Sucking lemons...

bitter?
you're damn right....

To the bitter, twisted, rancorous, fat headed, mealymouthed, curmudgeon, shit faced son of a dog of a human being who got all bitter about life and went yapping to the tax people about something that had nothing to do with me or any of my waiter chums but then caused an audit which means my tips are being tampered with even more than normal I say, fuck you. Fuck you with big swinging bells and flashing neon signs.

But also....

May your soup be pished in

and all your coffees be sneezers.

May your tuna be tinkered with

and all your wine watered down.

May your lamb be laughable

and all your duck disastrous.

May your salmon give you the shits

and cause your ass to collapse.

May all your waiters have communicable diseases

and sneeze a lot.

May the pizza people puke on your pie

and the chicken people curse you.

May all your reservation be "lost"

and takeaway be your only sustenance.

May you forever dine alone safe in the knowledge that I wish you only bad tidings. 

Feel free to add your own....

Life is too short not to......

"Oh no, no no no no. I cant have that! There's rabbit in it! That's sooo cruel!"

I had been trying to persuade a young woman and her young chap to try the pie, which does indeed have rabbit in it. It is so good, as Bugs Bunny himself put it, "Mmm, rabbits. That sounds delicious. [Does a double-take.] Rabbits!"

wittle cute wabbit.....
....mmmmmm wabbit

But my attempts to convince them of the meaty delicious goodness of the pie were falling on deaf and sentimental ears. Where I trying to conjure up an image of earthy Autumnal food they were seeing the cast of Watership Down being slaughtered and butchered by manic chefs wielding shiny cleavers covered in blood. I was on to a loser and I knew it. Probably didn't help my case when she started getting all dewy eyed about "wittle wabbit noses".....

"The noses? Oh yes chef uses them for the sauce. It smells great."

"The noses? The wittle wabbit noses?" OH OH OH THAT'S JUST HORRIBLE!"

It took me a few minutes to calm her down and assure her that chef did not indeed use the wittle wabbit noses for the sauce. He wears them on a string round his neck. Hehehehehehehe. In the end they both had the chicken. Poor chicken, if only they were cute and had little cute noses.

Their reaction is quite typical. Some people get rather hypocritical about such things, they'll eat cows and fish and chickens with no thought what so ever to the animal itself but if it's something deemed cute it wont be touched and we are all bastards for even suggesting it. Good grief fish sales dropped off something silly after Finding Nemo came out. Idiots.

But I felt like it was my quest, my mission, my crusade this weekend to try and convince some of my guests to try something new. I have a lot of regulars and they are creatures of habit, hence them being regulars. They drink the same wine, they order the same food, the make the same jokes. In many ways it's comforting but I see it as my duty to open their minds and their palates to new things, new tastes, new experiences. Hell if I couldn't get them to try a rabbit pie I'd at the very least get them to try some pot.

Rabbit pie was the way to go but I knew it would be a tough call for some people so I reasoned that just getting some of the regulars to try something, anything, new would be a success. Neither man nor woman can live on steak alone. But that argument wasn't washing with one of my regular four tops. They are the very definition of regular, same time, same table, same day every week. And without question the same food every time - three well done steaks and chicken with no sauce. They love it, they really do. But over the many years they have been dining with us they had never changed that routine. Specials get recited out of courtesy rather than hope. There's no deviation, ever.

I launched in with a a bit of friendly banter in an attempt to lower defenses and gain some trust (it's quite akin to hostage negotiation) - football, weather, the collapsing economy etc and then brought the conversation round to the rabbit pie. Not the easiest segue I can assure you. Again there were muted screams of horror but one of the chaps seemed ever so slightly intrigued. Well he didn't baulk at my suggestion. I had exposed a chink in his armour.

"So how many shall I put you down for?" I asked doing a mean impression of a door to door salesman.

"Oh go one I'll have one" replied one of the men. The rest ordered their usual. I felt a bit bad, maybe I had pressured him a bit into ordering the pie but was totally confident he would enjoy it.

And enjoy it he did. Actually at one point there were four forks in the pie dish as everybody tried a bit. And that's exactly what I had hoped for. Life's too short not to try something new, not all the time obviously. I mean it's not possible to actually live everyday like it's your last and I'm sure nobody has ever been lying on their deathbed lamenting the fact that they never tasted the gamey goodness of a rabbit pie.

I serve punters everyday who screw up their noses at the mere thought of rabbit pie or rare steak. They get confused and angry with the thought of jus, they want their sauce on the side and the pink peppercorns removed. Come on now people, embrace the strange!

I shifted a few more before the night was out including one to one of my more challenging guests, Blue Steak Man. As his name suggest he eats steak, blue steak to be precise. Nothing else. And every week he has a comment to make about the meat, normally it's overcooked. I mean the moment it's taken out of the fridge it's too well done for him. But after a bit of cajoling and money back guarantees he relented and ordered the rabbit pie. I was delighted.

It all went fucking tits up though didn't it. I never served the pie, waiter chum number two had brought it to the table. I strode confidently to the table a moment later to check on him and more importantly bathe in the kudos that was undoubtably coming my way. It wouldn't be under stating it to say he was glum, he was glum and sullen. His pie top was burnt, it was black, it was fucking awful.

I stormed back to the kitchen with my metaphorical tail between my legs (as opposed to what? your actual tail -LMM) and let fly a host of obscenities. The good thing about a blue steak is that it takes less than 30 seconds to cook.

So the lesson is if you do try something new get a guarantee first. I couldn't get the theme tune to Watership Down out of my head after that,

"Bright eyes, burning with fire......"

Right over the top of the pie too!

What say you?
Are you an adventurous eater?
Or is ketchup still your favourite sauce?

What have you done in the last 8 weeks?

Eight Weeks Ago

"What? You're a vegan?" I exclaimed with more horror than I really meant.

"Yeah it's something I'm very passionate about it...." replied the new waitress. Actually she gave me a twenty minute soliloquy about why she was a vegan and why everybody should be a vegan. The word holocaust was used more than once. I listen, politely, but with no real interest and then asked her....

"But what do you eat on the way home from the pub? I mean there's nothing like a big stinking kebab with chilli sauce!"

"Oh I don't drink either."

"Crikey." And with that I walked away.

Thursday Night

"What's wrong with you? You've a face like a busted sofa?"

"I'm so sick"

"What's wrong? Over do it on the lentils last night? Bad tofu?"

"Ha ha. I've got a hangover."

"What? Thought you didn't drink?"

"Yeah but I needed a pint after Wednesday night's shift."

"That's waiting for ya."

Later that Night

"What's that?"

"That's pork"

"No, beside it"

"Oh that's fois gras"

"That looks soooo gooood."

"Oh really. Let me tell you about fois gras...."

Eight weeks, people, that's all it took, eight short weeks to take a confirmed teetotal vegan and turn them into a salivating carnivore with a penchant for expensive red wine.

Mwahahahahahahahahah! Victory is mine!

The cruelty of some people.....

I rarely give a second thought to what happens to my guests when they leave and if I'm being honest I don't tend to give a tiny little rats ass either. I'm sure plenty of them venture forth into the ether to enjoy a few pleasant libations and continue the merriment. Like I say I don't care. But as I cleared the empty glasses, wine bottles and spilled sugar packets from my recently vacated table of twelve I did wonder about one of the party. I wondered if she had enjoyed the evenings revelry or if it had all just been all just been a torturous affair.

not on my shift you don't...

She was a large lady with sensible clothes and unsculpted hair. This was in very stark contrast to the rest of the table who were all guilty of trying too hardism. You know the sort, perfectly fixed hair, revealing clothes with matching accessories and all wreaking in odious and off putting scents. The women were no better either. And then there was this woman. Like I say she was large and, how can I put this, natural. It wasn't just her ample frame that made her seem so incongruous to the rest of the table. She was quieter than the rest and in many ways more genteel. But her voice carried no weight with the rest of her group - she spoke but was never heard.

It had been a works night out which explained why she was with such detestable people. I can't imagine she would have chosen to spend her Thursday night off with such frightening bores. No one spoke to her with the obvious exception of me. They spoke at her, they spoke about her, they mocked her choices and snickered in her face. It was brazen and it was cruel. I was shocked at first and shaking with anger by the end.

"So are we getting starters?" Asked one of the hard faced fuckers.

They all indicated no, except one small voice at the end of the table.

"I might."

"Aye we'll skip on the starters and get dessert instead." Came another hard rasping voice. I looked around the table to see if anyone else had heard her indicate her desire to have a starter. Maybe I was having a flashback again. Damn that acid I took in the 90's.

"I might get a soup to start." She said more hopefully than forcefully.

"Aye you would! Here, she's getting a bloody starter."

"Who?"

"Who'd y'think?"

They all started laughing, their tacky gold bracelets jangling with each raucous belly laugh. This continued for a moment until the forty a day smoking habit caught up with a few of them and they started to cough.

She didn't have the soup in the end. I took their order. They made their selection and chose to share side dishes with each other, except for her. She had to order her own. This was vicious. It continued like this for the whole meal. She was cut out of each decision wether it was the type of wine to order or what coffees to get, she was just ignored. It was like a table for eleven and a table of one, not a table of twelve.

Never in my twenty years waiting tables had I seen someone treated so badly, well not by another guest. Fuck I wanted to smack the fuckers up their snide sharp hard faces. They made a very big mistake though when they thought it would be a spiffing idea to drag me into their world of abuse.

"Here, waiter" It was the really nasty woman with the really sharp features and inch long nails. She sounded like one of the Aliens from Mars Attacks. Actually she looked like one of the aliens from Mars Attacks.

"Yes?"

"See if there's anything left over stick it in a bag for yer woman, she'll have it for supper. Actually she rather have you for supper. What you doing later?"

The table fell about laughing like the bullies they were. The screech from their thin lipped pie holes was almost unbearable. I half expected a dozen dogs to show up. She went red, I went red and then I hit back with.....

"Well to be honest madam, I'd be honoured to take her home. She's the only one of you I would."

And I walked off.

Their laughter faded a bit. Some didn't get it and some did. Fuck I was shaking with anger. I went for a smoke just before they left. I didn't want to have to wish them a pleasant evening etc.

As I cleared the table I wondered about her. I wondered why she took the abuse. I hope she was okay when she got home. I really hope she is planning to kill em all, one by one, slowly and painfully.

I hate people, most are just a waste of skin and nail varnish.

The Well Done Fillet Guide to Choosing the Right Restaurant

So the weekend is nearly upon us yet again. Whilst my spongy brain turns to thoughts of work and the unbound joy of schlepping plates back and forward from psychotic chefs to fidgety, fussy and bothersome guests yours will hopefully be engaged with much more pleasant activities. Maybe you're planning a night out - possibly with works chums, possibly with family or hopefully with someone you actually like.

If you are, then pay attention because choosing the wrong restaurant is like choosing the wrong lover - bumpy, awkward, dissatisfying and leaves you wishing you had just sorted yourself out. Different scenarios require different restaurants. But fear not dear readers I am here to ensure you make the right choice this weekend and every weekend after that in a handy cut out and keep section I call,

"The Well Done Fillet Guide to Choosing the Right Restaurant
(Because Choosing the Wrong Restaurant is Like Bad Sex.)"

Snappy eh?

First things first always have one restaurant that is just for you and your special friend - husband, wife, partner, imaginary chum, whatever. Never share this place with other people, never take other people there, never tell them about it. This is your gastronomic hideaway, your gourmet island, your culinary oasis. If you share it's location with others you will inevitably have to take them there or worse meet them there and that's the road to ruination. Find it and keep it special.

Manuel's special place......

1. The Parental/Family Dinner. The key to a good family dinner is speed, Ninja speed. You want to be in and out in under an hour, an hour and a half tops. Anything longer than that and you will come home with a splitting head and swearing never to do it again and that's not cool. Avoid anywhere were your father will embarrass you by asking for "ordinary gravy" or has anything that could be considered ethnic. I cannot stress this enough. Do you really want to have to tip the nice waiter from India extra cash to make up for your family's unintentional racism? My advice is carvery. Carvery or any sort of buffet is the easiest route. It cuts forty minutes of bodgering about and tortuous menu selecting and waiting. Forty minutes? That's a month in family dinner terms.

2. First Date. It has to be somewhere good but not too good. Save that for when you have to apologise or are trying to save your fledgling romance. Stay away from anywhere that has a Hut a Shack or references to boobs in it's name. In fact stay away from all chain restaurants, it shows a lack of imagination. Always best to find out if your date has any weird food issues - allergies, dietary requirements, religious needs, vegetarianism and what have you. I mean you don't want to take them to Big Bobs Steak House only to find out they are a salad muncher now do you? Avoid anywhere were the eating is complicated, I'm thinking spaghetti here but also fancy Chinese where they only use chopsticks. Whilst you might be a legend with them your date may not. And don't be a hero either, tell your date where you are going in advance so that they can dress appropriately. So I suggest a mid priced restaurant with a fairly balanced menu. Not the number one in town but maybe a number four or five, three tops, if you are punching above your weight.

3. Works Outing. I cannot stress this enough but do not go, don't even consider going, if it's booked in somewhere you really like. Whilst you might be a fine upstanding member of society who knows how to handle themselves in public can you really say, with confidence, the same about your work chums? Mark my words they will let you down. I've worked enough of these tables to know it only takes Bob from accounting to kick off and the whole table is flinging food, fighting, having sex, crying or trying to punch the waiter. And it wont matter if you weren't part of the problem you will forever be tainted with the bawdy behaviour of your work chums. Waiters never forget. My advice is always pick somewhere you really don't care about, a place that you don't mind being banned from. In other words pick a shit hole. It's a works thing, you gives a fuckity fuck if you get thrown out. This goes without saying but never ever ever take work people to your special place.

4. Friends. Tricky one this. There are some, not many, but some friends that can be taken to the special place. But these really do need to be special friends. I'm talking about the sort of special that only comes along once in a lifetime. The sort of friend that knows your dark secrets and doesn't use them against you. The sort of friend that will marry you if you are still single when you are forty. That sort of special. Apart from those one or two individuals keep your chums out of your special place. Going out for dinner with other couples is a competition. Yes it is. You and your date must look better than the other couple. Your hair must be better crafted, your suit sharper and your shoes shinier. It's a never ending competition. If they order the mid priced wine you order the dearest. If they order steak you order the veal. And so on. It's the same when choosing the restaurant. There is a constant battle to choose the next hip place, the place that is up and coming, the coolest eaterie in town where all the cool kids and C-Listers hang out. You are not cool enough to hang out with the A-listers. No you're not. Choosing the towns number one restaurant is a mistake, a rookie error and wont impress anyone. My advice is to constantly check the papers and internet for reviews and new restaurant openings. But choose wisely if you get it wrong you wont live it down. For dining with large groups of friends see Works Outing. It's the same deal.

5. Kids. Pfft. Leave them with granny and grandad and go to your special place.

I hope that helps......

How do you eat yours?

It was last Tuesday night and all was well as far as I could see. I was surveying my domain, table two to table ten, from behind the plants. I wasn't perving I was taking stock of were I was in the service. A good waiter has to have Total Restaurant Awareness, it's similar to a Jedi's "force" but without the robes or lightsaber. Table two were fine, just finished their mains and were contemplating the sticky sweet goodies on the dessert menu. Four were yaking more than they were eating, more chow chow and less jabber jabber please. Six were talking too but not to each other, their Crackberries were constantly chirping away. Now, I had just served eight their main courses so I paid particular attention to them.

I'll have mine in a glass please....

She was having a rare steak with salad and he was having cod with herb mash. Nice choices. But as I stood there behind the rubber plant my look of waiterly concern turned to one of horror as the chap lifted his fish and plonked it on top of his mash. No great crime I hear you shout. But what followed next was a crime.

Lifting his fork he went at the cod and mash with the ferocity of a man angry at the world. His dining partner never batted an eyelid. Clearly she had witness this childlike behaviour before. He mixed, mashed, combined, and mingled the two foods together until there was no way of telling one from the other. The two elements had become one. He then took a big gulp of Sauvignon, rolled up his sleeves and proceeded to hoover this homogenous lump into his pie hole with a vim and vigor not witnessed since the end of my 24 hour fast for Africa in '88.

It was gruesome but still I couldn't stop watching. He had the plate cleared in under five minutes. I very much doubt any of it touched the sides on the way down. It's not a respectable way for adults to eat is it? I mean seriously, would you eat like that in public? What you do in the comfort and security of your own front room is one thing. I mean I could care less if you filter your food through a a sock in your own home but not in public eh.

But people do eat their food in the most peculiar of ways. There are some, like my cousin, who save the best bits to the end preferring to get the bothersome vegetables out of the way first, following with the potato du jour and finally building up to the exciting chicken kiev or what ever it happens to be. I find it odd. Then there are those who seem to be so scared of their food they chase it round the plate until they are sure it's dead. I've never been scared of my food, my ever expanding waistline being testament to this. There are those who spend a fucking eternity chewing. Round and round and round they go, when will they swallow? Nobody knows. Their food must be baltic by the time they get to the last fork full. And like yer man there are those who give short shrift to the idea of savouring the flavours and, for want of a better expression, bate it in til them like there is no tomorrow. Savages the lot of them.

I blame the parents and Adam Sandler. Obviously.

I take a bit of each food and a dab of whatever sauce accompanies it and pop it into my gob. I chew for a moment allowing the flavours to fill my mouth and then I swallow. Easy. It's the way god intended.

Call me a fascist if you must but anything else is wrong and you know it. If yer man comes in again I'm going to offer to stick his food in a blender and serve it in a glass.

So what about you?
Are you a masher, a chaser, a keep it to the ender, or what?

Salvation in a smock.....

It's rare that I jump out of bed with a song in my heart and a genuine delight that morning is here. But Monday morning, and it was actually morning, saw me skipping round the house with all the gusto and delight of someone who was overjoyed to be alive. I was going to the dentist and I was fucking delighted. Soon my pain would be over. Or something like that.

So there I was, relieved but still in pain, in the dentist waiting room. There were about ten or twelve others. We all bore the look of chipmunks storing nuts for winter. Each one of us suffering with swollen cheeks and pained expressions of anguish. Each one of us regretting our less than perfect attitude towards oral hygiene. And if they were anything like me they were making solemn pledges never to find themselves in such dire straits again.

Everyone says you feel no pain whilst you are sitting in the dentists waiting room. I was assured by all and sundry that the moment I sat my ass down the pain would magically disappear. Such tosh and indeed hogwash. My need for relief became even more urgent in the same way it does the closer you get to the toilet with a full bladder.

The only thing keeping me from bursting into tears was the smug knowledge that I was second in the queue, well that and the desire not to embarrass myself in front of some young kids who seemed to be dealing with their pain much better than I was. I considered perusing the magazines, maybe that would keep my mind off the Guantanamo-esque pain. But neither golf or period homes really interest me. Period Homes? WTF? If I'm being honest a troupe of scantily clad burlesque dancers performing a routine to the works of The Smiths wouldn't have distracted me.

And then I was called...

"Waiter? Manuel Waiter?"

"THAT'S ME!" I was a smudge too enthusiastic and nearly knocked the perfectly stacked tower of Period Homes magazines to the floor.

"Upstairs, room five."

"Awesome-o"

Maybe it was just the early morning sun streaming through the window but there was what seemed to me to be an almost heavenly glow around the dentist.

Salvation in a smock.

"So what seems to be the problem?"

"I have a sore tooth." I replied in a cheeky chappie sort of way.

"And do you want to tell me where it is?"

Don't say in my mouth, don't say in my mouth.

I resisted, this was no time for bad jokes and wisecracks. She probed and poked with a gentleness and deftness of touch that gave no hint of the brutality to follow.

"Yes well that's going to have to come out. You okay with that?"

"That's fine" is what I wanted to say but instead it came out as, "Thbalts Blime". It's really difficult to make yourself coherent when you have six fingers in your gob. Adopting a much graver tone she asked her assistant for various tools - pliers, angle grinder, saws that sort of thing.

I should warn you that there is much swearing from here on in and scenes of very gory nature.
Well, more than normal.

The dentist and her assistant left the room for a brief moment whilst they took an xray of my busted gums. I must stop calling the dentists colleague her "assistant". It's not like she was dressed in a sparkly dress and wearing flash lipstick in a Las Vegas stylie. When they returned the dentist told me to sit back and relax. She looked deep into my eyes and said, "This might hurt a bit."

"Okie dokie", thought I.

In went the needle followed by various other instruments of war that surely must be banned by the UN.

A bit? A fucking bit? Are you fucking joking? Was that sarcasm? Sundays one all draw with Chelsea hurt a bit. Stubbing my toe on Saturday morning hurt a bit. The extraction of my tooth did not hurt a bit. It fucking hurt a lot.

The tooth didn't want to come out. I had to get four injections such was the vexatious nature of the proceedings. She pulled and pulled but all to no avail.

"Don't worry about the crunch noise."

"What crunch noise?" I thought as I sat there contorting in a pain I hadn't felt since I was married.

Oh that fucking crunch noise.

It was the sound of a pair of medical pliers crushing what was left of my tooth in half. Let me tell you I will be hearing that noise for weeks.

Two, three, four more crunching noises were to follow. I could feel my mouth filling with blood.

"Suction please."

They then stood back to asses the situation. There was a touch of the Waco siege about all of this. I swear if they had played some shite rock music and the sounds of animals being slaughtered I wouldn't have been surprised. I really wanted a break. I was panting and sweat was pouring down my face. I relaxed my body for a moment whilst they gathered a couple of new tools together including and big assed crow bar and some Black and Decker drill bits.

Round two commenced with more drilling, more blood, lots of suction and me considering wether to cry or not. I wish I had kept my eyes closed the whole time but curiosity got the better of me. I just had to see what was going on. I wish I hadn't. I saw the dentist baring down on me with a very perplexed almost worried look. I think she really wanted to get her leg up on me to get a better grip of what was left of my tooth. I knew then that things weren't going to plan and that we were well off script at this point. I was shaking, the dentist was shaking, the dental nurse was changing her surgical gloves. I really do think I bit her. Eek, that's not cool.

But five minutes later the ordeal was over, well for those two anyway. The relief was enormous. I stood up with all the confidence of a new born lamb, shaky and with blood still dripping from my mouth. This garnered a very peculiar reaction in the taxi office a few minutes later.

I really did want to hug the two of them as I left the dentist room but I didn't have the energy. I was spent, worn out, for want of a better word, fucked. But we had been through an ordeal together and we will always have a special bond because of it, like hostage survivors. As I left the room I'm sure I heard the dentist call her husband, "It's okay darling you can get that new car. I've hit the mother load!"

I've to go back next week and quite probably for a few months to come.

I don't mind one bit. (That is sarcasm)

A short sch-long story.....

you wanna pint sir?
neigh

So it was Saturday evening and I was pouring wine for two women as they waited for another couple to join them. They were in a jovial mood and had clearly already enjoyed a snifter or two of the barman's apron.

"Honestly Janice, he's like a horse."

"For real?"

"I swear to God. LIKE. A. HORSE."

"And how long.....", she paused to taste the wine. I had no idea where this conversation was going. But I was just as intrigued as Janice.

".....has she been going out with him?" Phew, I can live without other peoples pee pee measurements.

"About 4 weeks now. They don't leave the house. They are in all the time. She's just stopped going out."

"Well if he's like a horse why would you go out?" They both broke into a very dirty laugh.

I was taking my time with the pouring of the wine. This was quality entertainment.

"Oh God we need to stop it, they'll be here in a minute." Said Janice. It was at this point they both realised I was still there.

"You must think we're awful, but just you wait, he'll be here in a minute. He's is a HORSE."

"Eh?"

Why was he like a horse? The only time I've heard the horse/man euphemism is in relation to the size of his, well you know, his schlong.

How the hell would I find out if he was horse like? There are some things I just don't need to know. Good grief I always assumed some women talk about wieners but this was frighteningly frank for my liking. And the assumption/ threat that I would find out really had me scared. How big was it? Did I need to set a place for it? I felt bad for the supersized circus freak and he hadn't even arrived yet.

I withdrew, no pun intended, with a very red face. Obviously I went straight to my work chums and shared the news of the imminent arrival of the man with the fantastic phallic. I have to be honest this was a very weird conversation. But we all waited with baited breath for the man with the third leg.

And we waited.

And then we got bored.

And finally we just gave up and got on with our work much to the delight of the rest of the restaurant. By this time Janice and her mate had consumed most their wine and were now making horsie noises.

When he finally arrived there was a veritable chorus of, "Oh that's what they meant." Our Centaur was not hung like a horse. Instead he was endowed with the teeth and mouth of a horse. So I strapped a bag round his ears and left them to it safe in the knowledge that the biggest dick in the restaurant was me.

Toothache - What a useless word......

pretty
oh so pretty

Toothache.

I have toothache.

My tooth aches.

Actually I wouldn't mind if my tooth ached. I could live with a bit of aching. I mean we don't call a broken leg a leg ache so why do we call a busted fucking tooth a toothache?

The word toothache doesn't really do it justice. I mean it's such an inadequate word. It doesn't come anywhere near to describing the relentless, unmerciful, ceaseless, (which I know is the same thing as being relentless but I'm making a point as to the incessant character of the pain), cuntish, nerve ripping, head banging, jaw clanging, fuck right off and don't talk to me, kill me kill me now type of pain.

No the word toothache is far too mild. From now on I will refer to my toothache as being an Adam Sandler. He is also a relentless, unmerciful, ceaseless, cuntish, nerve ripping, head banging, jaw clanging, fuck right off and don't talk to me, kill me kill me now type of pain.

So yes, I have an Adam Sandler which is pissing me right off and I cant get it ripped out until Monday morning because the good dentist folk of this so called city all play golf or something equally as shite on a Saturday. Cunts.

If anybody needs me I'll be crying in the corner whilst eating food through a straw.

96 Days....

Monday saw the arrival and obvious departure of my last French tour group of the "summer" season. That's the summer that never really started. Well it's over now for sure or rather the false hope that tomorrow may be sunny is over.

And it's this time of the year that a young waiters mind turns to Christmas, and mine too. That's right I said Christmas and it's not even Halloween yet. The season of supposed good will and wrist breaking fourteen hour shifts looms large in all our minds. What started as mindless and giggly chatter a few months back is now the sole topic of our jabbering and indeed our blabbering too. The new young 'uns think we are embellishing our stories of battles past. Our eyes gloss over and we stare into the void as we recant stories of waiters that didn't make it, of tables of twenty, no, thirty teachers all sarcastic and all half drunk. Of tables arriving 20 minutes late and of the difficulty of 10 minute resets. We speak in hushed tones, our voices trembling. Long draws are pulled from quickly smoked cigarettes until they are down to their soggy wet stub. The look in their little innocent faces, terror-disbelief-trepidation, keeps me warm for the rest of the night.

Christmas...
...balls!

Oh but don't get me wrong there's no embellishing to be done. Christmas is all that and more.

I wouldn't be overstating it to say I was mildly pooing myself about this seasons Yuletide turkeyfest. It's shit mittens* for sure. The kitchen has been a shit storm, nice mental image, for the last couple of weeks. Chefs disappearing never to reappear. New chefs coming and inevitably going again. Hey if you cant handle the heat and all that jazz. There's been more drama and incomprehensible plot twists in the kitchen recently than in your average episode of Lost. And I hate that show. Chefs wind me up too. If the kitchen ain't right then the whole thing will go belly up in the worst and most dramatic way.

And then there are my fellow plate carriers. The new kids have yet to fill me with confidence. A restaurant full of drunk accountants and civil service employees is no place for the weak and indecisive. Every sitting is the equivalent to fighting the end of level boss on any video game ever. You have to keep bombing them until your thumbs are sore and you have the cramp shaped hands of a teenage boy. Our newbies need to be toughened up. I suggested the rest of us walk off the floor on a Saturday night and leave them to it for an hour. It's much the same nightmare as Christmas service but this was roundly poo pooed by the glorious leaders. Pfft!

What we really need are a few old pros, restaurant ringers if you will. A drunk Scotsman in the kitchen who can cook whilst nailing tin after tin of supermarket beer would work wonders for the, still wet behind the ears, wee lads who will make or break my Christmas season. And on the floor we need a couple of hard working, hard drinking, hard looking ladies. Black and whites, the mercenaries of the hospitality industry. Loyal to no venue, they take the money and run. I love these old warriors, they can carry six soup at a time and fear nothing. No teacher can out sarcasm them, no accountant can intimidate them. You cannot intimidate women with 6 teenage kids and a taxi driver for a husband.

Sure there'd be no finesse, no refinement, and certainly no "excuse me's" either. But then again Christmas isn't about finesse, refinement, or "excuse me" it's about surviving.

And tips, it's definitely about tips.

The countdown has begun. Onwards to insanity......

So what say you? Is there a time in your work year that causes you to weep gently into your pillow late at night with fear when no one else can hear you?

*© Witchypoo

Judge not lest ye be judged, by me and other waiters...

Some guests are harder to serve than others, the French for example.

"You must tell ze chef that ah want ma steak rally rally ray-re. Ah cannot express dis strong-lay enough. Rally rally ray-re. Oui?"

God bless the French, food is important to them and nothing stresses then out more than an overcooked steak.

"Sir I shall ask him to cook it blue for you."

"Ah yes, bleu would be pierre-fect."

They were a fucking pain in the ass to serve what with their constant need to tell me everything two or three times.

"YES I GET IT! YOU WANT ESPRESSO NOT FILTER. Fuck up"

"Excuse moi?"

"It's coming right up."

"Oui." He knew what I meant.

On the other hand not all French are a pain in the derrière. Take the French Canadians for example.

You know who gets a bad rap? Arms dealers, that's who. That's right arms dealers, the people who sell guns to crazy African war lords and crazy, but apparently legitimate, European governments. I had a table of nine French Canadian arms manufacturers the other night. They were great fun, polite, tipped like drug dealers and didn't out stay their welcome. I wont hear a bad word said about arms dealers/manufacturers. Okay what they do for a living isn't conducive to a happy peaceful world but then again Hitler probably wouldn't have been convinced to stop by a Coke and a hug from a hippy with flowers in their hair.

And who's to say that everybody who makes, oh I dunno, fluffy bunny rabbit toys are peace loving individuals who skip to work with gusto and have cutsie posters of kittens on their bedroom walls? I've served lawyers who were cool and members of the clergy who were hate filled assholes. I've served care workers who made a colleague cry and teachers who weren't sarcastic, but this only happened once.

All I'm saying is that you can't judge people by what they do for a living. Judge them by how they tip. Isn't that what's most important?

I think so.

Restaurateurs

Restaurateurs are a funny lot, not a lot of laughs but funny all the same. I've worked for them all at some point or other. There was the family who were The Sopranos years before that show was even conceived. That ended with a bomb and a gun to the back.

Happy days.

that's what your average restaurateur looks like

fuck it

that's what they all look like.....

Then there were the Pizza Hut years. Corporate restaurants are soulless and stifling environments to work in. Creativity and free expression are crushed in a way that the Glorious Leaders of North Korea would be proud of. A restaurant owned and run by a chef is always infinitely better than one owned by someone with too much cash and a daft dream.

I used to work for a guy like that. He bought his wife a restaurant, which I suppose if I'm being generous is quite a lovely thing to do. If I'm being cynical, and I almost always am, he was trying to save his marriage. Just a pity neither of them knew a tidlers fuck about the running of such a venture. He expected the money to flow thick, fast and constant. Pfft! As if! He should have been a waiter with an attitude like that.

Everyday was a battle with him. He once gave me a bollocking for hiring a guy who wasn't as ascetically pleasing as he thought the staff should be.

He made me sack him.

This was one of the lowest points of my professional career. It mattered not that the guy had years of experience, was great with his tables and was popular with the other staff. His less than "perfect" face just didn't fit. This, of course, was ironic as yer man, the owner, was so grotesque he made me do a sick in my mouth every time I saw him.

But ugly people don't make bad restaurateurs, but ugly souled people do. You need passion and creativity, you need to know your beans not just how to count them.

They had poached me from another restaurant and promised me the earth, the moon, and a go in his Ferrari if I came and worked for them. I got no earth. I saw nothing of the moon. And by the time I finished each day I gave not but a toss for his red coloured penis extension, or Ferrari as it's also known.

When they weren't badgering the life out of me about something ridiculous such as the length of the waitresses skirts, true story, they were sending their friends in to spy on me. This was intolerable. They would swan off to their villa on the Costas and then send their equally slimy and perma-tanned friends round to snoop on what I was up to. I would get a call, from Spain, about hand prints on the glass door or the need to change the toilet roll in the ladies.

This couldn't go on. After about three weeks I was given the heave ho. Her brother had finished his university course and was looking for a job. So he filled the large space I was crowbarred out of. I was gutted but also relieved. I didn't want to work for people who held their employees with such contempt. I laughed for a week when the restaurant closed less than a year later.

A while later I started with my most favorite employer, Ol Crazy Horse. He was, as his name suggests, as crazy as bag of badgers hyped to the max on Bolivian marching powder. His lunacy, for that's what it was, was brought on by a fantastic cocktail of grade A narcotics, an undiagnosed case of ADHD, and genius. This manifested itself in behaviour that on one hand made for the most awesome-o day at work and on the other made you want to run away and hide under the nearest car. He was up when he was up and he was demoniacal when he was down. There was no pattern and no no way of telling what you were in for when you went to work in the morning.

Both sides of his personality could be unbearable. But he had passion and he cared about the little things and about the quality of the food and temperature of the coffee. And in his more demented moments he did things like bar a 6 month old child and it's mother, but only after the child had been told to get out. Their crime? For complaining about the door being open. It was lunacy of the worst sort but did make for a fun day at work.

But that couldn't last. I mean there is only so much lunacy a chap like me can take. I knew the end was nigh when he took to wearing a Zorro mask for a few weeks. This was followed by a few days masquerading as Mr Potato Head resplendent, of course, with a huge Mr Potato Head mask. These were difficult times. I wasn't sure if he was having a good time or having a breakdown. In the end he went into rehab and I went in search of a new job.

He was and probably always will be my most favourite employer. I mean who else would shut up just so we could all go out on the lash or play "She" by Elvis Costello 20 times in a row just for the craic of it?

So who's your favourite boss been and have they ever taken to wearing a Zorro mask for a week or two? If so we probably worked together..........or heaven forbid there are two of them.

"Awesome-O" and other problems...

Spiderbastard is back.

I'll give you a moment to deal with that.

He's back, but not in any physical form that can be stabbed with a brush handle but rather in my dreams. This is not good. In fact it's very not good. I have to doff my hat to the eight legged warrior. I didn't think he would have the ingenuity to launch a psychological attack from beyond his bin shaped grave a la Freddy Krueger. But there you go, he did and it wasn't pleasant. All that was missing was a shitty hat and a red and black striped sweater.

I'll not bore you with the details of the dream itself. Is there anything more tedious than having to listen to someone jabbering on and on about their dreams and what they might mean? Unless you are MLK I don't want to hear about your nighttime mind play. First hint of anyone starting a conversation with, "Oh I had this dream last night...." and I walk away. No goodbye, no excuse, I just walk. Actually the only thing duller than listening to someone yammer on about their dreams is someone yammering on about their favourite acid trips. Yeah, yeah you saw another dimension and you thought your hands were flowers.

Fuck off.

God damned hippies.

god damn hippy
bet he talks about his fucking dreams
what a bore

Suffice to say my dream involved the late departed Spiderbastard, myself, a six foot tall glass and massive shovel. It didn't end pretty and I woke up sweating and quite unhappy with life. Then the alarm went off and I was even less happy. Does it mean anything? I would suggest it means nothing more that I am obsessing about a spider that is long since dead.

It's not just dead spiders that I'm obsessing about, there is also the word, "Awesome-O". I can't stop saying it. It started out as a simple exclamation of awesome when something was indeed awesome and now it's become "Awesome-O" at anything. I added the "O" after watching an old episode of South Park surprisingly entitled, "Awesom-O".

I'm using it all the time - at work, at home, in shops, the taxi driver even got an "Awesome-O" just for showing up on time and obviously in my god damned dreams too. I'm sure it was the last line of Sunday night's Nightmare on Elm Street vision. You cant give me a cup of tea or offer me a smoke with getting an "Awesome-O" in return. But there isn't a moment where it doesn't fit.

There is angry "Awesome-O", said with anger and intent to harm when for example the alarm goes off in the morning. There is happy "Awesome-O" said with joy and sweetness when the nice table of four leaves you a larger tip than you expected. There is sad "Awesome-O" saved for times when bad shit happens, like the death of a friends Uncle. How inappropriate. My favourite utterance of "Awesome-O" is sarcastic "Awesome-O". I expelled a long exaggerated barely audible but very sarcastic "Awesome-O" as I approached my last table late on Monday night. The chefs got a very sarcastic "Awesome-O" when they sent me to a table with cold potatoes.

"Awesome-O" job with the spuds there lads. You wanna try and make them hot this time?"

I got out of the kitchen just before the knives hit me. But seriously it's starting to annoy me. I need a new word that is just as adaptable but less annoying.

Any thoughts?

The taxing of my Granny loot......

I love my sister. She's good people. Always in good form and rarely puts the kids on the phone to talk to me, which is of course a blessed relief. Is there anything more tiring?

"Hello Jude."

No response

"Hello Jude, you being a good boy?"

No response except for the sound of an action figure being chewed.

"What're you up to?"

A voice from behind shouts, "Say hello to your Uncle Manuel"

No response and on it goes for about five minutes.

Oh the jolly japes we would get into as kids, her washing my hair, and as a consequence a large portion of my head, in the toilet and me, well, letting her. Like I had a choice. We would fight, as kids do, hair pulling, name calling, stuff breaking, nipping, oh yes she did it all. But when mum got sick she ironed my shirts and made me happy or rather, less sad.

But we have always loved each other and not just because we were required to under the law of family.

She's ace.

But she used to pull this one particular move that pissed me right off. When granny came to visit she would always deposit a decent sized note into my sisters hand. Five pounds was a big deal back then. Hell a tenner and I'd be getting on like JD Rockefeller! But my sister, my surrogate mother, the original picker upper after me would cut me out of the cash. Oh yes she would tax my granny dollars. If granny gave her ten pounds it would always be on the understanding that I got half. Did I get half? Did I fuckity! I got a quarter at best. This deception only came to light when granny whispered to me that she had given my charming sister a rather spiffing ten pounds note, of which I was to get half.

can I have some money now please?

I waited patiently for my half of the granny loot to materialise. I waited. I waited. I waited some more, little did I know I would spend my life waiting. Some time later she came to me and popped £2.50 into my tiny hand. I had been swizzed and I knew it. I protested and whinged and demanded my full half. I never got it.

I bring this up not to embarrass my sister or cause her hurt but because it happened again on Saturday night. Granny has long since shuffled of this mortal coil to dole out granny loot somewhere else and my sister never gets near my cash now.

No, this time I was shafted, not for the first time, by a fat man. Fat man, fat man's lovely wife and their not so fat friends all enjoyed a peachy evening of glorious food, splendiferous wine, and sparkling discourse. I kicked this sparkling discourse off with a few well placed anecdotes and appropriate one liners. It couldn't have gone better. They loved me, I loved them. I say loved them but it was more akin to the relationship between cat and person with cream. Eventually I would walk off and lick myself having got what I wanted.

Fat man came to the register to pay the bill. He was full of chat and eulogistic in his praise of the food and service. I blushed. We shook hands and he headed to the bathroom whilst his wife and chums put their coats on. She approached me, a little worse the wear with all the expensive Shiraz she had been guzzling and insisted on giving me a big hug and kiss. This actually did remind me of a granny kiss. But as we embraced she whispered that she had left twenty whole pounds on the table. I looked over her shoulder and yes indeed there was two crisp ten pound notes in the middle of the table.

Lovely bubbly.

I managed to break from her grasp just as the fat man returned from extraditing his bowls. The rest headed on but fat man had left his jacket at the table. I stood impassively as he went to the table to collect it. He picked up his jacket and as he put it on he gulped down the last dregs of his wine. But what's this? He's spied the tip on the table. He's checking the tip on the table. He's not. He fucking is. He pocketed one of the crisp ten pound notes. And of he sauntered. The fat wobbly cunty bastard.

My granny loot had been taxed again. My only solace being that Mr Stroke and Mr Heart Attack will be visiting the fat fuck sooner rather that later and then he has my granny to deal with.

Shit on your own doorstep, not mine.......

"You don't know me."

"What?"

"You don't know me, I've never been here before. Right?"

This was weird.

The sharp dressed man, every girls crazy bout a sharp dressed man apparently, was grimacing at me with panic stricken eyes and speaking to me through gritted teeth. It was more threat than request.

"Seriously you need to be cool here." I hadn't a notion what was going on. I hadn't even given him a menu yet. Normally people hold back on the threats until they have got to know me a bit. So this was different for sure.

But I did know this guest, I've served him two maybe three times a month for the best part of four years. I knew him. I knew his wife. I knew his two dewy eyed kids. What I didn't know however was the name of the stunning brunette woman who took up the seat adjacent him a few moments later. She sparkled with both youth and beauty, her eyes danced with the excitement of the night. Actually she was a fraction of his age, Christ I have wine in the store that's older.

All became clear.

This was not a simple dinner with a work colleague or family friend. This was a whole lot more sleazier than that, an illicit tryst. Sinfully and against every moral fibre in my body, there aren't many moral fibres in my body but enough to know when shit is wrong, I played along. I'm a waiter not a guardian of moral correctness. But still it pissed me right off.

I decided to play along for one reason alone, the young lady with him. Something told me she didn't know about the lovely wife and two dewy eyed kids. She seemed blissfully unaware of his panic and threats through gritted teeth. Also his wedding ring was no where to be seen, probably tucked up nice and safe in his jacket pocket or underneath his porn stash or fake id's. So I wined and dined as always and never let on for a moment that I knew what was going on.

Towards the end of the night he made his excuses and left the table. I was polishing cutlery at the time and watched as he came towards me wearing an expression of relief and gratitude.

"Listen I'm really grateful for that, you know. She's.....eh...you know....eh...."

I should have let him continue but I didn't have the stomach to listen to his weazly exculpation.

"Sir..." I would normally address him by his first name, but we didn't have that kind of relationship anymore. "....you don't have to say anything to me."

I continued polishing the cutlery.

"Here take this." And he reached put to stuff money into my hand.

"Sir there is no need. You've already tipped me. It's fine." If I took that cash I was even more complicit than I already felt. He could keep his hush money, I didn't want it.

They left a short while later. I darted out the back as I saw them getting up. The fuck if I was gonna wish them a good evening.

People have affairs. People fall in and obviously out of love with each other, that's life I suppose. I fully understand that more than I want to talk about on here. But what you don't fucking do is drag me, a harmless and innocent bringer of food and drink, into your world of fictional work parties, fictional nights out with the boys, or fictional fucking anything. I'm Catholic (lapsed. Actually is there a state of Catholicism after lapsed? I'm that), I have enough guilt of my own without you and your bullshit adding to it.

Fuck right off and go to a different restaurant. Don't shit on my doorstep.

Cunt.

I'll be drinking. If anyone needs anything get it yourself.

Musical Chairs is for Kids!

This post, like my house, contains no spiders. I'm not sure if that is a relief or a disappointment for you dear readers but lets read on and find out.

So Thursday was my first day back after two days off, it was my Monday if you will. I was feeling chipper, chummy was dead and safely lodged in the bin and my cold thingy had cleared up. Clearly it doesn't take much to make me happy, one dead spider and not being sick and I'm on top of the world ma! I don't often feel chipper but I did have an extra bounce in my step as I walked the very short distance from the taxi to the front door of work.

But alas my chipperness was to be short lived.

like that
but male and sixty years old

"Hello"

"Ah hello, yes I'd like a table for two please."

"You're not booked this evening sir are you?"

"No, is that a problem?"

"Not at all Sir, follow me this way."

See, I was still chipper at 6 o'clock. I escorted the seemingly nice man and his seemingly nice daughter, at least I hope it was his daughter - it must have been his daughter, down to a fairly nice table.

"Ah, yes, you're putting us here?"

"Indeed sir." Still smiling.

"Yes, yes, I'd rather we sat over there", he pointed to one of the prized lovely tables beside the window.

"Alas Sir that table is already spoken for." I really do speak like that when I'm feeling chipper, or sarcastic.

"But there is no one on it." He still hadn't sat down.

"Yes but Sir it is reserved and they will be here shortly." I still had a song in my heart and a smile on my face.

"Well if that's the way it is......" and they took their seats. I got their drink order and skipped of to get it from the bar. I rarely skip these days so it was a welcome change in walks. I lifted the tray and headed to the table. But what's this........?

They had only gone and swapped seats! Not a fucking chance matey! Musical chairs is for kids parties only and anyway the music hadn't stopped. I tracked him down to another table beside the window, not the one he enquired about. This one was also reserved.

"We moved seats." No shit Sherlock!

"Yes I see that but this one is also reserved." Still smiling, maybe only half smiling but still chipper on the inside.

"Reserved? How could it be? You said that other table was reserved!"

He was getting a bit too vocal for my liking. And a bit spitty round the mouth too, I mean I actually had to wipe some off my shirt. He was like one of those salivating dogs. I'm not sure if this excitement was brought on by the thoughts of the lovely food on the new menu or rather his frustration at not getting the seat he wanted.

"Yes Sir, we do have more than one table reserved this evening. It's actually going to be quite busy what with the concert on nearby.

"Concert?"

I was very fucking tempted to explain what a concert was but thought better of it.

"Yes Sir, some lady singer, popular in the eighties I believe. Anyway Sir I will have to ask you to move back to the first table I sat you on."

"Right!' he exclaimed like a huffy teenager. I escorted them back and told them I would return forthwith to get their order. I wasn't as forthwith in returning to the table as I would have hoped. I was answering stupid questions from stupid people on the phone, "Do we have to book?" Well you are on the frigging phone now so why don't you just go ahead and book!

But when I finally did return to get his order guess what? That's right he was off again on his journey's. Are you fucking kidding me?! This time to the first table he wanted to sit at. I approached the table and before I could get a word out he said,

"Right I'll have the fish and she'll have the chicken and can we get a bottle of Shiraz." For one moment I thought I had entered a parallel universe and not just because of the Shiraz with fish and chicken thing. What was he thinking? Did he think I just wouldn't notice that he had moved three tables over?

"Sir, like I have told you twice already, this table is reserved! You cannot sit here."

"Oh for god sake, but they aren't here!"

"Yes sir I see that too, but they will be here and when they do arrive I am going to sit them right here where you are."

"I would really rather sit here."

"But you can't"

"But I really would prefer it." Oh my god is he pouting his bottom lip? The man had to be 60 if he was a day! And here he was with his daughter pouting his lip in a restaurant because he couldn't get to sit where he wanted. Sweet mother of Gordon Ramsay this was nuts.

And then it got worse.

Waiter chum number one came down and whispered in my ear that, wait for it, the couple that was booked for that table had just cancelled! Now I don't like to give in. I would rather mess myself than lose face. It's a fault I know but there you go. I really didn't want this 60 year old child sitting in a good eat as he had been such a dick about it. But I really didn't have time to be debating the issue either. So I lied. Don't you dare judge me......

"Sir I will let you have this table but if the other couple insist on it I will have to move you. Is that okay?"

'That seems fair."

"Good so it's settled then."

"It is."

And off I stormed. No skipping. Chipperness dissolved. The song in my heart deleted. I went back to check on them during their meal only to discover that he had put on his very large overcoat. Turns out that there was a little draft howling through the seems of the window and obviously he wasn't gonna ask to move seats again.

Bwahahahahahaha! I laughed until the chipperness returned.

It's true what they say, the table is always greener on the other side.

Who's the Web Master now Chummy?

I woke up early yesterday and immediately realised all was not well. Being awake at 7.34am on my day off is in itself not a good start but it was more than that - my sinuses were blocked, my throat felt like it contained the innards of a vacuum cleaner and my mouth wasn't very pleasant either. Clearly I blamed Spiderbastard. He had now taken to chemical/germ warfare. Either that or a few days of little to no sleep had left my defenses low.

Either way Spiderbastard was to blame.

I was sick, not in a sleeping with your own sister kind of way but rather in a soup and sympathy sort of way. I'm paranoid at the best of times but why on my day off? I haven't taken a day off sick from work in over 6 years. It's not out of loyalty or greed but I'm just never sick on work days, worse luck. Oh how I must be due the guilty pleasure of a "sick" day, sneaking out to the shop hoping no one I know sees me and what have you. Never done it, maybe I never will, maybe I'll do it this weekend. Who knows?!

I managed to roll over and drift back into a fairly uncomfortable sleep. Too many wacky dreams - horses dancing around trees and the lyrics to "Bridge over Troubled Water" on repeat for it to be considered a decent sleep. I don't even like Simon and his Uncle, not such a big fan of dancing horses either. I eventually gave in and got up about half ten. I cancelled my lunch plans with my chum, The Boy Who Sings Backwards. He wasn't best pleased, "Wank, I'm starvn" came the response via text message.

Charming.

I shuffled round the house wearing appropriate clothing for a day of sickness- dirty t shirt, huge sweater (aren't all your jumpers huge -LMM) and baggy combat pants and socks that didn't match. I looked for sympathy but neither the all knowing Macs nor the TV provided me with the succor I needed. Damn their godless, shiny, souls. I sent a message to the love of my life and picker upper after me, Little Miss Manuel, but alas she was all tapped out of sympathy. Heard it all before apparently, "you won't die from a cold" was the best I got.

I've never been sure whether it's, "feed a cold, starve a fever" or the other way round. It matters not as I just change things to ensure I can eat large quantities without any guilt. Not that I suffer from any eating anxiety, unless the pizza shop is about to close that is. Various foods were removed from the fridge and cupboards, none of which could be considered healthy super foods. Eggs and bacon are still super foods to me, but they rarely make it onto even the most laziest nutritionists approved lists.

Anyway I was sick, not training for the marathon. Scrambled eggs and bacon on pancakes would make me feel much happier than any bowl of seeds, nuts, or goddamned fruit could ever do. As it happens it did not make me feel better or indeed happy. It slithered down my throat in the most unappealing way. This was most disappointing.

So I revisited the kitchen and who should I spy from the corner of my red puffy eyes? That's right my nemesis, my tormentor, the ruiner of sleep and all round pain in the ass - Spiderbastard! I caught him off guard, he was cornered between the wall and the door.

me
but less tall and with a runny nose
and it was a brush not a big stick
but you get the moody point......

No escape. Not this time.

"Oh am I not in the mood for your shenanigans matey. You may be an internet sensation and talk of your own web but your time had come. I am the webmaster in this house."

I giggled at my web pun.

"No time for giggling." I thought as I reached for the floor brush. Being as bald as a coot I have no other brushes in this house. And with one swift stab Spiderbastard was no more. I went for another stab and then another and then another. It was horrific. I felt my imaginary friend pull me back telling me,

"It's over man, it's over, he's gone......it's.......over" as he took the brush from my hand.

I've seen enough horror movies to know it's never really over. I wasn't gonna give the fucker the chance to twitch one of his broken legs in an act of defiance a la every scary movie ever. There would be no Spiderbastard 2 - The Web Masters Revenge. No this would end today. So I scooped him up with a dustpan and took him to the bin outside. The theme tune to Halloween playing in my head.

I paused, briefly, before I dropped him in with the used tea bags and things I should have recycled but couldn't have been arsed to and as the music (in my head) went quiet I said, "There's only room for one Web Master in this house and that ain't you."

It wasn't snappy enough and I felt Spiderbastard deserved a better final line but it was raining and I have the cold so I slammed the bin lid shut and walked back into the house. The lonely man walking away music from The Incredible Hulk accompanied me.

I felt bad for Spiderbastard's family, would they realise what had happened? Would his many many kids spend their lives seeking revenge? Would his wife find love again? Then I remembered it was a spider, admittedly a Spiderbastard, but a still just a spider and not capable of such emotions, despite what PETA might say.

But it's over now......isn't it?

Spiderbastard

So I had this customer the other day.......ah fuck it you've heard it all before. I'm too tired to write it up today. Suffice to say he was a dick, he did dickish things, and spoke with a dickish tone. I didn't like him. The usual blah blah blah. But it's not him that has me tired. I'm afraid it takes more than a dickish man doing dickish things whilst speaking with a dickish tone to keep me awake at night. No I have a new house guest. And this new house guest has kept me awake two nights on the trot now.

spiderbastard.....

I'm not normally fearful of spiders but beat me with a hose and call me Bob this thing is fucking huge. I first spotted it last week in the kitchen, it was making itself supper. Okay it was loitering with intent near the cooker, which is where I wanted to be. So I stood there for a moment and considered what to do. I don't normally hassle spiders, they do a decent job keeping the flies out of my life but this fella was a bit to big to be left at large. But then again he was the size of a fist and I wasn't in the mood for playing silly buggers with a spider at two in the morning. I was sure that if I tried to hit it with a newspaper that it would snatch the paper from me and beat me back out the kitchen whilst making disparaging remarks about my mother. So I just brushed it out of the way.

Off it scuttled away leaving me to make my scrambled eggs free from the machinations of my new house guest. I considered this to be the end of the matter. But alas this was not the case, clearly I just pissed it off. If I had turned round whilst making my eggs I would probably have found it flipping me the bird and warning me I had made a very grave error. But at the time I thought nothing more of it.

It waited a few days to make it's move, Sunday night to be precise, when the sneaky fucker knew I would be at my weakest after a long hard weekend at work. I was settling into my nesting positioning in bed, TV remotes to hand and tea and biscuits within lifting distance.

FFFFFFFFFFFFT

What was that?

FFFFFFFFFFFFT

No but seriously what the fuckity fuck was that?

From the corner of my eye I saw something dart across my bedroom floor, first from the door to the window then back to the door again a moment later. My heart was racing, pounding like a fat lad at the top of the Eiffel tower. Was I just tired? Was I seeing the Matrix? I sat there, upright, and fearful. I didn't dawn on me that yer man, the spider, was back, with attitude too.

But then I caught a glimpse of him. The cheeky, brazen, arachnid with balls as big as pumpkins was stood there at the foot of my bed I assume looking at me, and probably the TV too. He had clearly been preparing for this as he seemed larger than before. Maybe he had partaken in some sort of training montage in the previous days since our last meeting in the kitchen - running up and down the bathtub, climbing the walls, fighting cats and attacking dogs whilst listening to Survivor. No doubt high-eighting his spiderbuddies. I was in no mood for getting out of bed so I chucked the remote at it. A decision I would later regret as I had to crawl out of my snoozing pit to switch the TV off. He scuttled away.

Again I assumed this was the end of the matter. Wrong. He was just messing with my mind. Clearly he was trained in the Machiavellian-like dark arts of counter insurgency. Ten minutes later he launched his assault. Whilst I was chuckling along to Father Ted spiderbastard was making it's way up my bed towards me. I swear it was screaming, "VENGEANCE!" as it raced towards me.

"GET THE FUCK! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!", is pretty much what I screamed as I shooed it off my bed.

This was not cool.

I opened the bed room door to let the hate filled ninja spider out. It didn't want to leave. It was time to fight back. I searched the room on all fours with a rolled up copy of the Sunday papers, including sports supplement. There would be no escape from the righteousness of The Observer. After about five minutes searching I became very aware that I was crawling on all fours, naked, with a rolled up newspaper in my hand making verbal threats to a fucking spider. I was clearly out of my mind, well if not completely I was definitely heading that way.

I was sure the plate sized freak was watching me and laughing to itself. Eventually I gave up and got back into bed. I switched the lights off and went to sleep. Except I couldn't sleep. The spider had me freaked out. I didn't want it laying it's young under my precious skin. I've seen Alien, I know what happens. Just as I headed in to snoozy land the fucker hit back, again. You can say what you want about spiderbastard but its timing is exceptional. It ran across my duvet cover at speed from left to right and then back again. I shit, metaphorically speaking. The street light breaking through the cracks in the curtains made it even creepier.

I threw the duvet to the floor and squealed again. I sat there for an age with the light on pondering my next move. I considered sleeping on the sofa downstairs but that's what the fucker wanted. If I gave up now then I would be a slave in my own home.

I half expected to come back from work on Monday night to find the bastard sitting on my seat, drinking tea from my cup and wearing my favourite t-shirt whilst a crying LMM made him steak from my fridge. I am very aware that each day that passes my nemesis grows stronger. He must be beaten, hard, and with the Observer newspaper at that.

I sleep during the day now, night time is for hunting.

Manuel and the near diplomatic incident....

So there I was enjoying a post lunch service smospresso when the lady sitting beside me on the bench near work burst into tears. No warning, no obvious reason, just floods of uncontrollable tears and apparent anguish.

"Crikey, that's a bit rum, " was my first reaction.

"Retreat, quick", was my second.

But I didn't.

"Eh, you okay?"

Between what seemed like exaggerated and rather forced boo hoo's she said she was fine. Actually she said, "I'm fiiiiiiiiiiine bwaaaaaaaaa haaaaaaaa boooooo hoooooo!" And so on.

"Okie dokie then." Hell if she wanted to pretend she was fine then I was gonna pretend she was too. The fuck was I gonna pursue this any further so I necked my little coffee and retreaded back into the shadows and out of the sun where the mad people were.

Strange.

a smospresso....
if you don't see heaven you're doing it wrong.

That said it wasn't the strangest moment of the day, no that was definitely the conversation I entered into with a very jolly Frenchman. Strange because he spoke very little English and I speak very little French. That is to say, none. But damn it if we were going to let that mere detail get in the way of our amusement.

"So," says I to him, "have you been to Ireland before?"

"Excusez-moi?" says he to me.

"Ave you been ere bay-four?" Says I slower than before and more pronounced too. I also decided that Frenching it up a bit would help too. I also did big piano hands to indicate "here".

"Ah, non. Eets ma first time!" He was chuffed that he got what I was asking. He was chuffed, I was chuffed. So I carried on!

"Do you lack it ere?"

He shrugged his shoulders as only a Frenchman can.

I took this as another lost in translation moment rather than indifference to Belfast. Although that would be completely understandable. So I persevered by asking the same question in the same way but with added pointing and added sign language and a little louder. Because that was bound to help. D'uh.

"DO YOU..." I was pointing at him now. "...LACK EET ERE IN IRLANDAIS?"

And bugger me it worked!

"Ah, oui oui! Eet is, ow you say, beautiful, grande eestory!"

Now I could have left it that. I asked some questions. I got some answers. I established some facts and made a jolly Frenchman a little less jolly. Who could ask for more? I should have left it like I left the crying woman. But oh no, not me!

Onwards into mass confusion....

Emboldened by my previous success I followed with, "Ow long are you ere for?"

Blank stare.

"Ow many days dans Irlandais?"

Blank stare.

I paused. His jolly smile was gone and he looked as comfortable as an Arab at an airport. One more try.

"Ow long you, combien, Irlandais?" I was pointing at him. I was pointing at my watch. I was desperate to extradite myself from this car crash of a conversation.

"Ow old me?" If you thought he had been uncomfortable before you should have seen his little perplexed face at that moment.

"Merde", this is going terribly I thought and wished I could push the abort button and find myself no where near any jolly Frenchmen or French people at all.

"Non, non, non..." I struggled to rephrase the question.

"Nine days", came a response from the ether. A beautifully sweet French voice. It was the tour guide herself. A pleasant woman but neither sweet nor beautiful. She had been listening into to our diplomatic disaster of a conversation. She explained to the jolly again Frenchman what I had been asking.

We shook hands and said, "Au revoir" each glad to be shot of the other. How do I get myself into these messes? Honestly you would think I'd know better by now. But there is only one more French tour group left this "summer", summer that's a joke. Which gives me a good 6 months to brush up on my Franglais!

C'est magnifique.......no?

If a waiter falls in a forest....

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

I don't know or care.

But...

If a waiter throws a tray of perfectly crafted cappuccinos over himself, soaking his little stubby legs and burning the crap out of his hand and no one is around to hear it, does he make a sound?

You can bet your sweet little ass he does! He squeals, shouts, and generally makes a mess of himself. And then makes the coffees again, but with less love.

So now you know.

Tum ti-tum ti-tum ti-tum tum ti-tum ti ta tum

I've developed a very odd habit of humming at work. It's very unsettling. There I was on Friday night walking down to a table with three plates of sumptuous and splendiferously created food whilst humming the theme tune to The Archers,

"Tum ti-tum ti-tum ti-tum tum ti-tum ti ta tum"

and so on.

a trumpet
you can see it too right...
...right?

I was also walking in tune to the music, which means, essentially, that I was bobbing and bouncing my way to table ten with their fish. That's not so cool. Whilst I have never heard or been made aware of the management position on bouncing or indeed bobbing at work I am pretty confident they would take a dim view on such activities especially when combined.

And it's not just the Archers either, there's also the theme tune to Australian soap "Home and Away." Strewth mate I don't even watch Home and Away! Occasionally I catch myself on and try and focus on something a bit more contemporary and less soap like but inevitably I always end up back with The Archers. And not smoothly either. I'd be half way through humming Communication Breakdown and just launch straight back into The Archers again. It's some of the worst mash up's ever, part Led Zeppelin part Archers theme tune but all wrong.

I don't know where or why this has happened but it needs to stop. It's only one level removed from talking to myself or doing my own commentary if you know what I mean. Fuck me, quite often it's not even an actual recognizable tune, it's just me making tuba and trumpet sounds in some sort of free form Jazz stylie. I worry that if I don't reign in this affliction soon I will be playing air trumpet round the restaurant to the delight of the guests and the horror of the management.

I have a vision of being escorted out of the building by well meaning doctors and into a nicely padded van. Some of my co-workers will cry as I try to "play" Thunder & Blazes on my imaginary trumpet. One of them will clutch my bag and coat and hand it to the doctor as I'm led away. All very tragic and highly probable if I don't nip it in the bud quick sharpish.

What next? An imaginary waiter friend? Let me tell you that would garner a few curious looks of puzzlement and worry.

"Manuel have you cleared table 8 yet?"

"Table 8? Yeah James is doing it?"

"James?"

"Yeah James, the new guy."

"Manuel.....there is no James."

"Manuel, why don't you come over here and have a nice cup of tea eh? MMMMMM a nice cup of tea and a wee sit down."

"Okie dokie.....
ta ta tatatata ta ta taaa ta
ta ta tatatata ta ta taaa ta
tum ta taaa ta
tum ta taaa ta
ta ta tatatata ta ta taaa ta."

I worry so for my sanity. I think I'll take up the drink again........or maybe a full night's sleep would suffice.