funny anecdotes about stuff and things. I can be more than your camel.

Then the last table arrived. I, without fail, always hate the last table of the night. Especially when they book 20 minutes before they arrive. Twenty minutes isn't a booking, a-hole. The last hour before last orders is normally the most tense of the night, but even more so if it has been quiet. You could be home in an hour drinking tea and checking your stats for the day or you could be storming home 3 hours later to crack open the Bombay Spice. The kitchen monkeys hang around the bar area making threats to ensure that you let no one else in. There is some sort of shitty karma that takes place in the last hour because the more you fret about someone arriving the greater the chance that someone will.

Arriving just before last orders doesn't make for a great meal. Let me fill you in on what happens if you arrive just before closing.

Everyone hates you, from the waiters to the chefs to the kitchen porter. And we are calling you names, we are calling your dinner partner names. You are now Mr & Mrs Cuntish Mc Latey. If you can, you should check the booking sheet on the way out to see it written on it. It will have the time you arrived beside it and will be circled very heavily so that the person in the morning can laugh/share in the waiters pain.

The waiter wont make any effort to talk to you. You can make all the jokes and wise cracks you want they will fall on deaf and uninterested ears. You were late because yo were at the hospital visiting your sick grandmother? We don't care. Car broke down? We don't care. And don't even dare to remark about being the only people in the restaurant. This will just wind the waiter up more and that's not smart. The waiter right now is at Defcon 2 (out of 5) and you really don't want to push him over the edge.

Forget about enjoying a wonderful meal made with equal dashes of love and flavour. It ain't going to happen. If it can be zapped in a microwave it will be zapped in a microwave. And if it has to go on the char-grill it will have about 2 or 3 very heavy pans put on top to speed the cooking process. The chef had planned to be stoned, naked and playing X-box live with someone in Tulsa by now and you are delaying this.

If you are in any way smart or intuitive you will have picked up on the negative waves (Moriarity-name the film). So when the waiter asks you if everything is okay, you should swallow whatever is on your fork and say "Yes". By now the chefs have gone and everything in the kitchen is switched off save for the dishwasher and the radio. The kitchen porter is still there so if you need something changed or decide you want another portion of vegetables that's who is going to do it. He doesn't wash himself, he doesn't really know what he is doing and mopping the floor is his greatest skill. So think wisely before you open your mouth.

When the waiter comes to clear your plate, which he will do the moment you put the last bit of food in your mouth, he will ask you if you enjoyed your meal. You can say anything you want it doesn't matter as he doesn't care. You could reply be reciting the opening lines from "THE HOBBIT" and the waiter will still say "Great, you want anything else?" If the next words out of your mouth aren't "Check please" then you have just pushed the Defcon 1 button and opened the secret door to waiter hell. Well done you.

Defcon 1 is when the waiter doesn't care about getting sacked. He has just given up and is planing his next career move. As you sit there imagining your hot chocolate cake and double espresso listen out for things getting kicked and smashed and lots of swearing. That's your waiter throwing a massive tantrum. You want some pudding? No problem the chefs have all gone so the waiter has to do it. Your chocolate cake will reach a temperature not thought possible outside of a nuclear facility. Your coffee will be made from the scrapings from the inside of the bin. They will almost literally be dropped on your table with the bill at the same time.

And if you think by not tipping that you will have got your own back on the waiter think again. He just wants you to leave. You were the table that held him back from a lovely cup of tea.

So the moral of the story is threefold, don't arrive 15 minutes before closing, don't out stay your welcome, and if you do arrive for a late meal ask what the quickest thing to make is and get the check as soon as you are done.

Smart arse just got smarter, and arsier (it's a word)

Cow: contains blood

"Oi, excuse me waiter there is blood pouring out of my steak!"

"Eh, no there isn't sir", replies the devilishly handsome if rather cuddly waiter.

"WHAT! ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND? LOOK, THERE, ON THE PLATE, BLOOD EVERYWHERE!" The exasperated customer splashes the "blood" with his fork in an attempt to prove his point. But it's a futile act as the waiter rather confidently (smugly) counters with,

"That's not blood. When this particular moo cow was pulled from the field, stuffed into a lorry, moved to the slaughter house, stunned, and then cut from head to toe all most all of the blood was drained out. That sir, is myoglobin. That's MY-O-GLO-BIN sir. It stores oxygen in the muscles sir."

His face contorted with rage and going red as all the globin, both myo and hemo rushed to his face the customer let loose with, "YOU...WHAT...CHEEKY LITTLE BASTARD...I'LL MYO-FUCKING-GLOBIN YOU. GET ME A MANAGER!!!!"

One day I'll use that snippet of information, one day soon....

I gleaned this information from "What Einstein Told His Cook" by Robert L. Wolke. It shall be the basis of many a great come back. So now the smart arsed waiter can get even smarter, and arsier...Brilliant!

Steak: does not contain blood

Strokes are funny (apparently!)

the winner!

Well done to John Cav from The New(is) Journalism, he wins the first icanhaswayterz? capshun competishon! Who would have thought strokes could be so funny? 26% of you think they are! You are all very sick puppies.....

John wins a MOO STICKER BOOK of icanhaswayterz? wayterz, shefs, and bar peepl! Want one? Enter the next competishon which starts tomorrow!

"Everybody's Talking At Me

Manuel's magic muffs

"Here mate, check the huge Walter Mittys on yer woman!" said the taxi man driving me to work. It was early in the morning and I wasn't in the mood for a "we're all blokes here" sort of conversation. It as followed up with "I had this woman in the car the other night, fucking great she was, she didn't have enough money for the fare......" I switched off. I didn't want to hear anymore of his made up drivel. And he was smelly, and looked like a gargoyle with a carbuncle for a nose. Lies, lies, lies.

I should have said, "Shut the fuck up, you are full of shit and your lies are ruining the start of my day. The last time you "had" a woman was in your dreams, now fuck up and drive." But I didn't, obviously.

"Now, do you see that service charge? We aren't going to pay that, Okay?" said the nasty little woman on the phone who was booking her office Christmas party. Well done madam, you can look forward to some wonderful service come the 7th of December. And some festive "extras" in your soup as well. Happy Christmas, scrooge. Oh and get this, she let slip that her company are paying £25 per person towards the meal, leaving her with less than £10 to add on! Mean, mean, mean.

I should have said, "Listen here, you tight fisted scrooge with a void where your shame should be, catch a bloody grip to yourself. Not paying the service charge? Then take your tight ass else where as I don't need or want your business. I can fill your spot ten times over between now and the 1st of December." But I didn't, obviously.

"You want to try it on? You sure you don't want to try it on?" said the skinny sales assistant, who probably never asked his mother for a second helping of anything at the dinner table, as he sized me up and down. It wasn't that he was sizing me more than he was judging me. Was he calling me fat? Cheeky bastard. Let me tell you if XL doesn't fit me then I'm going on a diet for sure. I'm cuddly and proud! Cuddly, cuddly, cuddly.

I should have said, "Are you calling me fat?" And then broke down in tears wailing about glandular problems and not having been breast fed as a child. That would have put a downer on his perky day. But I didn't, obviously.

"A reservation? Why would I need a reservation on a Thursday night?" said the sneering and patronising man in Farahesque slacks and and bad sports jacket just before he was dumped into the section that time forgot. Wait there and think about booking next time asshole. Dick, dick, dick! (How many dicks is that? A lot! ) Name the film

I should have said, "Because without a reservation you aren't getting in. Now take your bad sports jacket and appalling slacks and fuck off to KFC you Moe Sizlack look-a-like son of a bitch. But I didn't because putting him in the section that time forgot was just as bad.


"Try the wine? When do I get to try the waiter?" said the frisky 50-something lady in front of me and her giggling friends. I went very red and said "eh um er um ha ha ha." Which reads much better than it sounded. In 20 seconds I went from being a cool, sophisticated, professional waiter (Ha!-LMM) to being a 14 year old teenage boy being asked if he had a girlfriend by his dad's mates! Not cool!!

I should have said, "eh um er ha ha ha." Because that is the correct answer to that situation. What the hell else would you say?

I'm off to sit in a darkened room and think about puppies and ice cream and Eric Cantona and all the things that make life liveable.

Competition Finalists!

Well done to all the finalists. It wasn't easy to narrow them down to the final few from the thousands of entries. (1000's? Lies- LMM) The winner will be decided by a poll vote. Voting closes at 9am on Saturday morning, that's Belfast time by the way. And the winner shall be announced a couple of hours later, when I get out of bed! If there is a tied vote Little Miss Manuel shall cast the deciding vote. She is open to bribes and can be bought for a very small amount. (no I can't, I have expensive tastes-LMM) Next competition will start on Sunday. Click the picture to get to icanhaswayterz?

AND GET VOTING!

Where the hell are the people from Health and Safety?

eh um er

can I get a shake to go....

In the long before time (about 5 years ago) I used to be the manager of a coffee shop. In many respects it was a joyous place and a joyous time, I could play the music that I liked, service was easy, and the coffee was great. The guy that owned the place was a mentalist of massive proportions. He was a great big fan of the Bolivian Marching Powder and this could have positive and negative effects on him, and more importantly, me. His mood could change a hundred times an hour. One minute he was laughing and coming up with ridiculous drinks, the worst being the mint tea cappuccino abomination, the next he would be throwing people out the moment they finished their drink. He once gave a lifetime ban to a 6 month old child and by implication the child's mother. Honestly the child got barred first then the mother. Very funny at the time, in fact it is still funny now.

You never quite knew where you stood with him, he was as paranoid as Joe McCarthy and as strung out as Pete Doherty, which made me paranoid. You would get to work at 4 to find the staff practically in tears as he played the same bloody song over and over again for an hour. But he was generous to a fault, he would close up for no reason and take everyone to the bar, he would lend you money and never ask for it back, and he was a bit of a genius when it came to new ideas, mint tea cappuccino's aside. Happy days, strung out, but happy days. But by the end I wanted to fire bomb the place...

Anyway that's not the point of this post. As I said I was the manager of this coffee shop. It was like being the one sane person in the asylum. The staff would look to the owner when I was going off about time keeping or being stoned at work or the state of their clothes. He would tell me to chill which wound me up. The next day he would have a go at me for the state of the staff! There was no uniform as such but jeans and black t-shirt were what was expected. But this was very loosely interpreted by the staff. This wasn't really a problem as long as it was tidy. Some of the girls interpreted it very very loosely, jeans hung low on the waist, vest tops that made me blush, and flip flop shoes (I think you kids call em thongs in the States). The revealing tops and g-string exposing jeans weren't my problem but the shoes were.

Those fun time kids from the Health and Safety department from Belfast City Council always got very sweaty about open toed shoes. And it makes sense, hot milk and water gets spilled on a regular basis behind the counter of a coffee shop. But would the ladies listen to me? No, no they fucking didn't. I was on at them all the time about it. They would just turn to the boss and he would tell them it was okay. He as a fan of the half dressed barista, female barista that is. Time after time I would arrive to work to find that he had hired another stunning beauty from some piss poor Balkan State. It mattered not a jot to him if they had any experience or even if the could speak English. As long as they looked hot it was all that mattered. Good grief we even had a reputation for it! Every so often I had to sack a few of them behind his back. It became the cull of the pretty'.

giddy up?
what the fuck?

So you can imagine my shock and disbelief the other night when I was searching the internet for pictures of baristas [insert guffawing remark here] when I came across Cowgirls Espresso! Cowgirls Espresso is a coffee kiosk chain who's baristas wear, well they wear very little! What would Belfast City Council's Health and Safety department make of these ladies in their heels and bikinis? Seriously what the fuck is that all about? Is this 1971? Is this all we can come up with to sell more coffee? And political objections aside coffee machines are nasty snarling pieces of kit that spray hot jets of water at you for no reason. It just doesn't make any sense! God my previous boss would have loved that franchise! And they aren't the only ones using sex to sell coffee, if the ladies of Cowgirls Espresso don't froth your latte (genius) then you could try Moka Girls or Bikini Espresso (after a LOT of searching they don't appear to have an internet presence) or The Sweet Spot or Natte Latte.

Cowgirls Espresso have theme nights, Military Monday, Cow Girl Tuesday, Bikini Wednesday, Pedophile Thursday sorry that's not right I mean School Girl Thursday, and Fantasy Friday. No mention of what happens at the weekend, maybe Germaine Greer Saturday and dress up Sunday? Hey I'm not criticising a woman's chosen career but this seems to me to be right out of the town, if not the time, of Bedrock. And honestly if they don't catch a cold they will burn their toesies! It's all a bit icky....

Manuel approved
sensible shoes....

Reasons to phone in sick

Manuel's favourite table
an empty table...

Five groups of customers that make me want to get sick (So I don't have to go to work)

6. Tax officials (HM Revenue). No sense of humour at all. I had a table recently of tax officials for dinner and as an ice breaker I though I would ask them if they wanted any cheap cigarettes or DVD's. Okay it's not Bill Hicks but worth a giggle I thought. Not a peep except one smart arse who asked me if I had declared my tips recently. Cunt, that's just not funny. The rest of the meal was served in silence.

5. Estate Agents. These are the main exponents of cuff link wars. They dress flash, bad pin stripe suits, garish shirts and ties, and clunky bling type cuff links. Insecure? I think so! They dress flash, act flash, order flash, and tip flash. I'm not complaining about getting the tip, it's the way they do it, loud and patronising, "Hey my man, that's for you!" as they stuff a fiver into my sweaty paw. It's almost always followed up with a wink. They are manageable in small groups, tables of one or two. Anything more than that and they revert to chimps in a zoo. Unless the alpha male is there they spend the whole meal trying to out do each other. Lads, just get yer dicks out and see who has the biggest eh. Then we can get on with lunch. Jesus wept!

4. Bankers. are wankers. (It's like Wordsworth has risen from the dead eh?) Too cocky by half. And they act like spoilt brats when they are out for the night. They lose all sense of decorum and the ability to say please and thank you. If you don't believe me read this posting from a while ago.

3. Recruitment Consultants. Cheap, cheap cheap, and have no sense of humour. In many respects they are like teachers. They are full of their own self importance and never stop working even whilst they eat. Their phones never stop! They get up during their meal and do that pacing back and forward whilst talking on their mobiles thing. Gets right on my tits. SIT FUCKING DOWN, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND EAT. I like to make a point of putting the jug of water (so fucking cheap) on top of their faxes and e-mails. It really winds them up. Quality...

2. Other waiters, bar staff, and managers. Ohhh controversial choice. Whilst they may be King Dick in their own restaurants, they are just another stumbling block delaying my route to the taxi home. People who work in the business fall into two camps, those who want you to know they work in the business and those who don't. By telling you that they work in the business they hope to put you under pressure and are letting you know that they cant be bullshitted. Is that right? We shall just see...Managers from other restaurants always try to find fault with the food or they ask for a drink they know we don't stock. Catch a fucking grip you power crazed insecure arse wipes. I keep myself to myself when I'm out. Well you wouldn't have expected anything else from em would you. (What about writing about them on your blog eh-LMM)

1. Teachers. They are unbearable to serve. I know you know this already. I've mentioned my "love" of serving teachers, here, here, here, and here. Have I got unresolved school issues? I think so...

I know I said five but I have given you six. That's me, always giving that little bit extra. Tomorrow, 5* tables I actually enjoy serving.

*May not be 5....

FATE eh? It was gonna happen

mmmmmmmmmouse burger
want one....

This is the cover of FATE MAGAZINE'S latest edition. For those of you not blessed enough to live in Belfast, FATE MAGAZINE is a local entertainment guide. They are apparently the number 1 entertainment guide for Belfast and Northern Ireland. I think this means they give away more copies than any of their rivals. It is full of the usual bar and restaurant reviews, features on local people of "interest" and advertising features. It is available in most bars and restaurants for free. Well it was. The latest issue has some people, namely restaurateurs, bar owners and chefs all in a tizzy.

As you can see it has a rather graphic photograph of someone about to eat a burger, but wait, don't eat it! THERE'S A MOUSE IN IT! WOW THAT WAS CLOSE! The article is about Belfast City Council's Scores on the Doors initiative. I don't need to explain this again as I covered it ages ago. By the way, my restaurant scored 3 stars, and everybody was rather pleased. Then we remembered that we are opposed to the system and went back to pretending not to care.

Any hoo, some local operators aren't having it. And have taken the hump with FATE MAGAZINE and have pulled the offending edition out of their bars and restaurants. The bins of many restaurants and bars were over flowing with copies of the magazine still in their delivery wrappers.

Whoops, a bit of an own goal for a magazine that relies solely on advertising revenue. The article itself is pretty inoffensive apart from this overly dramatic line,

"Let's face facts, we live in a climate of fear about the quality and sustenance of available foodstuffs [and it] is an issue which has become markedly more acute in recent times."

A climate of fear? Not sure about that. There wasn't much fear in evidence on Saturday as my customers scoffed like condemned men and women enjoying one last meal. Restaurateurs are sensitive about the whole food safety issue. And they have every right to be, just as the public has the right not to have a mouse in their burger. Has that ever really happened? Apart from that famous urban myth regarding KFC and it's mouse/chicken burger. I still don't think there is a need for the Scores on the Doors system. If the council are doing their jobs then bad and unsafe restaurants etc will be dealt with accordingly and the public will be kept safe.

I liked the magazine cover and the maggot pizza on the inside. They were well done. Maybe they shouldn't have put such a graphic picture on the cover and alienate the very people that keep them going. Fate eh? It was going to happen....

mouse bottom not available in the restaurants and bars of Belfast
(maybe in Larne though...)

Subscribe in a reader and get "I can has wayterz?" everyday or you'll get more than a mouse in your next burger!

Competition time (with actual prizes too)

Oh hai, this is the first I CAN HAS WAYTERZ? Competishon! You excited? You should be, there's prizes! Well there's one actual prize and a pat on the back (virtual pat on the back that is) for second and third place. Just caption the picture below. The best caption wins an I CAN HAS WAYTERZ? MOO STICKER BOOK. Email your submishon to I HAS SUBMISHON or you can leave it in the comments section and one of the I CAN HAS WAYTERZ caption monkeys will do the hard work for you!

rumours that Manuel is the waiter second from the left
are totally unfounded....

Subscryb in a reeder and get wayterz everyday!

WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

all waiters have a voodoo doll
and big pricks
(for the doll!)

This week had been fun, well it had been okay, let's not get carried away. The public weren't dishing out the cash like JD Rockefeller's but they weren't being tight asses either. No major dramas, no nights worthy of a blog post either. And that's all very fine with me. Not every night can be a Saturday night.

Tonight, for the most of it, had been another one of those nights. I had a table of 15 estate agents, a couple of tables of 2, some chatty tourists, and two tables of 1, awh. I should have got those two together. And all of these had been enjoyable tables to serve. The estate agents I could live without, but I got through it without having to resort to threats of violence or sarcasm. Sarcasm is the finest weapon in the waiters armoury, well that and the threat of spitting in your soup. It's just a threat mind, but one we hold in reserve for special occasions.

Then a rather exasperated gentleman appeared at the door. Behind him were 6 other exasperated and unhappy looking gentlemen. The first sight they got of the restaurant was one of full tables everywhere, this appeared to add to their unhappiness and before I could get a word out one of the guys at the back was tugging at the lead guy telling him it was hopeless. It was all very Mary, Joseph and the donkey.

Turns out they had been double booked in their chosen restaurant. Oh that's not good, not good at all. I would get beaten to a very bloody pulp if I did the same thing. Not that I would of course. The lead chap was pleading with me for a table. He was entertaining clients from Scotland and the whole double booking fiasco was fucking things up for him. He tugged on my elbow and moved me to the side out of earshot of his guests, he told me I was his only hope, that he needed me to save the night, that he would "look after" me if I could just get him a table.

I felt for the guy. He was clearly under pressure. So I scanned the booking sheets for a bit of space, none was obvious though. So I sent them to the bar and told them their table would be ready in 20 minutes. Now this was a bare faced porky pie. I had no idea when or where I was getting him a table from. But as I say I felt for him, and the promise of being "looked after" was more than enough to get me motivated. Tables were shuffled about, chairs mismatched (but better than no chair), and one table was politely urged to get the fuck out. Two and a half hours for two main courses and glasses of house red is long enough.

The table was seated and the chap was delighted. He was back to being the big lad again, as opposed to looking like the guy who couldn't book a table in a restaurant. Now the restaurant was busy and the Princess and I had to double up on this table in order to get it done. This isn't something I like doing but if we have to double up it may as well be the Princess and I. You get 2 quality waiters for the price of one. And without sounding like a pig, men react better when they are served by a woman. Male waiters who serve men will be called gay. Female waiters that serve women will be called whores. It's a very sad fact of life.

But between the Princess and I we crafted out a nifty little performance for these guys. Lots of wise cracking between each of us that had the lads laughing. The lead chap was relaxed and enjoying himself. His earlier worries seemed to have disappeared. Now that's what I call a job well done. The food arrived on time and was quality, real quality in fact. I told the kitchen so as well. And I really don't like having to do that. They drank good wine as recommended by me, they ordered 2 more bottles on top of the initial 2.

If I wasn't so fat, and white and so totally uncoordinated I would have high fived someone. The Princess and I were good. My high five's normally end up with the intended recipient getting a busted nose or a stray finger in the eye. Cool, I am not.

The lads ate and drank until they could do no more. We left them to their business. After a half hour or so the lead chap asked for the bill. I presented it and again checked if they were happy with their night. They were very happy. There was lots of faux attempts by some of the others to get the bill from the lead guy but it was all smoke and mirrors. He would be paying and that was that. And pay he did. And he shook my hand. And he patted my back. And he winked at the Princess. And he said he would be back with the family some day soon. And he told me he was glad the other restaurant had double booked him. And then, you can see where this is going can't you, and then he fucked off out of the restaurant. WHERE WAS MY "LOOK AFTER YOU" MONEY?

We were besides ourselves with anger. A mop bucket was kicked, threats of violence issued, karma spells were cast. It's not the first time I have been stiffed and it wont be the last. But fuck me what is it with people? WHAT FUCKING MORE DO YOU WANT? Answers on the poll at the top of the page thank you.

Gotta go, I have a voodoo doll in the shape of a businessman to finish....

Answers on the poll please.

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Thanks....

What's he building in there?

Manuel is busy,
busy doing man things...

Spent two bloody hours yesterday chasing up deposits for Christmas bookings. It's going to be a busy one. Oh sweet Jesus it's gonna be tough. The bookings are coming in quicker than my fat stubby fingers can cope with. I asked the Glorious Leader for a secretary, he told me to quit whining and get on with it.

People come up with some tremendous excuses for not having their deposits in on time, "I was on my way when I got side tracked in town and then I ran into a friend who I hadn't seen in ages and we ended up going for a drink and that was Thursday and I wasn't in town on Friday as I don't work Friday's as I'm on a job share with Maggie she works on a Friday not me so that's why I didn't get down last week." Said the far too jolly by half secretary who didn't appear to breathe as she spoke to me. To which I replied in my driest most monotone voice, "Yeah, so will you be bringing it this week then?"

Then you get the panicky apologists, "Oh my God, I'm so so sorry. I can't believe I forgot about that. Are we going to lose our table? I'm so sorry. You must think I'm awful. I really am so sorry...." You can hear them searching round their desks for the cash or a stress ball or the Prozac/Valium. I like them panicky. You know they are going to arrive on time and have all their cash sorted in advance and be good little customers. And that's what I need, good little customers who do what they are told.

Christmas isn't about the quality service and all that, it's about as close as you can get to working in a factory without actually having to. It's also about surviving. Christmas past is full of the weak and the dead who never made it past the first weekend. I promised myself no tears, they weren't strong enough to cope with 5 sittings, I don't need to feel bad. You can expect to hear more and more about Christmas over the next few months. It becomes all embracing from now on in. New girl 1 asked the Princess and I what all the fuss was about Christmas and why were we always talking about it. She was quick to understand the brevity of the 4 weeks of December when we simply replied "Cash, lots and lots of cash." Young un's they catch on quick.

Anyway I'm up to my neck in it this week with Christmas stuff and the top secret "Operation NOT ENOUGH HOURS IN THE DAY FOR THIS CRAP BUT I'M GONNA DO IT ANYWAY." More on that to follow. Posting may be light for a day or so, it might not be either, who can possibly say? Oh and if you haven't booked your office's Christmas party yet, get it done soon or it will be Pizza Hut's all you can eat buffet. MMMMMM festive.

I leave you with the Tom Wait's classic "What's he building in there?" or if you prefer, the live version.

Another lonely Tuesday night

Avon, Manuel, and Stringer

just another night in the crib...

Little Miss Manuel and I were having a little chat the other day about what to do on my next night off. It was a strange conversation, not in what she suggested but how I reacted. Lets play it back. Bear in mind I'm a 34 year old white man from Ireland who works as a waiter and has never released a rap album or wears excessive amounts of gold or God forbid baggy sweat pants.

"Hey honey I was thinking that you are off on Tuesday night and that we should do something."

I grunted a mild form of interest. I really am a prize catch ladies!

She persevered, bless, "We could get an early dinner somewhere then maybe go to the movies. You can pick. Then back to yours for something sweet..." I know what you are thinking I was thinking the same but she followed up with "...or even some nice cheese and crackers."

My response was, and I swear to God this is verbatim...

"Yo hon, it ain't gonna play like that. I ain't leaving the crib on T day for no fricking movies or some shit like that. You feel me?"

As soon as I said it I knew I was a dead man.

"You feel me? Sorry did you say You feel me? and what the fuck is it ain't gonna play like that?"

And before I could apologise and explain myself she hit me with, " Catch a bloody grip to yourself. You can sit in your crib on your bloody own on T day you dick."

And then she whacked me on the head with the movie guide. I really did feel that.

It's not my fault though, well not directly. I've been watching the greatest TV show since well forever, THE WIRE. I've been watching 2 sometimes 3 episodes a night. It really is that good. You cant help yourself get really fully submerged into it. The plots are great, the script better, and the characters fantastic. I know this is nothing new to you Americans out there but I've only discovered it recently thanks to Medbh and the second best thing on TV Charlie Brooker. If you don't believe me, and why would you, then watch a clip from Brooker's Screenburn show were he talks about THE WIRE. Genius.

If you are like me and you can't be mithered looking for it on the Geek Channel then seasons 1 to 3 are available on DVD. You may also be able to get it through other more nefarious means but I really couldn't comment on that.

You feel me dawg?

Bravado? Machismo? Not me I'm afraid. (Very afraid!)

from Austin@onefortheroad
more below, quality.....

"I'm not doing it."

"YES YOU ARE!"

"I'm not. Forget about it. Please just take me down."

So there I was, at just after 12pm on a Sunday lunchtime, standing on a tiny cage that was being dangled over the River Lagan from a bloody great big crane. I DID NOT sign up for this. I was more than happy to collect money for charity, when it comes to badgering people for cash I'm your man. When it comes to daredevil acts of bravado and machismo I am very definitely not your man. I see myself in more a supporting role on such days. You need your coat held, I'll hold it. You need a photograph taken as you bungee for the disabled, I will be to capture your Kodak moment. I am not a jumper, a zipper, or a diver. I wont play football, pool, or even poker. These facts are not new. I have always known this.

With all this in mind, how for the love of Jesus did I find myself in a bloody basket/cage very high off the ground with 3 young crazy/zany people and one jolly Scottish person? I try very hard to avoid both jolly and zany people at all times. The event was titled "ZIP ACROSS THE LAGAN". The clue was in the title. What did I think I was going to be doing, paddling a canoe (Which by the way I wouldn't do either). But the jolly Scottish chap was having none of my protestations.

"C'mon now laddie, you are a man aren't you? Stop all this nonsense, you wont impress the girls like this." As if I fucking cared about impressing the ladies, and questioning my manhood was a non-fucking-starter too. I just wanted down on sweet sweet terra firma again.

"I cant do this, honestly it ain't gonna happen"

"All right lad, stand to the side and let this man go first."

If I hadn't been so terrified I would have deep fried Jock McTavish's Mars bar at that point. And stand to the side? WHERE?

So the first guy went and it was all very impressive I'm sure. I saw nothing as I was busy focusing on my shoes.

"Here laddie hold this." says the jolly Jock bastard handing me a rope.

"Eh what am I holding?"

" What the fuck...."

"Of you go, 1,2,3" and with that the jolly fat bastard kicked me off the basket.

"Ah Jesus Christ. I'm gonna get youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu."

My threat was pointless but half of Belfast heard it. And within seconds it was over.

Now I'm very glad I raised some decent money for a cancer charity. But when people say "Well aren't you glad you done it? and the even more pointless " You over come your fears! Well done!" I just want to poke them in the eye and say "NO I'M NOT FUCKING GLAD I DONE IT. NOT GLAD AT ALL. AND MY FEAR OF HEIGHTS IS VERY FUCKING FIRMLY HERE TO SAY YOU BASTARDS."

And I did. Three ironic cigarettes and 2 double espressos later I was just about right again. I shall never ever do that again.



Cheers Austin, bloody love em. Keep em coming folks....

Manuel versus the Ebola virus*

what doesn't kill Manuel
makes Manuel stronger....

Friday lunchtime and I'm not feeling too good. I have been chundering all night and have a case of the "Eartha Kitts". Not good, not good at all. I had to go home, so I approached the Glorious Leader....

"I'm sick, gonna have to go home."

"Sick? What's wrong with you?"

"Ebola virus."

"Ebola virus? Ebola hemorrhagic fever is potentially lethal and encompasses a range of symptoms including vomiting, diarrhea, general body pain, internal and external bleeding, and fever. Mortality rates are generally high, ranging from 50% - 90%, with the cause of death usually due to hypovolemic shock or organ failure. And you have it, the Ebola Virus?"

"Yup, Ebola Virus. What else could take down a stone hard warrior like me? Has to be the Ebola Virus."

"Whatever. You think you will survive through the night for work tomorrow?"

"Yeah a bit of soup and I'll be right as rain. There's no Ebola Virus that can kill me."

"Get out."

"See you tomorrow."

First day off sick in years.

*may not have been the Ebola Virus