Some weekends are too much for a chap like me to take, no really I mean that. This weekend in particular really was the height of too muchism. Oh yes I'm all for giving, especially during the Yuletide season, but some people just give too much.
Take the young lady who, along with fifteen of her work colleagues and chums, was booked for dinner late on Saturday night, she gave far too much. Far far too much. She took it upon herself to add extra spice to the festive sauce by giving everybody who cared to look, and a few who probably could have lived without it, and long jiggly look at her bosoms. That's right she undid the two buttons on her blouse (are they still called blouses?) and gave it some. The little old lady on the table nearby was mortified and wasn't sure who be more angry with - me, the jiggly woman, or her own husband.
She took a swig from a bottle of beer, buttoned herself back up and then plonked herself back in her seat and asked for the cranberry sauce. It was sort of awesome when you think about it. Not the boobie flashing per se but rather the way she did it.
"That's right I got em out, move on."
Still we cant have people exposing themselves at will, there is enough of that sort of malarky in the kitchen, so someone had to have a word. It's funny how busy a gawping collective of waiters can suddenly become when there unpleasantness to be delivered. So off the manager popped to execute his managerial duties. Before he had even got back to the bar there was an almighty,"Yeeeeeeeeooooooowwwwww" from Belfast's answer to Dita Von Tease. More Deirdre than Dita it has to be said.
"So how'd that go then?", I cheekily asked the red faced boss man who just raised his eyebrows and wandered off.
But it has to be said that the guests this year have been remarkably well behaved in comparison to almost every other. Is this a result of the credit crunch? Are mentalists more susceptible to the lack of easy credit than other better behaved members of society? Who knows? And indeed who cares just as long as the mentalist count is kept at a manageable level.
At the last count there were only three recorded Christmas Mentalists, including Flasher McBoobies, two counts of Christmas Crying and a tremendously low count of only two acts of Christmas Scroogism. That last fact is in itself a record.
But you know what I find odd, the reaction of work chums when one of their party drops the mentalist bomb and switches from being mild manner Paul from accounting to bonkers boy who hates the world and tries to eat the table. Because quite often they just sit back and ignore the problem, there is a complete abdication of responsibility. The crazy kid is left sitting in a pool of their own piss and cranberry sauce. So many times I have seen people lose it badly at xmas functions and the only person mopping their furrowed mono brow and saying, "Now now" was the waiter serving them. That cant be right can it?
"Johnny's gone ga-ga? Let the waiter wipe his metaphorical poo up", they say. Let me tell you the poo ain't always metaphorical.
There was a chap last week who lost it in the worst way. He was necking whiskey like he was a Scotsman at a wedding with a free bar. His work chums kept buying him more and more and more. Eventually there was a coming together of table and head. He hit his boss, knocking him to the floor. He then became very emotional as we tried to get him out. He screamed that he wanted to be dead, he wanted someone to kill him.
It was shocking.
As he was held to the ground he continued screaming about not wanting to live any more and what have you. Eventually the police had to take him away. Not that he took that well. Did anybody from his table, his work colleagues that is, try and calm him down? Did they try to talk to the police? Did they show any compassion or concern?
Not a fucking chance of it.
And this shocks me. It was the same with the lady from Saturday night. Not one of her work colleagues tried to calm her down or maybe take the drink from her. Nobody did a thing. Nobody apart from us and all we can do is just not serve them any more booze. It worried me that if her supposed friends couldn't or wouldn't look out for her when they were still sober who was going to look out for her when they were all drunk? It doesn't bear thinking about.
I'd like to think that if I was dangling my waiter's chum out of my trousers during a drink fueled mentalist moment that someone would take me aside and sober me up. I'd like to think I would do the same. Why is there no love out there people? Why do we not want to take care of the people around us? It cant be left to the waiters and bar staff can it? I mean I'm a waiter, I'll bring your food and your drink. I'll crack jokes if you want a joke. I'll listen to your anecdotes and massage your ego. I'll also do your pockets when you're lying there on the cold hard concrete puking on my shoes. I'm your waiter, not the poo cleaner upper, metaphorical or otherwise, of your mentalist work chums. Take some responsibility.