If we cant shoot the messenger lets lampoon him him instead....

Experts like, the fear-monger-in-chief and fan of ridiculously long mid-word ...............................pauses, Robert Peston predict that 2009 ain't gonna be a barrel of laughs. He didn't use those actual words but that was definitely the gist of his proclamation atop the Peston High Horse. Being right all the time makes for a lonely journey, it's a constant yoke I labour under. Ha! But still no need Mr Peston, no need. I say shoot the messenger. Okay maybe not shoot but definitely we should mercilessly lampoon him.

He's probably right. In fact he is right.

eh not just yet if you don't mind....

No one is going to escape the chill wind of recession with it's associated bankruptcy and deflation and general grimness. Our main streets will become graveyards with empty shop fronts as tombs to the excesses of the previous decade. How's that for fear mongering? Eh? Like those rotten apples do ya?

I say no one will escape the oncoming icy wind of despair that's going to blow our collective metaphorical balls off but there are a few who are better placed to withstand the shit storm that will be 2009. The rich will take a knock or two, maybe have to cut the holidays down to four or five a year (how uncouth), but they will survive. As will the super rich and their better heeled cousins, the awesomely rich - Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Bono, Twenty Major etc.

Nostradamus in a pin striped suit will be fine too. In fact just like bankruptcy lawyers and accountants Mr Peston will probably come out of it all smell of roses, money roses at that. He'll gallop from one TV/radio studio to the next like the fifth rider of the apocalypse delivering his dire warnings about fiscal stability and impending doom picking up cheques as he goes. Which is nice. For him that is, it sucks for the rest of us. And over the next year it wont just be economic predictions either. As his star grows so will his remit - football predictions, weather forecasting, medical diagnosis oh yes The Pesto will do it all.

As the economy dives Peston's power and influence will grow stronger to the point where he becomes Messianic. As we will undoubtably all be out of work we, as The Pesto predicted, and have nothing to do we will follow him and ensure his prophecies come to pass.

"is a measure of income inequality that condenses the distribution of income into a number between zero and one, where the zero corresponds to a world in which all households have identical income, and one would be a place where all the income goes to a single person", will become our ridiculously long and baffling mantra as we traverse the country bringing fear and anxiety where once there was joy and happiness.

Oh yes 2009, and Robert Peston, promises us some dark times.

Restaurants and as a result restaurant waiters wont escape the downturn, in fact we will be amongst the first to suffer. Crikey. Not essential apparently. The style bars will be the first to founder on the hard rocks of economic recession. So not all bad then. But the restaurants will follow.

The restaurants demise will be slow at first as owners battle the pointless fight for the punters cash against the rising cost of stuff and shit. A fight we cant win no matter how many 2 for 1, money off coupons, special offers and free wine we shovel at the them. By Easter most restaurants will have been burnt to the ground by unemployed chefs and waiters. The few that survive will be nothing more than glorified soup kitchens serving gruel and hot stock.

Just as the country looks doomed a hero will arise from the ashes of one of these restaurants with a new vision and a pledge to defeat the Pestonians, as the followers of Robert Peston will be known. It will be a man. An ordinary man. A waiter man.

Not me obviously. I will be dead by the summer having starved to death due to the complete collapse of the hospitality industry. But a simple waiter man spurred on by a need for tax free cash will start an underground movement that will spread joy and positivity by reminding people what it was like in the olden days, in the long before time, in the time before Pestonian negativity took over the world. That's right 2006 will be our inspiration and Beep by the Pussy Cat Dolls will be our anthem. Or something better it still has to be decided. This growing movement for happiness and positivity will lift the previously cowed masses who will face down the Pestonians and his army of gloom.

It could all happen people, it really could, if we let it that is.

2009 ain't gonna be pretty but lets not let the merchants of doom and the Pestonians of this world condemn it before the sun has risen on the first day.

Have a great 2009 and remember a waiter is for life not just for the good times.

Four hundred years of tradition, but why fucking bother?

In the 16th century the Spanish Conquistadors conquistadored their way through Chile, such was their want. When not conquistadoring they shared the gift of Catholicism with the previously happy natives. No more guilt free masturbation or lazy Sunday mornings for those chaps after that! But they also brought useful stuff with them too, stuff like the Vitis Vinifera. I know that sounds like a tome of interesting musings and pontifications by some late Pope or other but it's not, it is in fact a grape variety.

"Wonderful!", said the locals, or at least words to that effect and off they popped to make wine for their new masters.

Many years later, the mid eighteenth century to be sort of precise, French wine varietals such as Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot were introduced into the mix.

"Super fantastic wonderful!", exclaimed the locals, or something like that, who had become weary and a little bored with knocking out the same old plonk for the last couple of hundred years.

Wine making sort of flourished in Chile from Aconcagua in the north to the Bio Bio valley in the south. It was all bit local though and never really enjoyed a lot of success, financially or even taste wise. They struggled to break into the American and European markets and were generally laughed at by the French.

"You call dis vin? Dis ees not fit for a dog! Go away little funny person and take your reeediculous pan pipes and ponchos weef you.", said a mocking and snooty Pierre whilst supping a bloated and over hyped Beaujolais.

But in the 1980's some smart cookie or other arrived with stainless steel fermentation tanks and oak barrels for aging.

"Get in ye girl ye, we are on the pig's back now! We shall sell our wines all over the Americas!", said one farmer, Miguel I think he was called.

"No sir, you are wrong!" Came the terse response from another, I believe his name was Christóbal.

[If you can read this next bit with a Spanishy sort of accent that really would help. Think Antonio Banderas]

Looking far off over the ocean he continued with, "We shall sell our wines all over the known world. From the Americas to bothersome little hamlets and townships of Ireland. Wherever happy people gather to eat and drink or even just lonely people writing on their computers in their bedrooms they shall drink the wine of Chile, in particular our Merlot which is rather pleasant with lamb and some cheeses too, but that is not important right now. Miguel we must think big!"

And think big they did, so big in fact that Chilean wine is now the fifth largest exporter of wine to the US. In total the Chilean wine industry is worth close to a billion dollars a year, which is nice. Chilean wine is highly regarded too and has scooped many many awards over the years. It's all a far cry from the days of the Conquistadors and the red pishy gloop they called wine.

Now Miguel and Christóbal live in mansions but they often think back to those days of struggle when they couldn't make enough money from wine to buy even a second hand pan pipe let alone a mansion.

"We have travelled far my friend Miguel. From the dirt to the heavens and it is all thanks to our wine.", says Christóbal on a regular basis. The story of Chilean wine is a story of conquest and false dawns of hardship and the laughter of the French and in the end triumph over adversity.

So when you ask me for a bottle of diet coke to mix with your £18 bottle of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon you are not just pissing me off you are pissing, literally, on the efforts of the good people of the Chilean wine industry. I don't give a tiny rats ass if the do it in Spain and call it calimocho, I don't care. It's wrong. You are wrong. The Spanish are wrong. Constantly. I mean just look at the silly little beard on Fat Rafa Benitez.

It was all I could do not to stab the fucker in the face with the still blood stained stabbing fork.

Imaginary Batman, Chav Santa and Me. Christmas is a laugh eh?!

So did we all have a smashing and wonderful few days? Did your cuppeth runneth overeth with shiny neweth stuff and shit from family and friends? My own tea stained cup spilled over with splendiferously white and shiny Apple shit. Shit man, I do love my Apple shit. I'm actually running out of "Designed in California, Made in China" products to buy, save for the iPhone which is scheduled to improve my life and make me a better person in March. It will do that wont it, make me a better person and improve my life? I really really need something to.

manuel
off on one of my lovely cycles...
pretending to be Batman(uel)

It's funny the absolute highlight of the xmas period didn't involve any Apple products. It was just me on my bike wearing a long black coat (all coats appear long on me due to my stumpy legs). There I was cycling up the deserted Lisburn Road with the wind puffing out my coat and making it appear more cape like than it really was. Of course this was wonderful for me as I pretended for a moment that I was Batman.

Well you would, wouldn't you?

Fair enough a cheap assed Batman with breathing issues riding on the fantastically named Kona Humu Humu Nuku Nuku Apu'a (it's a real thing!) is an unlikely and somewhat farcical sight. I suppose I was more a credit crunch Batman on my Batmo-bike-mobile. If you will, a 2009 Batman who cant afford to run a proper Bat-mobile due to the recession and the rising cost of Bat juice or whatever it is that makes it go.

I stopped pretending and reigned in my Bat cape as I nearly ran into a group of pished up football/bother fans all bedecked in new tracksuits and kicking boots. I swear on Gordon Ramsay's mother's life each one was wearing shiny new chains and rings.

Tasteful I'm sure.

I mean nothing says I love you and want to celebrate the birth of baby Jebus in the manger more than a shiny gold Glasgow Rangers necklace or Silver Cannabis Leaf bling. I believe they have a different Santa than the rest of us, think an unshaven and drunk Ray Winstone in a red velour tracksuit pishing into your christmas tree and swearing at your little brother and you'll know what I mean. Chava Claus takes more than he leaves and gets everything else from Argos.

"Aye yer bike", says the one with acne like a pop up book of the Alps. I shall call him Craig, or even Craigso. Such is their want to add "so" onto the end of all names, "so" or "sie".

"Aye yer bike hahahahaha", added the rather "special" looking chap I shall call Jamesie.

He stared up at the taller one, possibly a Jason maybe a Gary (Gaz), who had the biggest and shiniest bling, looking for approval or maybe just for a rub of the shimmery swinging pendant. He made no response and this seemed to confuse the littler hoods. So they had another go. I was too close to them now to turn around as I rightly assumed that they would be able to catch me if I did try and make a break for it.

"It's fucking gay, wah!" says Jamesie, again. But this time he got the psychotic belly laugh he was looking for from the lead chav/spide/knacker/ned (take your pick). He was laughing so much he nearly took his hands out of his track bottoms. Nearly.

I was too full of christmas joy and left over beef, we don't do turkey in our house, to be getting into brawls on the street with beered up louts. Anyhoo they would have kicked the thumbs of me whether I was full or not. So I pulled a quick maneuver on the Kona and successfully managed to dodge them. I say maneuver but really I just turned left. But I did it with no small amount of nonchalance so as to make them think I wanted to turn left onto the dimly lit and in retrospect slightly more terrifying alleyway. As I cycled like a manic into the dark and unknown they spotted my man bag.

Crikey!

"Ahahahahaha. What's yer ma doing for a handbag?", they shouted in apparent unison. "He's so fucking gay....FAG BOY!"

Cycle faster Manuel, faster.....into the dark and ominous alleyway that has probably got a drunk sleeping in it and cats shagging. Eventually I came back out onto my own street and home. Seriously I like to think I looked impressive - all Batman like ducking between the shadows and the alleyways. Bet I looked like a peeping Tom/fat lad on a bike up to no good.

Anyway this near death incident meeting with the three wise men from the East, of Belfast, put an end to my Batmanning about and I rode of into the dusk with my coat tucked under my ass. There had been shenanigans at the match and I didn't want to be hanging around to see if the had got all the pent up man rage and anger out of their delicate and easily annoyed systems. I mean as much as I will moan, and I will moan, about having to work on New Years Eve I'd still rather bring in 2009 there rather than by sucking my dinner through a straw in the intensive care unit of my local hospital.

Still I might go out in my pj's tomorrow and pretend I'm Spiderman. Did Spiderman ride a bike? Probably not but what the hell, it's still Christmas.

The Well Done Fillet Review of Christmas

yippee!
it's over!!

What is it with the extremists and their Christmas messages eh? Why do they feel the need to share?

The Provos did it during the troubles, setting out their "goals" for the following year and wishing all the volunteers and their families a happy and peaceful new year. Ha peaceful my arse! You don't see that sort of care and attention and togetherness with Al Qaeda. The Pope still does it and didn't he just cover himself in glory? Sitting there in his santa outfit pontificating about his fears that the world is going to shag itself into extinction. You would think Popeus Maximus, or whatever he's called, would have bigger fish to fry rather than fretting over who's sleeping with who.

Unlike the Pope and the Provos Queenie doesn't make do with a Christmas message she has a speech to deliver. Mrs Windsor will be on TV on Christmas day no doubt telling us that at times like this we all have to make sacrifices and cut back a bit. She will do this from one of her castles. That's right a castle no less with just her and that Greek chap she's shacked up with. She can lick the back of them too.

With all this extremism in mind I give you, finally.....

The Well Done Fillet Review of Christmas

Atmosphere. The atmosphere in the restaurant, for the most part, was one of revelry and borderline mania such was the excitement. The most obvious exception being on Monday afternoon when my seemingly pleasant table of nine turned out to be a super borefest. Eight out nine people failed to even pull their crackers. There they sat un-cracked and failing to reach their cracker destiny. But as sad as that is you really have to feel for the one person who got into the spirit of things only to find that they were on their own.

Bling. Lots of people put in lots of effort to look swish and lovely during Christmas but the highlight for me was the chap who arrived wearing a high visibility vest and tracksuit bottoms. I had to check to see if he had a street sweeping cart parked outside. He did however have a flashing santa badge on so what ya gonna do? Awesome.

Crying. Guest crying was at an all time low with only two maybe three recorded events. Staff crying was a bit higher and less funny. There was even a chef in tears in Monday which was a bit odd. You don't think of chefs as being criers, whinging fuckers to be sure but not criers.

Duck Dive Dodge. Because when I come in heavily laden with turkeys I pretty much cant change course. I managed to hit two people upside their heads with fully laden plates of turkey and associated trimmings. YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE MOVED! I even said, "don't move" but you moved because you wanted to show your even dumber mate the "funny" video on your phone and completely ignored my advice. Tosser.

Entertainment. Apart from watching waiters hitting the guests upside their heads with turkeys and what have you we did have a plinkity plonk band who murdered their way through all the "hits". Honestly if I hear Stop the Cavalry once more I'll probably lash out with the stabbing fork at the nearest person, thing, or chef. But live music aside isn't christmas music just the worst? Except this, from Low. My personal bete noir being Run DMC's Christmas in Hollis not because it's such a bad song, there are so many worse songs, but because you expect better from some people. Just like Bill Hicks said that if you do an advert you are off the artistic register, well the same thing if you do a christmas song.

Food. I served so much food I lost my own appetite and there is nothing more depressing for a chap like me than losing my appetite. Seriously, I couldn't look at food by the time I crawled home. I've lost about half a stone in the last few weeks. I intend to put it all back on in the next few hours days.

Greetings. First week of December I greeted each table with a hearty and well meaning, "Good afternoon. Merry Christmas folks..." and what have you and left them laughing. By Monday it was, "Yo, you all here n that?"

Home. Spent very little time there. I put up a christmas tree and I've seen it sparkle twice. Sake. On a separate note if I had to deliver one message this Christmas it would be to the people who come home for Christmas, in particular the people who come home from England. Christ what a pack of self important fuckwits with their half English half Irish accents. Catch a fucking grip to yerself big fella. In they swan into their local bar and patronize the shit out of the little people who didn't make it out of the ghetto. Let me tell you South Belfast is not the fucking Bronx. You live in Surrey now do you, oh how fantastic. Prick.

Inter Office Sexy Time. Oooohhhh there must have been some red faces around the water coolers and photocopiers the morning after most staff parties because there was plenty of jiggy jiggy and indeed canoodling between work colleagues on show round the dinner table. Honestly do marriage vows mean nothing any more? Christ I'm turning into the pope. Pope Manuel, quality. Blessed are the waiters for theirs is the kingdom of Jack (Daniels)

Jingle Bells. Jingle the fuck away off and take that bloody I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa abomination with you. I hate that song in particular, it's creepy. I'm surprised more shop workers and restaurant staff don't end up in insane asylums by the end of December what with the same nasty tragic songs over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Kitchen. The chaps were superb. And I really mean that.

Lateness. Not so many tardy Trevors this year. The best/worst was one chap who arrived an hour and 45 minutes late and demanded that he get all his three courses. He got them. Microwaves are just awesome.

Mentalist. The distinct lack of mentalists and the mentalists brother, the nasty drunk, was welcomed by all. This chap being the most notable exception. Well done Belfast, well done.

No Shows. Two tables just didn't turn up. Deposits were paid and sizable ones at that but yet they just didn't turn up. How weird is that?

Organizers. I wouldn't organise a staff party let alone a staff christmas do if you paid me. From dealing with irate waiters (me) in September to the constant ball ache that is the people you work with forgetting what they have ordered it must just be the most thankless job of the year. And if you choose the wrong restaurant it's all your fault and people will whinge about it for the rest if the year and blame you for ruining christmas. No, if you are ever put in the position of being asked to organise the xmas do just say no or resign, which ever gets you out of having to do it.

Pork. The whole contaminated pork thingy could have been a nightmare but wasn't. In fact the only person to over react was probably me.

Quiz. Seriously? A quiz? During your works xmas lunch? Really? Not one, not two, but three different tables held "fun" quizzes during their meal. Oh fucking shoot me now! The absolute horror of enforced fun like that is enough to turn the most mild mannered of chaps into a mentalist.

Really? Really? You ordered the lamb? We don't have lamb on sir. It's on the menu? The Christmas menu? Lets just have a look. Oh there we go sir, no lamb. We changed the menu? Yeah that's right, here's your turkey, enjoy. For the love of Gordon Ramsay's ma don't try and bullshit a master bullshitter.

Spills. There were two really good spills, neither which involved me, thankfully. The first was a shocker involving a bottle of red wine an amorous young man and a lady's £300 silk dress. Ouch. The second involved The Glorious Leader a bowl of roast potatoes and two bottles of beer. He didn't live it down for the rest of the day. Such things need to be left to the professional plate schleppers.

Turkey. Oh I hate turkey. I hate the smell of turkey. I hate the cranberry sauce that comes with it. I hate the stuffing that lives under it. I hate everything about it and if I never saw it again I would die happy, well fairly happy.

Under the Table. I have gifts for my family under my christmas tree. It's the traditional place to leave them. My guests though leave little presents under the tables for me. Gifts like half bottles of sneaked in vodka and rum. Gifts like unwanted secret santa presents. If you don't want them then I certainly don't. But there was also less pleasant gifts like unwanted and half chewed sprouts. I hate people sometimes.

Vegetarians. Bless their little weak hearts. I mean they really do get the shitty end of the stick at christmas parties. If something can be chesnutted up then that's what they end up getting. From Chestnut risotto to chestnut surprise. Bleurgh.

Why me? I cried this every morning I had to get up. I have never been so tired, disorientated, shattered, washed out, drained and pooped after a period of work than I was after this christmas. It would have been so much worse if I had been smoking. I cling to that thought.

X-Rated. Apparently the couple who had to be turfed out of the toilets twice and eventually asked to leave all together were up to some very strange and salacious activities in the ladies conveniences. I couldn't get a full description but there were allegedly animal noises and Homer Simpson impersonations. Crikey.

Yuletide. I mean what does it even mean? Chefs use it as a way of turning some standard meal into a christmas related offering. For example your standard issue chocolate cake can become an xmas cake just by putting the word Yuletide in front of it. The same goes for gravy, Yuletide Jus or even a humble portion of vegetables can become a seasonal Yuletide Medley of Vegetables with the inclusion of one word. Lazy shites.

Zeds. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. If anybody needs me I'll be sleeping until the weekend.

Have a great few days what ever you do or don't do.

"Clear a path! I'm going home!" soon.....

And on the Last Day of Christmas my truelove gave to me, and I swear somebody is taking the piss, a restaurant full of bed wetting, overly sensitive, most likely vegetarian, mentalist sentimentalist Coldplay fans.

Are you fucking trying to provoke me?

Are you trying to make me stab someone?

Sake. And I have a shitty cold.

One day to go, one short service full of muppets. I hate Coldplay and all they stand for. Apparently they release yellow balloons filled with glitter during some song or other, Clocks I think. Awh how nice. Cunts. I hope somebody fills them with anthrax, that'd teach them.

I'm so tired. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of moaning about being tired. I cant even sleep on in the morning as the Landlord is sending a chimney sweep round first thing to sweep the chimney, obviously. Chimney sweep? What is this, the 1950's?

This post was brought to you with bitterness and exhaustion and a deep seated hatred of Coldplay. I've said this before but it bears repeating, "Coldplay. Music for men who cry when they masturbate." Boo hoo hoo....

I promise a proper post tomorrow, The Well Done Fillet Review of Christmas.

Shhhhhhh I'm sleeping.

Not today folks, not today. I haven't been this tired since I last shared an hotel room with The Cousin. That boy snores like a frigging cement mixer and with the relentlessness of a purring cat. But that's all neither here nor there. I'm too pooped to write and I have two more days to go.

Back tomorrow with the Well Done Fillet Review of Christmas (may contain swearing).

Crikey! We have to do it again?

Moment of the day from Thursday? A drunk union leader abusing the staff. Nice. Sweary insults and all. The workers, united, shall never be defeated, or serve you again you complete asswipe.

Black Friday, for real this time......

If I get through this without a smoke I will confidently call myself a non-smoker.

If I get through this without sarcasm or swearing you can call me a lying bastard.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.....

I love days like this.

No I really mean that, it's the biggest buzz you can get. Well the biggest you can get at work whilst sober and fully clothed.

Awesome-o.

I need an angry dog......

"Would you sit a peace. Your father will be here in a minute" said the cross, and getting crosser by the moment, woman to her fidgety daughter. I think she meant it more in hope rather than expectation. It was half six and daddy dearest still hadn't arrived. The other daughter appeared to know, what I assumed, that daddy wouldn't be here soon.

here boy...

now bite!

They had been booked for 6pm and were in for something to eat before heading to a school carol service. The little girls were dressed in matching outfits, the sort you save for a special occasion, and the mother had clearly gone to some effort too as she looked resplendent in her best frock. They were on a tight schedule as it was and the daddy's no show wasn't helping the mother relax. She took her frustration out on her youngest who was hungry. I knew she was hungry because she kept saying it.

"I'm hungry, when we getting food. I'm hungry", she said about two thousand times.

I had refilled their drinks three times but still bad dad didn't arrive. The fucking laggard. I was trying to leave them alone as I didn't want them to feel under any more pressure but time was moving on, as it tends to do, and if they wanted to sing happy and joyous songs to celebrate jebus' birthday then they really did need to make a decision.

I approached the table with some bread and tapenade just as mother finally, and understandably, lost it. Through gritted teeth and with an angry voice bordering on shouting she exclaimed, "You'll get your dinner when your father gets here. Now sit at bloody peace."

"He's always bloody late", replied the fidgety and hungry seven year old.

"Don't you use that language with me young lady", warned the mother.

"BUT YOU SAID IT FIRST."

"Here's some bread!", I announced as if that was going to solve the case of the missing daddy. They stared at me as if I was the one that was mental but the older daughter said thanks and blobbed some tapenade on a little bit of bread for her little sister. It was sweet. The exasperated woman tried to phone him again but still he didn't answer.

"Do you want to try my phone? Just in case there is something wrong with yours?" She knew what I meant and her eyes light up as I handed it over. Seeing a different number on his mobile phone display the cunty fucker answered within three rings.

Daddy arrived five minutes later wreaking of booze and full of kisses for his little girls. They eventually ordered and I got the kitchen to rush it through. But daddy, the utter shite, insisted on ordering ice cream for his princesses, as he kept calling them. This was going to make them late and caused mother to rush to the bathroom clearly upset.

I was seething but the mother had gone past seething and on to a much darker and angrier place. By the time they left they were about twenty minutes late for the start of the carol service. The kids were giddy as they were full of ice cream and fizzy pop. Dad was giddy as he was full of whiskey and beer. Mummy wasn't so giddy as she was full of anger.

I hope the manipulative bastard gets rabies, I hope he gets rabies and fucking chokes to death on his own spit. And we have rabies in Belfast now apparently, so fingers crossed.

I want to be alone......

I was just home from work from yet another day/night of turkey shuffling and drink humping and was feeling grouchy. Belligerence oozed from every aching pore. The Cousin greeted me with his usual face of wariness and apprehension. He likes to wait for a moment to judge my mood before fully engaging me in conversation. Now, as I was threatening the kitchen door and swearing at the kettle and anything else that I deemed to be getting in my way he correctly assumed that I was in a less than favourable mood. I really am a joy to live with.

'tis the season to be sherry

or fucking not

This mood was due in part to my being utterly shattered and in no small part due to the last two guests I had served before I left. They wound me right up, and I was already so tightly wrapped it was gonna take very little to set me off.

"Can we get two sweet sherries please?"

Sweet sherry? That'll do it. And at that I crossed over from being slightly tired and emotional to being angry and combative.

Their simple request was met with a terse, "Sweet sherry? Yeah we don't do it."

"No sweet sherry Niles!"

"None Frasier."

Okay they weren't the Crane brothers but they may as well have been what with the way they went at the wine list and compared it to wine lists in other establishments. Was I not in the mood for this carry on. And you know you are in for a rough ride if the first thing they ask for is sweet sherry, especially if they aren't 65 year old women. They made do with a bottle of Bordeaux Supérieur 2005, obviously. Seriously the last thing I needed after a rather elongated and ball achingly annoying lunch service was two foodies out to pick holes in the carte de vins, as the portlier one kept saying.

I wouldn't mind but they were from Cavan or Monaghan or some other shite border town. Since when did they get so uppity and full of themselves? Ah the bog trotters appear to not only be able to stand upright but order wine too, cunts.

By the time Finbar and Niall, as I had taken to calling them, had considered, scrutinized and ingested three courses of late night supper I was fit to be tied. I approached them with a huge beaming, and obviously forced, smile hoping against hope that they were done for the night. But alas no.

"Some port would be wonderful", said Finbar

Zeebrugge sounds about right, I thought.

"Yes, sir some port it is" , I replied with a heavy heart.

It took another half hour for them to finish two small ports. But eventually they finished and did the right thing and fucked off home to fill in their journals and score their dining experience on one of those god awful internet review sites. Democracy is such a frightful bore. Who do these people think they are coming into a restaurant at night and ordering food? Sake. It took me about 2 whole minutes to clear and set their table and phone the wonderful people at Fon-a-Cab to come get me.

So there I was standing in the kitchen with The Cousin staring at me from behind the fridge as I muttered threats at most of the kitchen appliances for not working quick enough or too quick. He, as I said, was judging my mood and then hit me with,

"We have a problem." That invariably means I have a problem.

"WHAT? What fucking now?"

"Eh the heating boiler thingy-ma-jig (he is as technically gifted as I) is spewing out soot and black smoke."

"Right."

"And...", there was fear in is little bloodshot eyes.

"And? And fucking what?"

"Next door's kitchen is covered in it."

"Right......" I continued making a cup of tea and uttered a violent threat at the toaster for not toasting quick enough.

".....well there's fuck all I can do about it right now." And I shuffled off to bed leaving the cousin cowering behind the fridge. I am such a complete asshole sometimes. Sometimes.

In the end I got no sleep as I pondered the joy that is phoning the landlord. And how would I deal with the new neighbour? She was probably quite miffed, justifiably so, seeing as her kitchen was now coal mine than cooking room.

It's all too much. I don't respond well to adversity when tired. I did phone the landlord who greeted my call with his usual long pause which left me none the wiser as to what he intended to do. The house is baltic and if it hadn't been for a quickly delivered bottle of wine, chocolates and xmas card the relationship with her next door would be frostier.

Seriously I cannot wait for January and the expected slump. I'm gonna sleep for a week only waking to shout at something, probably The Cousin or the toaster.

A day without chefs......awesome

I was off work on Sunday and enjoyed a wonderful and spiffing day both lounging and indeed reclining. Not even the hideousness of The Attack of the Clones could ruin my lazy Sunday. Still, not all Sundays are as fantastically lovely. Take the previous one for example. That was a "fun" day at work. For a while it was fun like dangling by your extremities over a pit of less than pleasant and quite angry vipers.

please check under your house/car/bin.....etc

(I knew this picture would get used again one day)

I was still in somewhat of a daze as I meandered through the kitchen, the exertions of the previous shift had left me feeling less than perky. But I was happy to get through the lair of a thousand smart ass remarks and out the other side without having to tell someone to go fry their head. It was way too early to have to deal with chefs and their questionable witticism. It was only when I was back behind the bar a while later that I realised that we were missing not just the smart assed remarks of the chefs but the large gaping holes from where they emanate. In other words, there were no chefs.

Crikey.

They had all retired to a local hostelry for a post shift beverage or two after work on Saturday night to bid farewell to one of their brethren who was moving on to pastures, or should that be cookers, new. Clearly they had many many more beverages than the "couple" they had mentioned before they left. But knowing why they weren't in really wasn't helping with the roasting of beef and the mashing of potatoes or for that matter even with the switching on of things. We were staring down the barrel of a busy Sunday lunch with no cooker monkeys. Now I've always said waiters are more important in a restaurant than the chefs but now that theory was about to be put to the test.

So after a good twenty minutes of head scratching, the furious necking of espresso, three mild panic attacks (there was nothing mild about it) we all agreed that waiters are not more important in a restaurant than chefs. Better looking, but not as important, obviously. Many phone calls were made and many phone calls went unanswered. Waiters arrived and then went on elongated smoke breaks, this was awesome. The manager, one not noted for calmness under fire, was in a right state. Guests were beginning to arrive.

This was squelchy time.

"We need a lie", I ventured to the flame haired key jangler. Nothing works better than a good lie to get out of trouble. So I came up with a massive one about electrical problems overnight having rendered the kitchen unsafe to work in but that experts were winging their way to address the issue. I may have used the word widget more than a few times and managed to deliver this fantastic story whilst maintaining a very sombre and lugubrious visage through out. And who was the first person I lied this lie to? That's right a Vicar and his lady friend. I enjoyed that.

The first of the bedraggled and sorry looking chaps showed up at twelve, which was okay as he was due to start at twelve. He didn't look too bad at first but as soon as he realised that he was on his own his hangover took over. So at least there were two of them in the kitchen. There was much discussion between him, the manager and another manager over the phone. This didn't seem to go well as there was a near walkout, of the one chef we had, and it took a further phone call and much calming of nerves to steady the ship, the ship that was sinking that is. I was busying myself with the telling of massive porkies to unhappy guests at the restaurant door whilst my waiter chums caught up on gossip and filed their nails.

It was 2pm before we finally opened. The errant chefs, including the monkey in chief, the head chef, finally dragged their drunken asses into work over the next few hours. But it was all fairly pointless by that point as I had knocked back many phone reservations and walk ins already. There is talk of getting them all electronically tagged, like sheep or prisoners so that this wont happen again but they are devious little chaps, like Jack Russell's, and would just chew their own legs off to get a beer.

What a wonderful Sunday it was though, no kids with their sticky fingers touching things that don't concern them, no post church holier than thou sorts sticking their noses up at the hungover staff, and no smart ass remarks from smart ass chefs.

No tips either but life is full of little trade offs. If only every Sunday was that lovely......

Take some responsibility.....

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.

Bob from accounting was a right shit with a drink in him....

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.

I chose not to choose life.....

Choose life.
Choose a job.
Choose a career.
Choose a family.
Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers.
Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance.
Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments.
Choose a starter home.
Choose your friends.
Choose leisure wear and matching luggage.
Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics.
Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning.
Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth.
Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future.
Choose life...

I chose not to choose life, I chose waiting tables. Which is sort of like heroin but not as skanky and the money's better waiting tables than being a junkie but everything else is the same.

That's a cracker.....

What's the best cheese to use to hide a horse?


Mascarpone....

Fucking loved that when I found it on a table, nearly took the pain away of yet another 12 hour shift with no break no food and no one telling me I'm a lovely boy. That's right I need the love. I stood and giggled almost uncontrollably until little tears ran down my face. Not sure if it was exhaustion or it is a really good joke. In the end I had to go and sit down.

Black Friday 1, of 2, is upon me and it would be fair to say I'm pooing myself at the thought of it. I'm getting to old for this malarky.....

Magic moments eh.

Mascarpone, hehehehehehehe.......

You know how to whistle don't you......

I'm a whistler. I love few things more than a satisfying tuneful whistle whilst I bob along listening to whatever it is the old iPod has randomly selected to fill my ears with. I whistle because my singing is awful, not that stops me very often. But whistling is more preferable and less likely to cause outrage on the bus, my voice being awful enough to cause outrage. But after Wednesday's shenanigans in town I may have to give up whistling as well. It was all just a misunderstanding but it left me red faced and forced me to unplug my headphones and wander with nothing but my own thoughts for company. Scary moments I can tell you.

cheeky santa plays a sad trombone
just for you.....

I was bobbing along listening to The National whistling away and somewhat unaware of my general surroundings, as you do when you are having a footloose and fancy free afternoon. When I whistle with the iPod on I tend to just whistle to selected parts of the tune. If you were listening to me whistle you would have no clue as to what I was listening to. After a while I found myself in the queue in Boots the Chemist. The queue was long and people were budging and bodging in that extra special way they like to at christmas time. Oh yes the atmosphere was just "special". Tis the season to be jolly, apparently.

The chap in front of me was a large specimen of manliness and he didn't appear to be enjoying the intricacies of the Boots queueing system. He huffed and he puffed and he appeared to be trying to make the people in front of him move quicker with his eyes. Needless this wasn't working for him. I was in no hurry so I just whistled away the time and shuffled forward as the the queue snaked it's way closer to the tills. Yer man was getting more and more tense, I could see him huffing and lipread his muttered swearing. I'm not sure my whistling was helping him much. I was fucking positive it wasn't helping when he turned round sharply and said, well I didn't get it first time as I had my headphones on. But he helpfully repeated it.

"Did you just fucking wolf whistle at me, mate?", he seethed through gritted teeth.

"Me?"

"Aye fucking you, you wee fat...."

"Woah, I've no idea what you're on about. I was whistling to the iPod." I said this more forcefully than I would normally when faced with a 6 foot oaf as Boots is crawling with security guards.

"Well knock it fucking off", says he and he stuffed his shave cream and hand wipes(?) onto the nearest shelf and stormed off pushing past people in the queue. Charming I'm sure. I did decide to switch the old iPod off though, just in case he came back. That's the second time I've done that. It was all frightfully embarrassing.

Still not as embarrassing as the woman who demanded to speak to the Glorious Leader on Friday night. Bear in mind this happened at about half seven on a Friday night in December. That's prime time. Whilst the gravy wasn't hitting the fan it was perilously close. All the waiter chums were deep into to turkey town by this point. It would be safe to say these turkeys were moving quicker in death than they ever managed in life. They had reached their little turkey destinies and the chef hadn't let them down.

All was well so it was with some surprise that we found out that somebody was demanding to speak to him. He doesn't like facing punters with no knowledge of what their problem is as he cant trot out any of his prepared lines. Off he fearlessly tottled leaving us to fret that we had done something wrong. Had someone noticed that gravy spill on their coat? Did table six hear my opinion of her haircut, not good by the way - looked like a skunk, a skunk I tells ye! Whatever it was we didn't know, which left us unable to get out stories straight. We would have to wing it.

He arrived back ten minutes later seething with passive aggressive rage. Sometimes I just wish he would join me in the darkside and let the rage out. Lovely lovely rage. This is what he told the huddled group of waiter chums.

"Yes madam how can I help?"

She stood there with her arms out stretched and looking all around the room. "Help me? Look?"

"Eh, at what?", says the coffee drinker-in-chief.

"LOOK!"

"At what?" He has a tremendous ability to stay calm.

"There's no one dancing" said she and pointed at all the people not dancing but seemingly having a good time.

"Okay and ...?"

"Make them dance", insisted the crazy woman.

"Make them dance? How should I make them dance?", enquired the boss. Now see I would have reached for the stabbing fork right at that point. Make them dance? Get away and shake yerself. A Sad Trombone moment if ever there was one.

There then ensued, an apparently, lively discussion about how it was the bosses fault that people weren't dancing and that it was his responsibility to make them dance as it was ruining her night. I mean what do you do faced with that sort of nonsense? He dismissed her out of hand, what else could you do? She advised him to "go to business school". Ouch, bet he like that.It's just a result she didn't approach me first. God bless the band they really do try but you cant please all the people all the time. Maybe they should try their hand or lips at a bit of whistling, that seems to get people moving!

Mentalists the both of them, the man in Boots the Chemist I mean. Not the boss. Okay maybe the boss too.

The story of four very shady fuckers.....

I heard about this shitty little trick that was played on a waiter in another restaurant a few months ago and I thought I'd share it with you. Now don't even think about trying it out for yourselves as we are wise to it now. I swear if I got caught out with it I'd hunt the fuckers down and beat them until my fist were nothing but bone. And there's a fair bit of chubbiness to get through if we are being honest.

shady fucker....

A seemingly charming table of four arrived, without reservations, at a local hostelry-cum-restaurant.

"Table for four is it? Certainly", replied the friendly waiter and showed them to a vacant table. It was a Tuesday night and not so busy.

The two ladies parked their large handbags under the table whilst the chaps removed their jackets. All was well. Friendly waiter secured a drink order and talked them through that day's specials offering her humble opinion along the way. Nothing seemed untoward or in any way peculiar about the cheery foursome. In fact later on the waiter would go as far as to say that it was the picture of perfect dining. Oh how appearances can be deceiving.

Food was served and food was consumed with considerable gusto. The wine too was consumed in large volumes and was replenished more than once. By all accounts everybody was having a gay old time - the guest were happy as was the waiter and the repartee at the table was the sort that makes for a great night with lots of snappy one liners and good banter.

They took it in turns to pop outside for a smoke between courses but when they had finished their mains they all wanted to go together. That's not unusual.

"Sure not a problem....", replied the friendly waiter "...I'll keep an eye on your jackets and bags. Shall I leave sweet menus on the table for you?", asks she.

"Sure, you do that, we'll be back in a mo", answered one of the chaps.

The friendly waiter went on about her business serving other punters and generally being lovely to all and sundry as we are required to under law. It had been ten minutes since her charming and somewhat giddy table of four had slipped out for a smoke. She just assumed that they were having a two-er. It was a late summers evening and still quite warm outside so she didn't blame them for loitering a bit longer outside. She thought nothing of it.

But as ten minutes turned into twenty minutes she became a bit concerned that they still hadn't returned. It was getting late and like most waiting staff she had a date with a beer that she didn't want to be late for due the smoking habits of a boozed up four top. She went to retrieve them.

She checked the front of the building.

She checked the back of the building.

She checked round the side of the building and then the bar and then the toilets eventually ending up back where she started, standing beside an abandoned table of four.

"Rotters", she exclaimed, or words to that effect.

"They've done a runner!" She was crestfallen. How was she to explain this to a manager? A table of one skipping out on a busy Saturday night is one thing but losing a whole table of four on a quiet Tuesday is hard to justify. As she pondered her next move she spied the bags and jackets.

"They've left the bags and coats", she squealed with excitement. Bags and jackets would mean wallets and id's and maybe even phones. They could be traced and the wrong put right.

"Hurrah!", she exclaimed, or at least something like that and lifted the first bag and pulled in open.

"What the fuck?", she roared, exactly like that.

"What the fuck?" She really was confused.

The formerly friendly waiter pulled at the contents of the bag like a child digging through wrapping paper on christmas morning to get to the present. But alas for our waiter there was no present nor wallet or id of any form. There was instead newspaper, old crumbled balls of paper.

"Balls, balls, balls, balls, balls." I don't think she was counting them out.

She was crestfallen overcome with rage and anger. She snatched at the other bag. It was the same. The jackets were of no use either except for the nasty shiny blue one which had a price tag still attached to the inside collar, £5.00 from a local charity shop.

What the waiter said next isn't recorded but I like to think it involved many uses of the "c" word mixed with threats of violence. It had all become sparklingly obvious to her what had just happened, she had been had, in the worst way, by pro's.

They had gone to a local charity shop and purchased some cheap jackets and bags, probably for under £20 for the lot. It was the sort of tat that from a distance looks okay but on closer inspection you just know it came from a charity shop. It was the sort of shite you would be happy to exchange for a free slap up dinner. They even had the audacity to tell her they were going for a smoke and she said she would watch their stuff. This hurt the most.

This is of course another unforeseen consequence of the smoking ban (one that I heartily approve of now, obviously), this shit never happened before the ban!! So if you are going for a smoke during your meal this weekend don't be surprised if the waiter comes too, just to keep an eye on you.

I'm gonna get HAMmered today....

In order to give guests the best possible service during the party season we ask them to order their chosen meals in advance. It's the only way to get them in and out in two hours best attend to their every whim-cum-eccentricity and it's a system that has served us well for many a year. But now that pork has gone and got it's beautiful self all sullied and violated with the contents of the household waste of the good people of County Carlow I fear that our pre-order system is about to crash harder than Pete Doherty on a Monday morning after a weekend bender.

I miss you so so much

The phone, fax and email systems will be jammed with twitchy diners trying to change from turkey and ham to salmon or the, previously mad cow, steak or something else free from dioxins. And who will be on the other end trying to deal with this panic? That's right, waiter chum number one. Suppose I'll have to help. The problem being that our Christmas reservations book and pre-order folder is a very delicate ecosystem much like the Amazon. And much like the Amazon the less people crawling all over it the better. Once the order has been received we have to mark it off and note it on various other sheets, highlighter pens are deployed and strange codes are used to notify everyone that the order has been got. Now, to have to undo all that because the news is kicking up a storm about some teeny tiny risk is a massive pain in the ass.

But undo it we will. Not just anybody can do it, in fact very few, that is to say two of us, can do it. Others try and fail and fuck the aforementioned delicate ecosystem up. Their piss poor attempts at recreating our mythical codes and shorthand is the equivalent of bringing a flu sufferer to the Amazon - that is to say it causes chaos!! Chaos, I tell you with no hint of hyperbole. Some have suggested we have made it all too complicated. Others say we are full of shit. Most say we are full of our own self importance and are just keeping ourselves in jobs. But they don't know the ways of the booking system and more importantly the ways of the guest with their special dietary requirements and attempts at ludicrous substitutions.

I had one chap, last week, email me and ask for extra soup in his bowl and extra turkey with his eh turkey. Both were denied. Another didn't want pudding so he asked for an Irish coffee. Oh wouldn't it be great to live in a world were xmas pudding could be swapped for Irish coffee? But we don't. His request was also denied. This isn't a school playground were kids swap new shoes for a bag of Space Raider crisps. And what of the chap who was allergic to egg but still wanted his chicken breaded? We had to tell him to catch a fucking grip, politely, but still we had to do it.

You see these details were spotted not by the managers, who pass the emails to us, but by us. They would be happy to file it and say nothing. But we, waiters, are the guardians of the ordering/booking system, we are the ones who say, "no". We don't like having to say, "no" (actually that's not true, I love saying no) but we have to do it, for the good of the restaurant, for the good of society as a whole. I'm gonna get a little hat and a uniform to go with my new Mussolini-esque attitude.

Tuesday is going to be a wonderful day, I can feel it. And if any one of the twitcher switchers is a smoker I'll personally stuff a pigs head up their butt and then mark them all over with my highlighter pen.

Seriously.

Jebus wept, I wept, the chef went nanas.....

Suicide by cop is a suicide method in which a person deliberately acts in a threatening way, with the goal of provoking a lethal response from a law enforcement officer, such as being shot to death. So says wikipedia, so it must be true.

Suicide by waiter is a suicide method in which a person deliberately acts in an boorish and uncouth manner, with the goal of provoking a lethal response from a waiter, such as being stabbed to death with a rusty stabbing fork that the waiter keeps in his apron for such occasions. So says me, Manuel, thus making it not only true but the law.

Fucking ketchup with sea bass, get away and shake yourself you undeserving cretin.

Famine 2.0

All Irish Pork products have been recalled. Crikey so that's no pork products - sausages, bacon, the ridiculously named vegetable roll and what have you on a Sunday morning in Ireland when most of the country has a hangover?

There'll be fucking carnage, mark my words......carnage.....

Where were you when you heard the news?

Don't ask anymore stupid questions.....

"How much money would you have to win to make you resign from work, immediately, no notice, no waiting for them to cover you, just a quick phone call to say you wont be in? How much?, asked waiter chum number one as we cleared the empty bottles, used napkins, discarded party hats and well thumbed glassware from our recently departed table of 18.

"Eh you looking rid of me or what?", I replied feeling a little unwanted.

"You know what I mean. How much?", she persisted.

"Hmmmmmm £30,000 and I'll quit right now and I wont even tell them for a week. You have £30,000 right now?"

"No, I was just wondering."

"Right, you were just wondering."

"You're weird."

"You think?"

"Yup, I'd give you £3o just to stop talking right now", says I.

"You got thirty quid right now?" she replies with a glint of hope in her eyes.

"Nah, well no money that I wanna give to you."

"Touche."

"Touche indeed."

"What would you do if you won the lottery?"

"No, no I'm not playing that game......You can clean this table on your own."

And off I went wondering just how little it would take to make me quit my job for a year. Turns out it's not as much as you would think.

Today is slightly dark Friday, not to be confused with black Friday but still dark enough to scare the b'jesus out me. I wont sleep tonight, mainly dreaming about what I would do with a year off work......

So how much would it take you to win to quit work, even just for a while?

Oh Richard why are you such a Dick?

I had one of those tables of two on Wednesday night that you sort of know but you don't know well enough. Friends of friends rather than actual friends, if you know what I mean. Actually they are more acquaintances of friends than friends of friends. To be honest that is stretching it a bit. The guy used to go out with a friend of my mates. Christ I'm making hard work of this.

I sort of knew the guy, that's all you need to know.

Richard
or Dick to the people who know him....

But he thinks he knows me, which is disappointing because he greeted me like a long lost brother with a big hearty hello, complete with backslapping and big toothy smile, and I returned it with nothing more than a vague and skeptical look.

"Right, yeah I'm good. And how are you....?", I scanned the booking sheet in the vain hope that his name would pop out. It did not. More disappointment.

After an awkward moment or two where I pretended to know who the hell he was I got him seated. Actually I got waiter chum number four to seat him. His over the top greeting and overt friendliness unsettled me and I needed a moment to figure out who he was. By the time my dark matter clicked into gear waiter chum had secured a drink order from him and the guy's dining partner had excused herself to the bathroom. He had gone out with my chums friend and had been less than chivalrous towards her, the two timing rat.

I drifted over with his drinks. That's not entirely accurate, drifting that is, as I was shattered from a busy lunch shift and pre concert crowd. The Dionne Warwick crowd isn't a happy crowd. It would be judicious to say I dragged my aching body to his table, think Quasi Modo minus a bell fetish and you are about right.

"So how's you doing Richard? Haven't seen you in a while", says I with fake sincerity.

"Oh good good Manuel, busy with a bit of this and that and more of the same." I love people who speak in riddles. Wanker. Bit of this and that is it? Nothing in other words.

"That's good [long pause filled only with nodding head and fake smiles] eh I'll be back in a mo then to get your order."

"Great man, sweet, cheers." And just as I was about to turn my back his lady friend returned from the toilet.

"Ah Manuel this is my current girlfriend, Jenny. Jenny this is Manuel", he was looking rather smug at both of us. It almost seemed like he was proud to be showing of his rather attractive girlfriend to me and he was trying to show off the fact that he knew the waiter to her. Massive douche syndrome. But I heard what he said, Jenny heard what he said. I decided to stick around to see how that little faux pas was gonna play out. Deliciously I hoped.

"Excuse me?", says Jenny right on queue.

"Man-uel", says our Richard or Dick as I think I'll call him from here on in. He said it nice and slow as if Jenny hadn't heard him right.

"I heard his name." Her head was going like a cement mixer.

"What do you mean ,"current girlfriend"?" Ding ding ding, we have a winner! I was still standing there with the tray held up on my chest. This was gonna kick off.

"Ach...", says Dick "....you know what I mean"

"No, actually I don't, why don't you tell me?"

"Seriously I didn't mean anything." His uncomfortableness was pleasing me and I chuckled, into myself, as he squirmed and wriggled on his increasing hot chair.

"NO, explain yourself. Am I just a temporary measure? A stand in until something better comes along? Explain yourself." She was calm but forceful. I was still there, still watching, still loving it. I wanted to shake hands with Jenny and introduce myself properly. Honest. Describing your partner in the same way you describe a car or stereo or mobile phone is not smart, it's offensive.

"No, no you're not." Turning to me he continues with, "Manuel..."

"Yup?" I was intrigued.

"This is Jenny my one and only girlfriend."

Now I know what he meant but it didn't come across the way he meant it. It instead implied that there may be others and knowing his track record there probably were. Jenny took it that way too. We shook hands and I backed away.

"Listen Dick, just stop speaking. Your digging a hole", says Jenny from behind her menu.

Dick was ashen. Jenny was angry. Manuel was full of the joys of life. Other peoples pain? Is there anything funnier? In the end Jenny wasn't hungry, apparently and they both left after finishing their drinks. I think Jenny went to fetch the car as she left before Dick, on her own. I don't think Jenny is Dick's current girlfriend or ever will be again.

Lovely.

The ridiculousness of restaurant plates.....

We had new plates delivered at work last week. The previous set were suddenly deemed uncool or something and now languish in old wine boxes at the foot of the back stairs. Their fate is uncertain much like my arms. After one weekend using them I felt like I had spent 48 hours on the rack being pulled and stretched and not in a good way. I was glad when Sunday was over and I could literally drag, like an orangutan, my achy breaky arms home.

and that's just to serve the bread.....
...for one person

The new plates are heavier than the old plates actually they are heavier than a box of the old plates. Why must the plates be so heavy?

Why?

Why?

Why?

It's a never ending cycle of heaviness. These plates are heavier than the last plates which were heavier than the plates before them. Give it five years or so and it will take two or three waiters to carry your plate to the table, and that'll just be the starter. Special hoists will drop and pick up your main dishes.

There really is no need. It's not like the AC is so strong that it's likely to lift the plate from your table. Not only are the plates heavy they are big. Why must the plates be so big? Why? Does food taste better on a plate the size of a bin lid? I really don't think so. No it's a plan to cripple me. What else can it be? At first I was quite pleased with the new plates and their off whiteness and their large lip which means they could probably double as bowls except we put soup in cups now and coffee comes in a vase and flowers are displayed in shoes and we wear gloves on out feet. Okay maybe not but you know what I mean. It's all gone mental in the world of food service.

It really has.

Tiny salads are served on huge satellite dish sized plates whilst steaks are perched precariously on top of huge towers of fries that rest on a bowl that used to serve soup. If I wanted my soup in a cup I would have stayed at home and put the kettle on and opened a packet. What's going on? Is it all smoke and mirrors to hide from the averageness of the food? Chefs and restrauteurs have got us believing that our food will taste better if the crockery is as interesting as the food. Why just the other day I had some stew served in bowl that looked like a football (soccer) that had just been hollowed out at a ridiculous angle by a blind Welshman with a rusty blade. It was ludicrous, the stew was nice but it was lost on me as I tried to navigate my way around the bowl to the side that was less steep. But it was like a trick of the mind as no matter what way you spun the bowl the less steep side was always at the furtherest point from your mouth.

Frustrating stuff.

I remember the old days, being old that's no surprise. Plates came in one colour, white and were always round except when they were oval but that was okay as it made sense to put fish on an oval plate. Soup came in a bowl with a satisfactory lip making them both easy to serve and collect again. I'm no fan of square bowls and rectangular plates. I fucking abhor, with a passion equal to that of the most rabid Nazi, the glass plate. Oh what is that all about? They are detestable in the extreme and serve no earthly purpose other than to give chefs something to fucking whinge about when you touch it with your less than sterile fingers and you have the audacity to leave a fingerprint on the glass. It's fucking glass what the fuckity fuck do you expect?

You know what gets on my man boobs the most though? It's that they have us doing it at home now too. No more is sausage and mash served on a plate in my house, oh no that wouldn't do. I insist on it being served in a bowl, just like they do in gastro pubs. It's ridiculous.

Obviously all our protests were waved away and we were advised to toughen up. Toughen up is it? Give it a week or two of lifting these round stone slabs covered in turkey and fixins' and even the smallest of the waiting staff will have the arms of Geoff Capes. I made that remark numerous times over the weekend only to be met with blank stares. Geoff Capes for fucks sake, who doesn't know Geoff Capes? He was the worlds strongest man, twice and he keeps budgies.

Bleurgh, I need a smoke today.

The Good, The Bad, and the Penis

"Sorry say that again?"

"A hundred and eighty two pounds!"

"A hundred and eighty two pounds? Holy sweet mother of mercy and baby jesus in the manger on the first christmas morning with a new Nintendo Wii that's a lot of money."

I was shocked, shocked and delighted. Waiter chum number two had lifted the aforementioned sum of money as a tip from a wonderful table of 20 for a little over two hours work. I wasn't shocked that waiter chum number two had done well with the table as she is a good un, but rather the fact that they had tipped another hundred on top of their service charge did take my breath away. As the wonderful couple who settled the bill left with all their wonderful colleagues in tow we formed an honour guard fitting of a departing head of state. There was genuine tears trickling down my hardened face. We all took turns in kissing their behinds and inviting them to return soon, soon like tomorrow.

a urinal...
not a water cooler

This was in stark contrast to the tight fisted, parsimonious, and ultimately idiotic table of ten from earlier in the evening.

"Excuse me young man...", she didn't say it like a compliment as it had come right down her nose, "...can I settle the bill before we sit down?" Their food was pre-ordered so it was no big deal. Waiter chum number one presented her with the bill, complete with service charge.

"This seems a little higher than we expected", exclaimed the thin lipped woman dripping in gold and cocooned in fur. Waiter chum number one went through the bill line by line with her like she was a five year old learning long division for the first time. I was standing nearby twitching to join in, but I didn't. Waiter chum number one knew full well what Priscilla Penny Pincher was quibbling about but played along. No point in making it easy. If they don't want to pay the service charge then make them say it, out loud at that.

"Ah it's the service charge...." No shit Sherlock! "...No, no I don't think we ever pay such tariffs we we dine out. We shall see how we feel at the end of the meal." Her lips thinned so much as she spoke it was as if she had shed them to save blood.

"Okie dokie then madam, that's not a problem", replied waiter chum number one as she made the changes on the bill. With the bill settled Priscilla Penny Pincher turned to take her seat but not before half turning and looking over her shoulder back at waiter chum number one and I and adding, "You'll just have to work harder for that tip....oh and be a sweetie and fetch me a G&T would you."

I'll fetch my boot up yer ass.

Hey if you don't want to pay the service charge then don't, we will get over it. But for the love of Gordon Ramsay's alleged mistress don't tell the waiter before you have even slurped your first lukewarm (for all your food will be lukewarm) spoonful of soup that you "don't ever pay such tariffs". It's not smart and if you think that by doing so the waiter is going to work harder for you you are very much mistaken. My days of dancing are well and truly over. There was no line up to say goodbye to her or her chums.

The weekend was superb though. As a warm up for the really big shifts coming over the next few week it was perfect. And despite the shenanigans of Priscilla and her Penny Pinching ways we made some great money too. But it's not her that sticks in my mind nor is it the wonderful couple who tipped us so generously. No it was something much more, well, how shall I put it? Penile! Yes penile is the best way to describe the horror that was the ten o'clock toilet check.

It would be fair to say that I have never thrived well in a locker room type environment. I was shite at all sports at school, that said I wasn't the last to be picked for team events. Thank god there were two kids more useless than me. I never enjoyed the dubious camaraderie and towel flicking of the showers and even to this day I will select only those swimming pools that offer individual and private changing areas over the ones that offer only communal areas in which to get dressed. I'm not insecure I just don't like those environments. Honest.

So in I wandered to check the toilets were flowing as they should be when who should I find taking a pish and talking on his phone at the same time but the nice chap from my cute table of two. The cute thing didn't last long though. He chatted, pished, shook it, and turned around and nodded in my direction. I acknowledged him and spun right round to wash my hands as his chap was still hanging out, little did I know he was air drying it.

"I have to say Manuel that was a fantastic meal, really lovely." Why he had to tell me this with his dick swinging in the wind I'm not quite sure.

I decided that I would forgo drying my hands and would just use some white roll when I got back into the safe and penis covered environment of the restaurant. "Oh yeah great, cheers" replied I with both eyes firmly on the wall.

"Great service too from your good self, I really mean that." Oh sweet jebus why is he still talking to me with his Mickey still flopping and what's this...he's not.....he bloody is....."put it there young man!" and he reached out to shake my hand. I wasn't for putting anything anywhere.

Get to fucking fuck outta here! I told him my hands were still wet and scampered quick sharpish.

"I'll see you inside then", he shouts as I beat a hasty retreat. Oh no you fucking wont I thought as I ran. But five minutes later I was at the table with him and his wife taking his credit card payment in silence thinking about how all three of us had now seen his penis. Nice.

What ever happened to good old fashioned shame? Eh? I don't check the toilets anymore, obviously.

I'm a coward first and second and quite possibly third and then I'm a waiter...

a-ha....
I'll be getting my coat then...

I sort of slept in on Saturday morning, not long enough to be late for work but too long to allow me to do all that I wanted before my shift started, not that I was intending to do much. With only an hour to spare from getting up to going to work I had a Sophie's Choice of a decision to make - shower or eat. There was no time to do both. Whilst showering would please everybody I came into to contact with, eating would make me happy. Ok maybe not happy but certainly less grumpy.

Obviously I went with the showering. What was I to do, one must be minty fresh. Still it made for hours of grumpiness and snapping and generally being a complete shit to everyone I met, more so than normal that is. Serving people their dinner when you haven't had your breakfast doesn't make Manuel a happy little waiter man. Life as a waiter isn't all backslapping and fake laughing, there are tough days too.

I was half listening to the news as I pulled my socks on, it was survivor stories from the hideousness of the Mumbai attacks. As I struggled, manfully, with the putting on of socks and boxer shorts I became more and more intrigued and consumed with tale after tale of heroism and bravery as recanted by the lucky ones, the ones that got out. One chap praised the staff of the hotel with whom he had shared a basement or a wardrobe or whatever it was for all the help they had given him.

"Huh, nice work...", I thought as I sat on the end of my bed with my mouth wide open agog at the tales of heroic waiters and bellboys amongst others. I wondered what I would do if I was in that sort of situation, as a waiter. I didn't have to wonder for long.

"Fuck that...", came my almost immediate response. "....fuck that and then some, not me."

I'm all for helping guests, I really am, I mean I will go all the way to the store at the top of the building to get them an unlisted bottle of wine. I will venture into the lair of the chefs to fetch a special sauce. I will plead their case to the management when their lamb is less than luscious. Hell I will sing happy birthday to them and lead the whole restaurant in three cheers in celebration of the day they were born, I did it twice this weekend. Honestly I am a very firm believer in doing all that I can to make the guests experience a happy one.

But at some point the waiter/guest relationship ends - when the customer pays their bill, when they leave, when they soil themselves (or you) and quite obviously when the hotel/restaurant is attacked by raving loonies with machine guns hell bent on terror, chaos, carnage and murder. Obviously. First sign of an AK-47 and I'm a goner, apron off, shift over, sign out, ta ta now. It's every man woman and child for themselves at that point. I'm not guessing here and I'm not acting the big fella either, I'm speaking from experience....

It was 1991 or maybe 1992 and all in Belfast wasn't well. Drugs were the new bete noir of the middle class newspapers and ironically of the paramilitaries, ironic as they are were the main movers of drugs at the time. Everybody was against drugs, except apparently everybody under the age of thirty who were consuming E's, Acid, Speed and dope like it was CoCo-Puffs. The newspaper headlines screamed that drug usage was at epidemic proportions and that society was on the verge of collapse. Collapse? After thirty years of guns and bombs what was there left to fall over?

The paramilitaries would save the day, they would cleanse the streets of the odious peddlers of brain rotting MDMA and what have you. Huzzah said the people, except they didn't. The people were having too much fun to notice. But the people were too shit faced to know what they wanted so the paramilitaries sold them the drugs with one hand and then closed the nightclubs they went to with the other. This is were I come into the story.

I was working in a bar/restaurant on the edge of the city. It was a swell joint as popular with the kids as with the kids mummies and daddies. As the "drug scene" took hold the bar's nightclub changed to appeal to the new excitable raver, the fridges were cleared of beer and filled instead with water and chilled coke, a-cola. The music changed too, from 70's and 80's twee disco to the harder repetitive thumping of early 90's happy hardcore. Eeeew.

Oh yes this bar was ready to embrace the naughty nineties and all the drugs it could throw at it. So the men with wooly faces had to put a stop to it and they did, twenty five of them, with guns, one Sunday evening. Crikey. They had a little chat with the boss who quickly came to the same point of view as the men with wooly faces and guns that drugs were bad and that maybe closing the nightclub was the best thing to do. So he did. And all seemed well until the following Friday.

With the nightclub closed new entertainment was sought and secured, a nice little sing-a-long-a-provo band. What better example for the kids than that? But everyone was happy. The boss was happy he still had his business and his legs, the staff were happy as we all had jobs and the paramilitaries were happy as they looked like the heroes who had saved the community from the evils of the drugs they were selling. Oh yes for five whole days the world seemed okay again. That is until Friday night.....

I was working in the lounge bar [shudder] serving Pernod and black and Satzenbrau Pils (the only pills we were now allowed to sell) to all the jolly mummies and daddies when Andy came through from the other bar carrying his jacket over his arm and a pint in his hand.

"What's your game matey?", I asked. I was only a teenager but still a slacker is a slacker in my book.

"There's men in there with guns, fuck that", says he.

"Bullshit", says I and storms off to see what he was on about.

"Where the fuck you going, get fucking back." All of a sudden I was very aware that Andy was indeed right and that there were indeed "men in there with guns", except now there were in here and not so much in there. I got "fucking back" quick sharpish like I was told.

The music was halted, a blessed relief if you ask me, and the chaps with guns and baseball bats set about their work with relish and gusto, their work being the smashing up of the place and general threatening of all and sundry. They were jolly good at it too. I was quite literally pooing myself. All the screaming customers and staff were told to stay put and not move. Stay put and don't move? No problemo. Then another man appeared with wire and gas canisters and various other bits of kit that resembled something from MacGyver or maybe the A-Team. This wasn't so cool. Actually nothing up to this point had been "so cool" but this was a marked turn for the worse.

"Here...", asked one of the more mouthy waitresses, that constantly scared me, in the direction of the man with the plan "...are us uns getting out of here?"

And I will remember his answer to the day I die, "Dunno love, I'm only planting the bomb."

There was squealing all around. I sat there on my hands, this is a time before I had found the joys of smoking, singing to myself.

"This is the end, beautiful friend the end...." Cheesy now that I think back but true. In the end we did get out (and not in a quiet calm line either with staff helping customers out), obviously or I wouldn't be sitting here writing this account. It turns out it was another paramilitary group trying to make a name for itself in the community.

They blew the building to smithereens. Which was disappointing, less so was the sight of one of the wooly faced fuckers who had managed to burn the chops of himself with his own firebomb. I giggled, not at the time as I had underwear to be changing and shakes to be stopping.

It's not the same as what happened in Mumbai, not the same at all, but no less real and if I had been offered the chance to save myself or a guest I would have saved myself. It's not very heroic but very damned true.....

So I say huzzah to the waiters of Mumbai. They are better people than me......