Not so Rosie Cheeks anymore - An Obituary

This picture was actually painted by Warhol when Rosie was a young woman

It is with very deep regret and upset that I must announce the death of fellow blogger Rosie Cheeks (58) who blogged at The Spanish Exposition. Rosie was a vivacious but somewhat cynical writer. She would spent most of her time blogging about her constant battle with the manager of her local Supermac's fast food restaurant where she was a daily customer. Everyday she would arrive into the fast food joint with her 8 kids in tow. Her problems with the manager, Keith (22), stemmed from her insistence that she and her kids get preferential treatment as they used the store 3 times a day, 4 at the weekend. She wrote nasty, personal attacks on Keith, the last being, "Keith from Supermac's enjoys granny porn." This was of course completely untrue. When asked how he felt about Ms Cheeks death Keith replied, "Dead? Really? Can I see the body? That's fucking great. Do you wanna bacon burger and coleslaw chip? It's on me."

Rosie described herself as being a "cynical romantic" on her blogger profile. And this was indeed true. She took a new lover the way most of us take breakfast. But she never settled down with any of them. She left a string of broken hearts in her wake, and at it. She settled instead for the company of a troupe of Scandinavian Hip Hop artists who she let live in her house in exchange for doing odd jobs and performing once a week for the amusement of her and her kids. A performance that the rappers began to hate giving. "They would make us do hip hop versions of things like The Fields of Athenry and Jimmy Cracked Corn. It was humiliating schnizzle" said MC Sven. "Yeah but we will miss her, suppose we have to find somewhere else to live now, damn it."

Rosie didn't work. She maintained her lifestyle through the maintenance provided by the many father's to her 8 children. Rosie always made sure to choose men with gold cards and at least a BMW 4 series. She also supplemented this income with her own mail order business selling bars of chocolate and sweets no longer available in shops. She had the largest stock of Marathon bars and Opal Fruits in Europe. This business took a knock when Cadburys reintroduced the Wispa into the market. She was very upset by this the Wispa had been her top seller. She reacted very badly and tried to blockade Cadbury's local distribution centre. She chained herself and her kids to the gates of the factory but the protest fell apart when little Rosie Junior(14) remembered that it was two for one on curry chips at Supermacs. The family loved their curry chips.

Rosie fell out with her family back in 87, a rift that was never healed. This was in part due to her affair with Simon Climie from the popular pop duo of the times Climie Fisher. The family had always been Duran Duran fans and had travelled together all over Europe to see them in concert. Rosie though refused to go preferring the soul inspired easy pop of Climie Fisher. This was typical Rosie, always one to do her own thing. Mr Fisher was unavailable for comment. Her extended family said they wouldn't be attending either as there was a Duran Duran marathon on VH1.

Rosie will be missed by all who knew her, well not all, but by a lot of people. She is survived by her 8 children, Posie (36), Mosie (32), Josie (30), Sosie (19), Rosie Jr (14), Simon (12), Kosie (10), and Hosie (8). And by 3 dogs, 2 fish, and a donkey named Charlie. And by a Scandinavian Hip Hop Crew called MC Sven & the Anderson's. Service is outside Supermacs on O'Connell Street, followed by coke and burgers inside with a performance by MC Sven and the Anderson's.

Obviously all this is made up, with the exception of Rosie's age (26? pffft) and affair with Simon Climie. Okay that's made up to. So who will write my obituary...........?

Possibly the greatest tip ever.....

From The BBC...

Relatives of a wealthy property owner who left most of her £10m fortune to a Chinese restaurant owner are challenging her will in the High Court.

Golda "Goldie" Bechal, who lived in Mayfair, London, died aged 89 in 2004 leaving most of her estate to friends Kim Sing Man and his wife Bee Lian Man.

But five nephews and nieces claim she was suffering from dementia when the will was made.

The Man family, of Essex, said they had had a long friendship with Mrs Bechal.

The widow's husband Simon Bechal died in 1971 and her son Peter Bechal died, aged 28, in 1974.

The Bechal family are asking a judge to rule that the will is invalid and that they should therefore inherit under an intestacy.

The judge, Sir Donald Rattee, was shown a photograph album dating back to the late sixties to counter any suggestion that the Man family did not "arrive on the scene" until the 1990s.

Penelope Reed, counsel for Mr and Mrs Man said: "It was a long-standing and very close, affectionate and loving relationship."

Counsel pointed to pictures of Mrs Bechal and her husband Simon at the opening of the Man family's restaurant - started by Mr Man's father in 1969 at a property owned by the Bechals in Braintree, Essex.

There were photos over the years of many get-togethers - at Mr and Mrs Man's own restaurant in Witham, Essex, and on holidays, at Mrs Bechal's invitation, in Jerusalem and Cannes.

"Mrs Bechal virtually became part of the family - she appears in the photographs as if she is the grandmother," said Ms Reed.

Counsel said there was evidence to show that Mrs Bechal's relationship with her real family had deteriorated.

Ms Reed said one of the issues in the case was whether the final will, dated August 1994, was made in "suspicious circumstances".

Mr and Mrs Man, who have three children and who went bankrupt in 1992, gave evidence that they were not present when the will form was filled in, nor when the will was drawn up.

Recalling his friendship with Mrs Bechal, Mr Man said she was "an upper-class posh lady" who always dressed well and "always enjoyed her Chinese pickled leeks and bean sprouts, which I bought for her".

Asked whether he had expected to be left virtually the whole of her estate, he said he never talked to her about her will.

The hearing continues.

New standards in tipping have been set. I expect all restaurant customers to take note and act accordingly. To save hassle though could you let your kids know in advance. Scenes of court room anguish really upset me......

Fake tan versus tanning salons and other conversations

if that's the case I'l have a Pimms please...

I miss the company of men. There I've said it. Huh that feels good. I know I have said on more than a few occasions that I don't want another chap working on the floor in the restaurant but sometimes, just sometimes, I wouldn't mind having another bloke about the place. It's the conversations you see, they are getting me down. Last Thursday was particularly bad. The conversation ranged from, and I'm not making this up, babies, hair cuts, fake tan versus tanning salons, shampoo, some awful TV show (I think involving doctors or models or something like that), and ponies. Okay I made the pony thing up but I'm sure if customers hadn't arrived they would have got round to them.

Now don't get me wrong I enjoy working with the ladies, I really do. But I miss the conversations that only men have. The women I work with care not for The Mighty Boosh, or Dave TV, or how good Ronaldo's free kick was on Tuesday night. For example I might start a conversation with, "Did anyone see Curb your Enthusiasm last night?" But my co-workers will hear, "Did anyone see BLAH BLAH BLAH last night?" and instead start talking about the new guy working in the coffee shop up the road. WHAT? Somebody's friend is having a baby and we get day by day accounts of all the mothers movements. In detail. With nothing left out. I cant cope with that. I swear I am growing a uterus. I need to talk about football, and playstation and comics, and Family Guy and stuff. Just stuff. Random stuff the way men do. It's all nonsense I know, and someone's friend having a baby is so much more important but I need something just something to make me feel male.

I'm not a manly man by any stretch of the imagination. I know nothing about cars and fighting and most sports outside of football are a genuine mystery to me. What is the point of golf? But I could do with a male dynamic every so often. For fuck sake one of the women got their hair cut the other day and I noticed! Not only did I notice but I knew what had been done and said, "It looks so fabulous! It really suits you." WHAT THE SWEET HOLY FUCK WAS THAT ALL ABOUT!?! If this continues I can see myself saying things like, "Oh I saw this really lovely blouse the other day that would really bring out the colour in your eyes ooooohhhhhh."

And then there is the issue of attractive ladies in the restaurant. I can't go up to the rest and say, "Did you see the hottie on table four?" And if I do all I get back are things like, "Her roots are showing." or "That dress is from Primark." (Which I now know is a dig) or "What would LMM say if she knew you were looking at the hottie on table four?" She wouldn't say anything she would hit me! They make me feel like a lecherous creep, which I'm not! Honest! But but but ah fuck you know what I mean.......

I'm off to watch more 30 Rock (which my mate assures me is a woman's show up there with Ugly Betty. I'l watch some late night sports to balance it out)

The Top Five Things That Scare the Bejesus out of me (at work)

NOT CHUCK NORRIS
Manuel Norris!

I like to consider myself to be the Chuck Norris of the restaurant. I should clarify that statement I suppose. I'm not a gun toting macho man in a sleeveless denim jacket, they wouldn't let me wear that even if I wanted to. Which I don't. But like Mr Norris, I have no fear. It's different when I'm not working. You can just about spit on me and I will take it when I'm out of work. When I was single I would struggle to talk to women in bars and clubs. I suffered from a terrible lack of confidence, if I'm being honest I was quite shy. And in many respects I still am. But as soon as I slip into my Primark trousers and tie on my apron I become less Mr Bean-ish and a whole lot more All Action Hero like. This is my domain and I wear the crease proof trousers round here. My nuts just seem to get bigger, metaphorically speaking that is. Although I do have a pair of trousers that make them look bigger as they are a size too small, the trousers that is. My nuts are a regular size, I assume. But lets move on from my kahuna's shall we.

I can approach almost any table with confidence. I will happily drop myself into any situation, weather it be rowing customers, rowing chefs, over exuberant hen and stag parties, whatever the situation is I will wade in mouth first. No fear. The confidence gives me the ability to bullshit, which is a very handy skill for a waiter. Bullshit has saved my ass on more than a few occasions, actually I don't think I could go a whole shift without having to tell a lie to someone. Forget to order the customers mussels?, "I'm sorry for the delay madam. The mussels that the kitchen sent weren't good enough so I have sent them back." The customer thinks I am just wonderful for looking after their interest. Order a steak rare when it should have been medium? "Fuck sake lads, the bastard wants it medium now, he told me rare! Any chance you can rush it? He's a real ball buster." The kitchen thinks the customer is dick and I get out of jail free again.

But sometimes even my massive work kahuna's disappear back up inside given the right situation. There are some situations/types of people I just cant handle. Here are the top 5 things that scare the Bejesus out of me (at work) in a nifty section I call,

The Top Five Things That Scare the Bejesus out of me (at work)

The guy that does the dishes. Our most recent Kitchen Porter is called Dragon. Well he's not really but that's what I call him. He's from one of the Balkan states. Not sure which one. Maybe one of the ones that had a war or revolution or something. I'm not sure. But his name sounds like Dragon and that's scary enough for me. He is a quiet guy and seems to do a lot of thinking, deep thinking. That is unusual in the extreme in the kitchen. They are never quiet and they don't do deep thinking unless you count wondering what the best way to win at Mortal Kombat is. Or a game made this century. But that is more day dreaming than deep thinking. He is supposed to be ex-army. Others say he worked on a farm. Either way he has seen death at close quarters. And that scares me. Kp's have a difficult job. It's back breaking, hot, sweaty, unrewarding work with your arms deep in grease and left over food all day. Much like being Britney Spears personal assistant. Dragon never complains. He just gets on with it. That's not normal. Our previous Kp's moaned like, well, Britney Spears personal assistant all the time. Dragon just does it with a distant far away look. He could be seeing the horrors of his recent past or he could be just bored out of his mind with the chefs rambling on all day about who would win a fight between Predator and The Terminator. Quiet people scare me, I need noise and ramblings not deep thinkers and scary ass Kp's called Dragon....

Old French Women. Well not all of them but one in particular. She is a fucking nightmare. A wide awake nightmare. She had been coming in for months but I always managed to miss her visits. I would here horror stories from the rest about how she had this person in tears and how the chefs would refuse to cook for her. The wine was never the right temperature, or from the right country. She would say things like, "girl, come here" or when finished a course she would demand that you "take it away" no matter if her companion was finished or not. She never said any of her food was anything more that just okay, yet she came back week after week after week. Then it was my turn. She arrived in one Friday night, prompt and looking immaculate. She appeared to be nothing more than a small frail old woman. She wasn't in my section but I offered to deal with her. "Ha", I thought she looks easy. I'll have her eating garlic from my hand in minutes. "Watch how it's done ladies." I confidentially shouted as I approached her table. And watch they did... They watched me get to explain each of the wines one by one, including description, price, and year. They watched as I explained why we didn't have any vintage French Beaujolais. They watched and giggled as I became more and more frustrated with her as I put up with her snide remarks about Irish beef and how we cant make cheese. There was sweat trickling down my brow as I tried to keep my cool. Her questions were ridiculous and asked in a snooty French way that only snooty French people can ask. I was broken, she had broken me. She owned me for the next two hours. The rest laughed, whilst I cried. I never served her again.

I am scared witless about dropping & spilling. I spilt wine on a customer a few years ago and she tore strips of me in front of the whole restaurant. It still hurts. She was right to be annoyed. But she went over the top. And it was only a little bit of red wine on her black dress. But she got the fucking arm in. All the usual demands of wanting to speak to the manager and insisting that we put her child through university as recompense. She demanded that we replace the bottle of wine, a given, but then went on to ask for a reduction of the bill and wine to be added to the rest of the table, of 25. Never once did she ask is to get her dress dry cleaned which we would do in such a situation. She just saw and opportunity to get stuff for free and went for it. She was a teacher after all. But since then I have a morbid fear of dropping and spilling. I was left shaking like a fat boy outside a closed sweet shop. Spilling drink or gravy on a customer is one thing but dropping a steak knife or a hot plate on them could scar them, and more importantly me for life. I get freaked out by that thought alone. I have had a few very near misses over the years. Some customers will never know how close thy came to getting their ears loped off or their head caved in by a tray of glasses. That's why I don't/cant work with a hangover. I need all the hand to eye coordination I can muster just to ensure I don't gouge a customer's eye out.

Very attractive women scare me rigid. No pun intended. I cant cope with very attractive women. I tend to go red very easily and start dropping stuff. It's called table 27 syndrome. That's were the very attractive ladies usually end up. If I was serving their mothers I would Mr Smooth and ever so charming. But faced with their daughters I tend to get all tongue tied and forget my lines. I went to wink at a girl one night, not in a sexy way, just a cheeky wink and ended up blinking at her instead, Smooooooth I am not. I also start dropping stuff around them too. What is that all about? A very attractive woman is like kryptonite to me. All my usual powers of speech, hand to eye coordination and ability to wink just seem to vanish. Things are different when I get home though. LMM is very attractive and I have no problems winking at her.*

Sudden Nakedness. Very highly unlikely. But I do have a recurring nightmare were I am standing naked in the restaurant on a Saturday night in the middle of a full sitting. But then again that is probably the dining publics greatest fear rather than mine..........

* Sentence added in order to keep the peace you understand.

Carnival folk and seven year olds scare me

they have very special stuff at the continental market....

Is there something in the air at the moment or is the world just full of tossers. Seriously what is it with people? On Saturday I got, "What else do you do....?" The inference being that waiting tables isn't a fitting job for a chap of my age or whatever the hell he was getting at. Sunday's cheeky bastard question du jour was,

Lazy ass mother, "Excuse me, will you cut my son's meat up for him?"

Manuel: "Excuse me?"

Lazy ass mother: "He needs it cut, his beef, can you cut it up for him? Give the man your knife and fork."

Little Lord Lazy Ass: "Here man, you cut it."

Manuel: "No, no I wont be cutting your meat little man. You'll have to do that yourself or ask your mum."

And with that I walked off shaking my head. I wanted to storm back and get him to ask me again.

Little Lord Lazy Ass: "Here man, you cut it."

Manuel: "Cut your meat? Me? Cut YOUR meat? C'mere here til I tell you something you little maggot I wont be cutting your meat, spoon feeding you peas, or mashing your potatoes. You have two very useful looking hands of your own and you must be what about 11 or something?"

Little Lord Lazy ass: "Seven, I'm seven." he would reply with his top lip all a quiver and tears welling in his eyes.

Manuel: "Seven? Listen here mister seven see if you lived in Africa that piece of meat would be all you would have to eat for a month. Now take your big seven year old hands and use them to cut your own meat. Because see if you don't I'm gonna take that piece of meat and post it to another seven year old boy in Africa. Can't cut your own meat? Grow up you little shite......Oh and if you still decide you cant be mithered to cut your own food get yer ma til do it for you. She looks like she could do with taking a break from shoveling food into her pie hole. Eh?"

But I didn't, obviously.......one day though, one day....

The couple at the next table witnessed the scene and couldn't keep from laughing. I laughed later on once the shock had died down. I'm all for helping the customer. I like to think I would go out of my way to help them. No reasonable request is refused. But when it comes to lazy kids who cant be bothered to cut their own meat I'm sorry but I have to draw a line somewhere. Actually scrub that, I'm not sorry at all. Catch a bloody grip. If your kid needs help with his food that's your job not mine. Honestly the freaking cheek. What will Wednesday bring, "Here mate will ya shake that for me?"

My sister and I went for a walk around the Continental Market in the grounds of the city hall. Again the chosen continent is Europe, just like it was last time. They should rotate it like the world cup or the Olympics. Some of the food is great, the wild boar burgers, the bratwurst sausages, the olives, and the fudge. Some of the food is awful, Dutch Pancakes (?), some of the dried sausages look pornographic, and that's a compliment. The beer is said to be good, I wouldn't know. Most of the rest of the stuff is just that, stuff. And it's stuff you can live without, leather belts, ornamental roses (as opposed to action roses), stuffed and creepy looking dolls. It seems to me they have found all the stall holders from the markets you visited on holiday and forced them into the grounds of city hall. I didn't get my name on a grain of rice in Madrid and I ain't doing it here.

There is something of the night about the stall holders that work at the continental market. They remind me of the butcher in The League of Gentlemen, Hilary Bliss. There is something not quite right about their meat too. I like the market all the same. It brightens up the city and makes us all feel educated and interesting because we had some Belgian Burgers for lunch. But I'm hoping that South America gets it next time......

My wine course finishes today, not with a lovely "educated" booze up but with an exam. More questions I could live without. I haven't had to face the perils of an exam in years. The last time I had to do an exam I was using a quill and parchment. The things I get myself into. Class last week was a regular snooze along too. I fear I may have missed vital information. The class know it all was in sparkling form though, and if truth be told he was keeping me awake. His constant prattle and "Sir, sir I know I know!!" kept me from closing my eyes. It's been getting harder and harder not to laugh out loud every time he opens his mouth. Never a problem with Adam Sandler. He was gibbering on about Madeira and desserts and other crap no one cared about. The class bore that is not Adam Sandler, although he is a first class bore.

Shite, I had better go and do some revising. Now where is my waiters friend......(does opening a bottle count as revision?)

Where's the money coming from?

waiting
just waiting...

The new little puppies started this weekend. And thankfully my kingdom is secure. Well my insecurities have been assuaged, for another while at least. There are no new males in the little batch of new restaurant recruits. So it seems I didn't need to fling my shit or mark my territory. That said I do enjoy the occasional tantrum and puffing of chest. They are keen and full of enthusiasm. They'll soon get that knocked out of them. By the customers that is, not me. I did warn them about my many mood swings and penchant for a hissy fit. It's good that they know to expect it. Like those with epilepsy I should be moved to a comfortable position where I cant hurt myself or others. And it's usually over in a few minutes.

They are actually some of the best new recruits the overlords have hired in ages. One is a previous employee, strange that she applied a few weeks before Christmas. Or am I being cynical? I will also bet my my fat ass that she wont be serving as much as a single chip by January the second. This weekend was much busier than expected. And it had an effect on the new staff's training. I never got to show them how I like my coffee!

Like I said this weekend was ten ways of mental. I thought there was meant to be a calm before the storm. The old certainties are disappearing. The last week of November is meant to be a dead zone, a temporary cessation of hostilities. We go to work, the customers stay at home. They are meant to be internet shopping and scaring their children to bed with stories about Santa's naughty/nice list. They are meant to saving their money to buy huge flat screen TV's and gamestation360boxcubes or whatever they are called. There is only one pay check left until Christmas so where the hell do they get the money to come out to play all weekend? Are they going down the back of Donald Trump's sofa searching for spare change? Or maybe they aren't getting the kids presents this year. Crikey! What next, busy after St Valentines day? Fully booked on New Years Day?

It was the same in the summer too. July is normally on a par with January for being piss poor for jobbing waiters. No customers, no cash, nothing but beans on toast for me. But not this year. This year we were awash with holidaying tourists and locals who hadn't taken the traditional route to Galway or Donegal. It was strange I can tell you. The days of the "July Fortnight" are well and truly over. In many respects it's a very good thing, it's a sign of progress and political stability. On the other hand it makes it harder to plan your holidays. No waiter wants to take a week off work to discover that he missed 7 golden days of American tourists with their 20% attitude. We worship at their fat feet.

Whilst the customers are different the restaurant year flows the same year after year after year. The first six weeks are rubbish. There is lots of introspection and wondering if it's time to move on and serve another chef's potatoes. This is when a lot of restaurant staff do move on. The days are dark and dull and the nights worse. Even the tips on a good night look paltry against the worst nights in December. Greed is a terrible thing. Then all of a sudden you are taking St Valentines day bookings and you aren't gonna leave before that tip fest. The 14th also marks the time when business picks up again. The Christmas credit card bills are paid, or at least under control and people are treating themselves again.

Time trundles on and the evenings get brighter and you are feeling happier about life. The new spring menu is out and gone are the heavy winter foods. You are excited again. The phone hops with bookings for St Patrick's day and mothers day and you would be madder than a Frenchman to leave before those golden shifts. You plan your summer holiday and you couldn't possibly leave before they start. Then you are skint when you come back. You offer to work extra shifts. There are now plenty of tourists so there is plenty of money. Then the Christmas bookings start. It's all you can think, about well the cash cow bit of it that is. You gloss over the hours at work and the fights with the head chef. In your mind you can see yourself rolling around in a big pile of money, naked save for a santa hat. And you sure as shit ain't gonna leave before that.

Before you know it Halloween has come and gone and you are staring Christmas straight in the face. The fear grips you, not of the work or the customers or even the unmerciful head chef, but fear that the tips wont be as good as last year and you wont get to roll naked, save for a Santa hat, in a pile of money. And isn't that what Christmas is all about?

"With the greatest of respect..."

Customer: "So Manuel what do you do?"

Manuel: "Excuse me?"

Customer: "I mean, with the greatest of respect, this cant be your main thing. Are you studying or something?"

Manuel: "Sir, this IS what I do. Here's your soup.".......[plop]

Fucking prick. It was all I could do not to pull out my waiters friend , flick out the little knife and very slowly cut his tongue out, with the greatest of respect that is. There'd be no more condescending remarks out of him. He enjoyed the next 1 hour and forty five minutes of service in silence.......

Not dead, just sleeping....

and it's had a facelift....
click the pic

I got a submission from Mr Farty a few days ago and I was inspired to give this forgotten child of Manuel another go. I'm widening it to include the ever amusing emo kids and England Footballers (is there anything funnier?) Also as it's nearly Christmas I'm after Christmas related submissions too......

Got submission? Send 'em to me at storiesformanuel[at]gmail[dot]com

The WellDoneFillet Guide to Surviving The Office Christmas Party Part IV

DON'T BE WHACKY
or slutty, or wear fake tan or bad shoes or.....

Okay this is the last installment and in many respects it's just as important, maybe more important, than all the other wonderful life saving advice I have given you so far this week already.

There are two types of people when it comes to getting dressed for the big night out, those that do, and those that don't. Some people put the effort in and some people don't. Now I'm not saying that those who put the effort in are always the best dressed far from it. Some people can look great wrapped in a bin bag, some look like sweetie wrappers when they have spent hundreds of pounds on getting the right outfit. I have to declare that I have to put a suit load of effort into looking good. I change 5 times and inevitably end up with what I started with. It's the large tum tum you see. I'm never sure if I should try and conceal it or be proud of it. Saying that concealing it would be quite some feat. I would need some sort of magic shirt with cloaking capabilities. Anyway here is my sartorial advice for the big night out for what it's worth......

The WellDoneFillet Guide to not Looking Like a Blancmange, Serial Killer, or Lamb when you are in fact Mutton when You are out for your Office Christmas Party

Firstly it's your night out and you should want to feel relaxed and comfortable. The little Jimmy Choo shoes may look fabulous in the box but if your trotters are going to be mashed up and sore all night is it really worth it? Is it? At the same time it is great to get dressed up for a night out. But do it for yourself not for Brain/Jill in marketing in the vein hope that they see you looking a million dollars (not Canadian dollars I should add) and fall in love with you. Wear what makes you happy, with some obvious provisos. That said you are out in public, you are in a restaurant and we have some standards that must be met. So to that end all outfits made with velour are banned as are anything with a Nike/Adidas/Reebok logo. This isn't gym time.

Please, please, please go easy on the ol fake tan. I had a table of 10 ladies in my section last year and each one of them had fake tanned it to the max. It wasn't pretty. The women that opted for the heat lamp approach actually glowed not in a nice healthy way but in a radiation alert sort of way. It was like they had popped their heads into a nuclear reactor before coming out. The rest of the ladies resembled the famous Terracotta Army of the First Qin Emperor. They glowed too but it was a very patchy glow. This applies equally to both sexes as I notice some chaps are at it now too.

Now we all now you are only a young as you feel. And you may feel 18 when you are in fact 53, and that's fantastic. Saying that when I was 18 I was full of hormones, spots and teenage angst so I would really rather feel 35 than 18, well maybe not 35, 23 was good I liked being 23. But whilst you may feel 18 we all know you are 53. You cant pull off the mini skirt/cropped top look any more (sir), honest you cant. I don't say this to be cruel, I really don't. But please try and dress, if not your actual age, at least something from the same decade. This goes for the chaps too. Putting a gallon of your son's gel in your hair doesn't make you look any younger. In fact it makes you look exactly what you are, middle aged and desperate. And don't borrow his clothes either. He will hate you and more importantly you will hate yourself in the morning.

Wearing a t-shirt that says "Rebel" on it or some other shite slogan such as "Punk" or "Crazy" when you are in fact an accountant who has never done anything remotely rebellious save for stay out late one night when you were in university doesn't make you a rebel, a punk or crazy. It makes you look sad, and that's sad in a "I want to weep for" you sort of way. Please don't do it. If you want to look casual for the night just don't wear a tie with your nice M and S shirt. You will feel better for it and more relaxed. Don't wear whacky clothes. The ironic Hawaiian shirt in winter doesn't impress anyone. Santa hats are okay if you must jazz things up. But those hats with mistletoe hanging off them are sad and will make you look like a letch.

So there you are feeling fantastic, looking like something from Kay's Catalogue and you spot someone with the same outfit on. Don't for the love of Jesus get all upset and start crying and bitchy about it. It's no way for a man to act. Seriously though unless you had your outfit hand made by the orphaned children of a Parisian dress maker the chances are some one else will have been to Primark and picked the same outfit. Take comfort in the fact that you look better in it than they do. Try and avoid being in the toilets at the same time as them though. You know some people can be very cruel.

Then there is the office "weirdo", the kid that likes Radiohead and doesn't drink and always has his head in a book. He wants to look different. He wants his outfit to have people talking about him. He will say "It's just clothes man. It doesn't mean anything. You are all so self involved." and other such claptrap. But really he means, "I'm not one of you. I'm different. I like French movies." So he wears a blazer with badges on the lapel his mothers blouse, and skinny jeans and white converse shoes. And he probably spent an hour perfecting his hairs just out of bed look. He looks great, he feels great, then he spots 47 year old Gerry in accounting with the same outfit on and he sulks for the rest of the night and pulls a battered copy of an old Chomsky book and starts to read at the table. (In the hope that people notice him being weird again.) If there are one of these types at your table make him wear a party hat. There is nothing funnier than a emo kid in a party hat.

Slutty isn't sexy. God knows I've tried it, what with the backless cowboy chaps and other things. The only breasts I want to see on my tables are turkey breasts and even they are covered (in cranberry jus). Put them away, save that treat for later. I don't need to see your muffin top, your side boob, or anything else for that matter. Just cause Lindsey, Britney and Paris do it doesn't mean you have to, put your keks on! As for the lads, if I can count the hairs on your balls your jeans are too tight and you aren't impressing anyone. And from where I am standing it looks like you have a tennis ball down there Mr Inadequate.

It's winter, it's gonna be cold, chances are it's gonna rain. Bring a coat. Wow I sound like everyone's mother now. But seriously you and the entire population of Belfast/wherever are going to try and get a taxi home at the same time. You are going to be outside suffering the December weather for quite a while. Bring a coat, and maybe a scarf. You'll thank me for it.

I hope you all have a great night out. I hope you all enjoy the food and get great service (or the service you deserve) from your waiter. I hope none of you cry or go mental. I hope you look and feel fantastic. I hope the office groper leaves you alone. I hope you make it home safely, and with the one you want or back to the one you love. But mostly I hope you tip like millionaires.......

The WellDoneFillet Guide to Surviving The Office Christmas Party Part III

another Christmas fairy tale.....

This is the last installment of The WellDoneFillet guide to Surviving The Office Christmas Party. After this you are on your own. This is without a doubt the most important section, it requires strict adherence and absolutely no deviation. If you fail to follow my advice on how to avoid the walking Kleenex that is the Christmas Crier or the bag of badgers that is the Christmas Mentalist I don't really care. On your own head be it. But if you fail to follow the advice (laws) listed below you are in danger, mortal danger. My patience wears easily in December, my attitude is borderline psychotic, and I haven't got time to pick the cranberries out of your gravy.

So if you want your meal to go well stick to the rules!!! And keep this in mind, the restaurant you booked in June for your Christmas party doesn't exist any more. It has been replaced by a turkey and ham factory. Chefs are now robots (drunk robots) and waiters are now a strange cross breed between school dinner ladies and army majors.

The WellDoneFillet Guide to Not Pissing the Waiter Off Causing Him To Spill Cranberry Jus over Your Nice New Suit/Dress

Be on time. I know you were working all day and have to go home and get your Simpsons Christmas tie/little black dress (size 16) on. I know this, but I don't care. If you are booked for 5pm be there for 5pm, not 4.45pm, not 5.15pm, 5pm on the button. Time is the one thing we don't have enough of at Christmas. There are sprouts and crackers to spare. Turkey is stored in every possible fridge. We have more Champagne than your average drug dealer. Time though is in short supply. We get 15 minutes between sittings to get our sections stripped down cleaned and reset. If you are late getting on to your table you fuck everything else up for the rest of the shift. If the first table is late then every other table is late there after. Not this year friends, not this year. The clock starts from the moment your table was booked. If you ain't eating I ain't waiting. If you are late and I have to rush you off in order to get the next table in on time don't get mouthy with me. You have been warned!!!

Remember what you ordered. This is a real pain in the fat waiters ass. It slows service down to the point where you have 4 waiters standing in the middle of a section with plates of food, that's not getting any hotter, whilst half drunk civil servants try to figure out wether they ordered the turkey or the beef. I know that you were ambushed in the office one day by the party organiser whilst you were working/on facebook. They stuffed the pre-order sheet under your nose and in the style of the VC soldier in The Deer Hunter shouted "Choose Choose You must choose." I know that you ticked the boxes beside your name without paying any real attention, you just wanted the excitable lady to go away. But now you must remember what you ordered. You must clear your mind of everything and focus. There are only five options, it really shouldn't be that hard. I'm not asking to to recite War and Peace just the 3 things you ordered for Christmas dinner. And no, you cant change your mind. If you take the beef but ordered the turkey don't be getting all bitchy and whiney when I take it off you and swap it for a cold portion of turkey with a dried up cranberry jus. Deal with it Mr No Memory. I thoroughly recommend that you print individual mini menus for each person in your party. It's a nice project for the office tea boy. If you want your food hot and accurate remember what you ordered.

For God sake you are 42 years old, act like it! You are in a restaurant not a Chuck E Cheese! It is not acceptable to shout and scream at the top of your voice. "Here, here Mickey, Mickey, Mickey here, pull my cracker big fella..." Good God it's so utterly depressing. It's also not acceptable to throw food at your mate on the other table. It's not acceptable to wolf whistle at the ladies. It's so very not acceptable to wolf whistle at me and my work colleagues. Although if you are wolf whistling at me you need to stop drinking. I know it is your Christmas party and you have worked hard all year blah blah blah but that is still no excuse to act like a 5 year old. When I come to your table with food you need to shut the fuck up for a minute so we can get your food to where it needs to go. Sit down and stay seated. It's very hard to navigate my way through the restaurant if you are leading a conga around my section. If you want a cigarette and God knows I will be needing one, go outside for one. The toilets don't count. Oh and if I bring your food and you aren't there I'm just gonna leave it. I don't have time to bring it back to the kitchen to get it re heated so suck it up smokey. Be warned if you act like a five year old I will treat you like a five year old. I have a naughty step too.....

Don't believe the whiskey adverts. Or the brandy ones either. The people in those adverts look cool and relaxed as they pour glass after glass of hard liquor down their necks. THEY ARE ACTORS! And they are probably drinking cold tea. You on the other hand are not an actor, you are a mid level bank employee and as such do not have the ability to drink large undiluted quantities of Bushmills, Jamesons, Hennessy, Stoli, or any other spirit. For the love of your liver, work colleagues, and me please don't do it. You will just ruin your night. Saying that once you leave the restaurant you can get as pickled as you want. Oh and if I catch you with booze in your handbag, man bag, or pocket I will chuck your cheap ass out.

And then there's the matter of the bill. Remember when you booked your table? Remember when I quoted all the prices? Remember when I asked you if were clear on all of that and you said yes? Good. So why are you bitching now? I told you there would be a service charge, I didn't "sneak" it on. Stop being a cheap SOB and pay the fucking bill. If you want to know why it's more than you budgeted for just ask the 3 drunk chaps over there with their ties round their heads. It ain't my problem. If there was a problem with the food or service (unlikely) trust me I will sort it for you, I will make the reduction when needed. And if you stiff me I will get you back. KARMA people KARMA. It's real and I have the power......So just pay, say thank you, and take you and your lovely work colleagues and go dance the night away to The Pogues and Kirsty McColl.

To summarise, arrive on time, remember what you ordered, don't get bladdered before the soup arrives, and pay the bill with good grace and don't be cheap. And when I ask you to leave I'm doing so to get my next table in, not because I didn't love you and your rendition of "The Fairy Tale of New York."

Christmas is the hardest time of the year for waiters. It's 14 hour days with little to no breaks. It's hard graft and very pressured. But you know what I can't wait........tis the season to be jolly....

If you are going to fight Donald Trump....

.......don't bloody well go to bed early! You will of course remember the story of the chap who may have been Old Knudsen's brother who refused to sell his land to Donald Trump. You should remember it but if you don't here it is again...

"This is a tremendous story from Scotland. Donald "Check my hair out" Trump wants to build a couple of golf courses, hotels, and fancy resorts in Aberdeenshire. But a fisherman who own a very large lump of land in the middle of the proposed development has said "Nae a fucking chance laddy." He has to be Old Knudsen's brother...

Read the story here. Fair play to the old get. Tell Trumper to get back on a plane and feck off."

Michael Forbes decided not to bother his lazy ass going to the council meeting last night that would decide the future of his farm and surrounding area. He decided to "go to bed early." What the fuck? Is this guy for real? He is clearly as mad as a bag of badgers! Of course the council voted to give the project the go ahead. It's hard to feel sympathy for a guy that cant stay awake past 7 in the evening to fight his case. Trump meanwhile has been telling everyone that he is actually Scottish. That doesn't make it any better. Just have a look at the beautiful land and scenery that he is going to destroy. What a carnivorous bastard. It's depressing and sickening. The area will be covered in ghastly hotels, resorts, golf courses, Range Rovers, and Pringle bloody Jumpers. But hey what do I care I don't live there, unlike Mr Forbes, the sleepy twat.

Mr Michael Forbes....awake
clearly madder than a bag of badgers

I used to write every other day then it went up to every day, now it's twice or three times a day. Good grief that cant continue. In other news Don't Tip The Waiter is my new favourite service related blog. Check it out. The guy is funny very very funny.....

The WellDoneFillet Guide to Surviving The Office Christmas Party Part II

Behind every Mike in HR lies a true
Christmas Mentalist

So we all know the joy that is the Christmas Crier, the bag of cats that is the Christmas Mentalist, the ball licking sycophant and the Christmas lothario who wants to do more than kiss under the mistletoe. There is nothing I can do to stop Christmas Party goers from doing a Jekyll and Hyde personality swap before the soup goes cold. But if you follow the WellDoneFillet Guide to Surviving The Office Christmas Party you should manage not to get your head caved in by the mentalist, spend 3 hours in the toilet rubbing the criers back, avoid getting shagged by the married rat and not get a written warning from the job worth. It's all in a handy cut and keep section I call,

The WellDoneFillet Guide to Surviving The Office Christmas Party
(Catchy eh)

Let's start with the CHRISTMAS MENTALIST. The mentalist is the person most likely to put you in hospital. Whilst annoying, the Christmas Crier wont stab you in the eye with a dessert fork or subject you to a spit filled tirade of abuse. The mentalist needs to be avoided at all costs. Spotting the mentalist is the key to your survival. As you sit at your table waiting for the waiter to bring you your Campari and Soda take a moment to look around the table. Don't stop to admire the lovely dresses and new ties look for the person with the 1000 yard stare. They wont look obvious at at first but look beyond the party hat. The Christmas Mentalist wont be talking to anyone but will probably be jittery, will spend about five minutes polishing their cutlery, and wont have taken their coat off despite having been in the restaurant for 45 minutes. That's your guy. Stay away from them. Make no eye contact. Do not buy them a drink, it's like feeding a gremlin after midnight, don't do it. Don't engage them in conversation, but should you find yourself in a situation were you have to talk to them keep it brief and general. Don't bring up any issues that are likely to set them off, for example promotions that they missed, in fact stay off all work related stuff. Stick to topics such as the weather, who will get the Christmas number one, and if they like "It's a Wonderful Life". The Mentalist is at their most threatening when they are on the move, much like hippos. Know where the mentalist is at all times and be somewhere else. And when the mentalist finally flips and the red crazy mist descends it's always good to have someone between you and the crazy person chucking the knives, preferably a new person so you don't feel too bad when they get split like a Twix bar. Avoid the mentalist at all costs. But you might want to bring some band aids with you just in case.

The CHRISTMAS CRIER can ruin your night, ruin it not with dessert forks or threats of physical violence but with tears and napkins and cry's of "No one loves me." Oh it's bad so very very bad, and sad. But how do you spot the Christmas Crier? Who's the one that you are going to spend the night in the toilet with? Identifying the Christmas Crier is so much easier than the Christmas Mentalist. They will have a track record of crying in public, most likely at your last staff outing and around any holidays of significance. You need to know these things before you sit down. Because once you sit beside the Christmas Crier you are stuck with them for the rest of the night. They will glue themselves to you like a limpet. Escape is futile and when they inevitably do break down you will be expected to go to the toilet with them and sit there for hours and rub their back and tell them everything is okay. The Christmas Crier is going to cry, you can't stop it. But you can delay it. Keep their alcohol consumption to the minimum, dilute their wine/vodka with water. Encourage them to drink lots of water. Avoid all conversations about relationships, family, pets, weight issues, and what's happening in the soaps. If anyone around you and the cry baby starts a conversation regarding these issues you need to jump in fast and change track quickly. Stick to dull matters such as cars, wallpaper, mobile phones and Adam Sandler movies. If you have avoided the Christmas Crier well done, now stay away. But if you have the Christmas Crier in their pre-Crying state you need to get rid of them and quick because like I already said they are going to lose it at some point. The best way is to attach and run. Move with the Christmas Crier to a another group of co-workers, start a conversation about relationships (that's the attach) and then make your excuses and run, run Forest run, and don't look back......

The CHRISTMAS HUMPER & THE CHRISTMAS DRUNK are quite often one in the same person. And like the Christmas Crier they will have form for both crimes. Think, who got drunk at the charity lunch quiz? Who smells of drink at 9 in the morning every morning? What happens when you get two drunks together? You get drunks humping. Look round the room for the guys and gals with their arm around the person beside them within five minutes of arrival. When the boss orders wine they will be the person that calls the waiter over and doubles it. They also arrived there an hour before everyone else. With their inhibitions lowered and senses dulled thanks to tequila and rum the Christmas Drunk starts putting the moves on. They start high but after ten rejections they will hump the bus boy or even you. You need to be strong and firm. There's no point in telling them you are in a relationship already that's nothing more than details/challenge to the horny drunk. Tell them that you would rather sleep with a rabid dog with herpes than put your tongue in their mouth. Do it loud, do it in front of everybody, and don't worry about their feelings, the person you work with is essentially dead and has been replaced with and walking horn. That warning is enough to put them off. They are drunk so expect some sort of nasty reply. You will most likely be called frigid/gay/straight/impotent. Still better to be called names than get chlamydia or herpes from the office skank (either male or female). Oh and watch for them turning into the Christmas Crier or Christmas Mentalist after. If all else fails make sure you bring condoms.

Secret Santa is a pile of cheap nasty poo. Don't get excited, keep your expectations low and you wont be disappointed. The Office Sycophant can be a problem. They normally don't get drunk and tend to remember everything that happens. They remember and will use it against you for another year. You can just try and avoid them but that isn't really a viable option as they are like cockroaches and just keep showing up. The best way to deal with them is to get them drunk, take photographs and then relax. Chances are they will turn into a mentalist or crier.
You have worked hard all year and are entitled to your night out as much as the rest of the space cadets and freaks that you work with. Don't let the bastards ruin your night. If all else fails get hammered, shag the office junior and then smash the place up........

It's what I used to do.....

(Tomorrow, How to help the waiter help you enjoy your Christmas night out. You will need to take notes)

"Waiters are people too..."

sweet....

That Gordon Ramsay knows a good thing when he sees it. ..

"The US blog - Waiter Rant - takes the attitude that being a really great waiter is something to strive for, and that this will be rewarded accordingly by the customers. It comes as little surprise that the British equivalent - Well Done Fillet - is somewhat more cynical..."

What the hell do they mean by that? "Somewhat more cynical"? I'm a whole lot more cynical! Without cynicism I am nothing.......

Tis the season to be jolly (or cry, go mental, and try it on with the 19 year old office junior) Brilliant!

Happy Christmas

(you bastard)

It's five weeks to Christmas. Thirty five and a half days from now it will all be over for another year. I say 35 and a half because it's all over by tea-time really, isn't it? By then you are slumped in front of the TV jacked up on mince pies and Baileys watching the Vicar of Dibley wondering if it would be bad manners to go and check your email. (It is by the way.) That is of course if you were involved in the whole racket in the first place. Some people opt out of the Christmas thingy, conscientious objectors, if you will, of the Yuletide season. And I have no problem with them. The thing about Christmas is that you cant sit on the fence, you have to go for it at 1000mph with golden balls and twinkling lights or get the fuck out of the manger all together. There's no in between. But what cant be avoided is the Office's Christmas night out. That's were I come in.

Whilst it maybe 35 days to Christmas it's only 10 days to the start of the Christmas party season, can you feel it people can ya, can ya, eh eh? There is nothing better than having to go out on an all day bender with people you would normally cross the road to get away from. People you cant fucking stand because they are dull or they smell or because they grind on your tits for most of the year. Then you are expected to eat turkey and cranberry sauce with them. Not a fucking chance matey. Oh I see you, with your fake smiles, and air kissing, and the "oh you look fabulous" crap but moments later it's back to your clique and it's all whispering and dirty looks. You stink up my restaurant with your hypocrisy and cheap perfume/cologne.

Worse than the back biting and hate filled smiles are the sycophants and brown nosers. Manuel sees you too. They sit near the boss, normally facing them. They don't start eating until the boss starts eating. They order water if the boss orders water. They are non-committal on whether they are enjoying their meal until the boss says whether they are enjoying their sprout and chestnut risotto (which little man arse kisser ordered too despite originally ordering the turkey but switched because the boss was having the risotto.) If the boss ain't happy the suck-up goes into over drive, shouting and ranting and blaming the waiter. They demand everything be done to correct the problem, normally completely unreasonable demands like have the chef come down and kiss the bosses ring by way of an apology. Meanwhile whilst little man arse kisser is waiting to see the restaurant manager I am usually getting the problem sorted out and putting an end to the drama. These people are real ball busters.

And then there is the Secret Santa carry on. Tony from HR buys you a cats calendar and you got Sheila from Marketing a novelty mug which reads, "I'm a bitch." She laughs, you mean it. Oh the fucking horror of it all. Every year we end up with bags of unwanted "novelty" presents. Miniature tool kits, key rings, Bart Simpson socks, desk top skittles, Looney Tunes ties, miniature gum ball machines the list is as endless as it is painful. And they all get abandoned, either through drunken misadventure or because the recipient is offended with their Secret Santa tat. Saying that some people cling to their present like it was given to them by one of the 3 Wise men. There they are at closing time nursing their office golf set like it was their first born child despite being so drunk they don't even know their own name. Sad beyond words.

Then there is the Christmas crier. Awh bless them. Before the Yule Log and coffee is served there will be somebody crying their eyes out. There is one in every office at every party on every shift. They get dragged to the toilets by their co-workers, who later on will say they knew it was going to happen. There they are the four of them in one cubicle in the toilets all crying together because Tony/Jane in Sales hasn't noticed them or made a cruel joke. The first Christmas Crier last year was clocked within two hours of Christmas Service starting. I'm running a book this year, the first Christmas Crier, how many Christmas Criers, and the ratio of male to female Christmas Criers. I love the Christmas Crier, they make me feel like a normal well balanced individual by comparison. But they aren't the worst offenders. The Christmas Crier is the close relative of the Christmas Mentalist.

I absolutely love the Christmas Mentalist, as long as there are a number of doormen between me and the crazy bastard that is. The Christmas Mentalist, as the name suggests, loses the plot in the worst way. It's a combination of too much drink, which they cant handle, and a whole years resentment and hate bubbling under their Three Piece Suit. What makes the Christmas Mentalist such a fun character is that it's always the last person anyone in the office would suspect to be a grade A basket case. But we can spot them. They have a blank stare, and wear two watches and have manic hair. Their co-workers don't see the signs because they haven't seen him all year despite being in the same office. And that's normally the problem. We had one guy go absolutely stark raving bonkers a year or two ago. Tables and chairs were sent across the bar, followed by glasses, bottles, and the guy that brings the office mail. Oh yes he went daft. He was "escorted" out by three doormen who he decided to take on as well. He regretted that. He did it the year before at another restaurant. Crikey he must have a few issues.

nice

Ah I love the mentalist, especially when they set the Christmas Crier off who then sets of little man arse kisser. Office Christmas Parties are the best. They are a real leveler. The supposedly more professional the group the more they ridiculous they act. For example I had a table of school teachers last year that I had to tell off for throwing wet napkins at each other and shouting at the top of their voices. And then there was the table of lawyers that drank so much alcohol that one of the group actually shit themselves. They threatened to sue us for chucking them out, a suit that never arrived I should add. How do these people face each other again back at work? Married people trying it on with the office junior, the boss in tears, the mentalist, the super drunk, how?

Ten more days people, ten more days until the "normality" of my lovely little restaurant gets bastardised by filthy office parties. Oh the horror, oh the humanity, if it wasn't the most lucrative four weeks of the year I'd go out on the sick until it was over. So who are you, the mentalist, the crier, the lover, or the brown noser?

(Tomorrow, how to survive your office Christmas party)

Why Customers are like Aliens.....

mostly......

The Nobel Prize for Waiting goes to...

I would cry too
in fact I'd make Ms Berry look like the personification of control

I got a phone call last Tuesday afternoon from the Glorious Leader (The General Manager) telling me that I was being nominated for an award, Best Front of House. I hadn't realised that the Nobel Committee gave out such an award but there you go. (Local magazine if I'm being truthful) I played it cool on the phone, "Okay, sure, that's fine, thanks for letting me know." But when I hung up the phone I did a little dance of delight around the sitting room. I had to stop though as I was all puffed out from my two minutes of exercise. As I dried the sweat from my brow I began to think about what this could mean. Sure, a night out at a glitzy awards ceremony alongside the great and the good from the local food and drink industry and c list celebrities is all very exciting but there could be repercussions. And not just because I would get blasted to bits on free champagne, I have previous for doing this at awards ceremonies.

The world of competitive waiting isn't a pretty place. There's more eye gouging and back biting than your average ice skating event. "Buy's his trousers in Primark you know." "I heard he doesn't even like Fois Gras!" Oh it's bitchy. God forbid I did make it onto the shortlist or even won, unlikely having seen the nominations so far, I think such an accolade could be some what of a poison chalice. Think about it, people would want to knock you all the time. Customers, and the management, would expect you to be just fan-fucking-tastic on every shift. Let me tell you something, that isn't possible unless you are on something. I have more moods than the Dulux paint collection and most aren't of a positive vibe. It's not as if I would even get a pay rise out of it either.

So what to do? Do I go for it and try and win or do I forget about it and just let whatever happens happen? The awards aren't announced until early next year. That means I have to be nice to everybody at all times between now and next February. Good holy fuck I just don't have that in me. I will have to fight my natural bah humbug instincts. I am a competitive person and will want to win. But I am a lazy person too and cant be bothered with the hassle of it all. And if I did make it on to the shortlist I would want to shout about it on here, and I cant! My secret identity must remain just that. This is catch-22 Manuel style.

Another issue, and major personality flaw, is that I don't react well to being told I did well or am good at something. It goes to my head in the worst way. I'd be arriving to work in a stretched limo and wearing sparkly jackets. Emptying the bin and polishing glasses would all of a sudden be beneath me. No one wants that, not even me. I am a better loser than winner, years of practice has conditioned me that way.

It's nice to be noticed but I like it here under my rock. I will probably just carry on doing what I do, loving some customers and spitting in the everyone else's soup. Or at least I'll pretend that's what I'm doing that and kiss butt for the next 3 months......

All that said my name still isn't up on their website yet. Maybe they caught onto my act of smoke and mirrors.....

Today's funeral brought to you by JJB Sports and Punjana Tea

There's a certain type of humour that can only be found at a funeral, well an Irish funeral to be exact. My aunt died on Wednesday night. It was as sad as it was shocking. We stood in silence as we watched the last gasps of air leave her body. The silence was broken by the anguished cries of her brothers and sisters as she moved from this world to the next. It's a sound that cant truly be replicated in movies or anywhere else. It comes from deep down, a guttural primal sound, it's a sound that means everything but when isolated means nothing. Children, some grown some but babes, moved almost as if it was scripted to the arms of their grieving parents. There is something so humbling so unbelievably powerful about seeing your father cry. We took it in turns to kiss her goodbye, each one whispering a final thought, a final message we never got the chance to say. (Honestly it lightens up)

Then dad stooped to hold her hand and spend a moment with her. There was silence as he stood up, (Dad is the ceremonial head of the clan, it's the women folk who really run the operation) "Aye, sure I'll see you soon." He smiled as he said it. My sister thumped him on the arm and the silence, the mood, was lifted if only for a few minutes. There was an audible ripple of laughter from around the bed. My dad is always going on about his own death. It's part black humour part practical sense. It winds me up. But his timing was perfect. The nurses arrived in to remove the various beeping machines and what have you. We moved out. I moved right out for a smoke and a moment on my own. Within a few moments I was joined by most of the family all sucking on their favoured brand of cigarette. I used to wonder why we all die prematurely but it's quite obvious. Saying that, my aunt never drank or smoked in her life yet she was only in her late fifties when she died, a fact that was used to justify every cigarette in the days after.

Wakes are great, seriously they are. There was no booze at this one, no one seemed up for it, thankfully. Could you imagine me having to deal with a hangover and a funeral? Horrific thought! The house had been prepared for the arrival of my late aunt's remains. Her room was cleared almost entirely, all the clocks were stopped at the time of her death and the mirrors were all covered. There is no handy rule book for wakes, people, usually the women, know what needs to be done and just get on with it. Men are required to stand about in their Sunday clothes shaking hands and having difficult conversations with Priests and old people. And when instructed by a woman they run errands and get another 2000 tea bags and 47 loves of bread. "Just in case."

The house was essentially split into 3 rooms, the room were my aunt was laid out, the quiet room were the conversation was low and people could just be alone for a while, and then there was the kitchen. The kitchen is the engine of a wake. It's where tea is made by the gallon not from your standard kettle I should add but from a very large water tank borrowed for the occasion. Women constantly asked as to it's current water level. God forbid anyone didn't get a cup of tea within a minute of arrival. The kitchen was were I was to be found most of the time or outside smoking and talking with the men. I know very little about cars and farms and the price of things so I added very little to the conversation save for the occasional "Aye your right there."

Not being able to add to the manly conversations I busied myself with sandwich production sticking to the wake favorites of salmon, egg and onion, ham salad, and cheese and ham. I suggested other combinations but people assumed I was joking so just left it at that. There is no room for bacon and brie and anything remotely interesting at a wake. I will leave a clear shopping list for my own, salmon is banned. Everybody did something. Cousins who wouldn't normally bother with the washing of dishes at home found themselves up to their elbows in cups and soapy water, uncles took turns with trays of tea and sandwiches. It was all done with good humour and a true sense of family.

People came and went from early in the morning to late at night. Friends, family, neighbors, professional mourners, priests, and more. The professional mourners are my favourite, old people with nothing else to do but go to wakes/funerals were they have but a slight or even the remotest connection to the deceased. You can see them scoring the quality of the tea and sandwiches on offer and so on. My sandwiches scored high I'm sure, cut into triangles I'll have you know. There was always laughter from the kitchen as people told stories and reminisced about our dead aunt and others who went before her. Then every so often it would go quiet as if we all realised at the same moment why we were there, why the normality of our week was shattered, why are heart's felt heavy despite all the laughter. Someone would leave the room with a handkerchief to their eyes others would just shake their heads. The suddenness of it all would coming crashing back like a punch to the face. Reality. And then in a moment it was over and more tea would be made and I would be out with the salmon mix again. Wakes are an odd affair but so very worth it. There is a collective strength gained from the occasion. But they can be difficult too.......

Here are my top ten ways to survive a wake.

1. Don't bring a man bag with you. No good will come from it. You wont impress anyone even if the bag is a Conran. Old aunts will say, "I have one like that." And uncles will question your sexuality and ask you if you keep your makeup in it. At this point your sister will expose your moisturiser. You father wont come to your rescue either. Don't do it.
2. If you cut your finger or have a headache keep it to yourself. No one will care. There's a dead person in the room and you really cant compete with that in terms of hardship.
3. If someone offers you tea and sandwiches take them, eat them, and bloody well enjoy them. There are 43 more loaves of sandwiches made and they need to be got through. Don't ask for coffee or soy milk or anything other than tea. That's all there is and if someone has to go out and get soy milk because you are lactose intolerant you are just being a dick.
4. Don't eye up the new flat screen television that will need a new home. You will only get you heart broken, again. And it makes you look selfish.
5. If you see a priest coming towards you go the other way quickly. Don't stop to warn others, just go. Unless that is that you like conversation about things you know nothing about or enjoying explaining your family tree and where you fit in on it. And there is always time for a rosary.
6. Don't tell anyone over the age of 30 that you write a blog unless you are prepared to get into a very lengthy conversation explaining everything from how a PC works to why it's called a blog. There is no value in it and no one will be impressed, they will just think you are weird.
   
7. Bring secret food. I had a secret packet of crisps, a secret packet of mixed fruit and nuts and a wham bar. They got me through when I couldn't face yet another sandwich. But for the love of Jesus don't get caught eating it. You will be exposed and people will spit on you.
   
8. Turn of your mobile phone when the priest starts another round of prayers. Some aunts can shoot a look that kills and make you feel like you have just farted in chapel. Not good, not good at all.
9. Never get caught in the tea making area alone. Someone will walk in and tell you to make 38 cups of tea and you will be there for hours trying to remember who was having 2 sugars and who was having 3.
   
10. And most importantly remember that there is a dead person in the house. Discussing the eye gouging scene in 28 Weeks Later will be seen by most as bad taste.
    

I was tasked with writing the sympathy notice for my father to go into the paper. A difficult responsibility. I scanned the death notices for inspiration. How do you some up how you feel in a few lines? One read 'To Jaunty, the best mate a guy could have. Here's to you spinning the decks in heaven." Not the route I would follow. I wrote the five or six lines and phoned it through to the paper along with other family members notices. I nearly got through them without breaking down, nearly that is. Hardest phone call I ever had to make.

"The heavens have opened." Not just for my aunt I thought. It was raining hard as we carried the coffin out to the waiting hearse. The rain could hide the tears but not the sound of breaking hearts. The morning of the funeral found people in a much more sombre mood. The jokes hadn't completely stopped, my family hasn't the capability, but they were fewer and greeted with a lower laugh. We all knew what was ahead, that most final of journeys. We knew the weather would be bad and had prepared the best we could. One of my cousins had been tasked with getting his hands on as many umbrellas as he could. And he did. From a JJB Sport Shop, they were only £2.50 so he got as many as he could carry. But when the seemingly black umbrellas were opened to reveal their JJB logo you could help but think, "Today's funeral, brought to you by JJB Sports, your number 1 shop for sporting and Leisure Goods." I would have laughed but I was pretending to carry the coffin. Being some what smaller than the average family member none of the coffin made it to my shoulder. My cousin on the other side of me knew it too.

If you were scripting how a funeral would go you couldn't have done a better job than the way my aunt's went. As we carried the coffin from the chapel it was raining hard (still) the church's bell beat one solemn chime after the other. It added to the atmosphere, not that any additions were required. We walked the coffin a short distance but the rain made it difficult. The burial itself was mercifully quick. Everyone was shivering in the rain and icy wind. I looked back over the mourners to see the huddled crowd beneath their JJB umbrellas. I smirked to myself. There was no lingering over the grave, she wouldn't have wanted people to do so in such conditions any way. We made our retreat and that was it, over. Now the real mourning begins for a person that cant be replaced, a void that wont ever be filled.

The waiter is back

What I miss?

Proper post this evening......

Serve yourselves

Wont be around for a few days..........

Avoca Cafe & Foodhall Belfast

Review: Cafe

I went to: Avoca Cafe & Foodhall Arthur Street Belfast

On the: 8th of November

For: A quick lunch between shifts

I gorged on: Nothing, not one thing, nowt, zero, bugger all

And it was: Couldn't tell you, I've got no idea if the beautiful looking quiches were just that or if the rare roast beef was as tasty as it was tempting. Who knows? Not me!

The service was: A hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha what service?

It cost me: Nothing but wasted time. I'm not getting any younger and don't have time to waste.

I'll be going back: When the anger subsides and I find myself with a free 8 hours

And so it gets: It gets what I got, nothing......

Other words: Always one to try something new and having enjoyed the Avoca Irish Cookbooks I stormed the stairs to the foodhall of the new Avoca shop with gusto. I bypassed the clothes, the books, the very expensive novelty items and went straight for the food. I had an hour between shifts and wanted to treat myself to something nice for lunch. My normal split lunch consists of crisps, pre packed sandwich, couple of espressos and as many fags as I can smoke without being sick. There were plenty of people milling around the store, more browsing than buying. Avoca don't do cheap.

The food on offer looked fabulous. Lots of fresh baked breads, crisp salads, rare roast beef, rolled stuffed pork, a veritable feast of quiches, pies, and puddings. I was excited. I hopped from one foot to the other as I worked out what I was going to get for lunch. The lady in front of me in the queue had no such problem, she was getting what looked like two of everything. It was taking time but that was okay as I was still deciding between a beef sandwich and some quiche. The chap behind the counter wrapped each sandwich, each pastry topped pie and pudding with an exactitude that had me muttering, "OCD" under my breath. He rang the order up on the register took the payment and turned to me and asked me what I wanted. I said, "I'll have a sandwich please." But apparently he heard," I don't know what I want go ahead and serve somebody else I'll just stand here like a fucking lemon and scratch my fat ass whilst playing 'She'll becoming round the mountain' on my imaginary tin fucking whistle.Thanks." And he did.

Really, I said, "I'll have a sandwich please" to which he said "No problem." That seemed like a clear and reasonable exchange. But then as he was about to put his gloves on he changed his mind and served the old chap beside me! Well you can imagine how my mood had changed from one of excited anticipation to one of puzzlement followed sharply by one of seething anger. "Oh sorry..." he said "I'll be with you in a minute or two."

At first I reluctantly agreed to this shafting but quickly decided that I wasn't going to put with having the sanctity of the queue just abandoned. I counted up the minutes I had already spent in the queue and guessed how long the next punter was likely to take. I didn't have 4 hours to spend getting lunch. So I left, well not without voicing my dissatisfaction first. And as I walked away I could hear the chap behind the counter shouting his apology to me. Too late fella, too late.Oh and in case you are wondering I ended up with a sausage roll from a Spar Shop and a bottle of water. The "meat" in the sausage roll was a florescent red colour which was a bit strange. But back to Avoca, bad work people very bad work.......

This story made me giggle, Miami Airport has turned to the "good" folks at Disney to train it's staff in the art of good customer service.

Miami airport isn't the first to airport to sign up for the specialist training from the Disney Institute. Anyone who has had the great displeasure of having to use Belfast International Airport will know that it's been a Mickey Mouse operation for years. (Bet you didn't see that coming.)