You know it's not going to be pretty when the infinite smugness of marathon runners collides, not literally you understand, with the barely repressed jealousy and tubbiness of the waiter. I mean one is a self important egomaniac with insecurity issues and a need to constantly challenge themselves and others around them and the other is.....oh wait. Makes for an interesting day at work though.
The restaurant was overrun, ahem, with self-satisfied types on Monday following the Belfast City Marathon, a marathon that is very similar to the likes of the New York City Marathon and the London Marathon. Well okay the distance is the same but that's about it. Has the NY marathon ever had to be stopped because a bunch of irate lorry drivers got a bit mouthy about being late with their deliveries? I very much doubt it. Quality work Belfast, quality work.
But yes the restaurant was full of people who rejoice in the smell of their own farts. This upping of the smug level was particularly annoying for me as I am the guardian and indeed master of the smugness round these parts. It's all fake, obviously, as I have nothing to be smug about what with my chubster paws and Quasimodo'd posture. But it keeps people guessing.
The afternoon diners weren't as annoying as the evening diners. They were smellier for sure and inappropriately dressed for a late lunch but substantially less annoying. Obviously like all right minded people I believe that tracksuits and shorts have no place in a restaurant unless of course that restaurant is at a gym or one of those imaginary places that I hear people talking about, leisure centres and that sort of thing. [Shudder]
Yes there was far too many near cock n ball popping incidents for my liking for a Monday afternoon what with the stretching between courses and the constant need for bending over. Why must they bend and stretch so much? Why? I'm an innocent child and found all these near escaping genitals quite frightening. One minute you are serving sausage on a bed on mash, next there it is poking out and winking at you from a pair of loose fitting Adidas. All rather frightful I must say.
Near escaping woo woos and wee wees aside the real bell ends didn't reveal themselves until night time. Now don't get me wrong I am all for people running marathons and if you do it for charity whilst dressed as a Dalek or a whilst balancing a roll of £1.00 coins on yer elbow then who the hell am I to criticize or belittle your sparkling effort. I say more power to you. But the self satisfied, smell of their own fart loving, Nikeeeeee wearing (and wankily pronouncing), carb munchers, Lucozade Power drinking douche bags and sons of douche bags that think they are the only people who have ever run a marathon ever and wear it like a badge that they think affords them special privileges and the right to be a total ass can go fuck themselves with a four foot wide pedometer.
Phew, feels good to get that out.
"Oh hi man....", said the tall tanned cheesy looking guy at the door. Obviously by calling me "man" he was down ten waiter points. Waiter points? That's right, waiter points and he was minus ten already for inappropriate greeting.
"Yes indeed and how can I..."
"Yeah man can you hook me up with a table for like six or seven" asked the tall tanned cheesy looking guy. His tallness and super fake tan combined with his cheesiness reminded me of a tube of smoked German cheese. Now clearly he was down another 20 waiter points. Ten for interrupting me and ten for using the phrase, "hook me up". I am a waiter and not a pimp/drug dealer. I do not hook people up with shit or as it comes to it, tables either.
"Oooooookay then", says I adopting my, "are you for reals?" face.
"And what name are you reserved under then.....man?"
He was too busy poking about in his iPhone to hear me which forced me to repeat the question. Minus a further ten waiter points.
"Reservation? Ah man, don't have one. Do I need one?"
"Well yes sir, it is a rather busy night."
Still with a tan finger hovering over his iPhone he replied with, "Maaan, I couldn't get a table booked this afternoon.....I was.....well...you know....doing a bit of running...the eh...you know marathon....this afternoon."
He said it like I was supposed to be impressed. I was not impressed. He was down a further twenty waiter points after this pitiful exchange but not for what he said but for the way he said it and the painfully cheesy facial expressions he made whilst saying it.
Ignoring this I offered him a table at half eight. This wouldn't do as he was meeting other "pals" later for "champers". The cheese was oozing from him worse than from a busted tube of Primula in the hands of fat kid. Just then one of his "pals" arrived.
"You get our table yet Johnny?", asked the rather excitable pal. He was bouncing about like a horny Spaniel.
"Not yet Marky, my man here says they have nothing 'til eight."
"Half eight". My man? My man my hole. Cheeky fucker. I enjoyed correcting him. Hell I enjoy correcting most people. So I awarded myself twenty waiter points right there for quality correction.
"Half eight Johnny? Ain't gonna work. You tell him we ran the marathon today?" It was if the horny Spaniel guy couldn't see me and this despite me being right beside him and with the build of a small out house. I'm not exactly ninja like.
"Yeah Marky, no dice though, no dice."
They tried again with the pleading and the hero routine but alas all to no avail. I wasn't being a bastard, we just didn't have any tables until half eight. I was enjoying myself though which is a little bastardish. But they then pulled a shit little move that really annoyed me.
They slunk off and had a little chat outside. Within a minute or two the rest of their ill fated, and doomed not to dine with Manuel, party arrived. There were three women with them now. So guess what they did? They tried the old, "send in the honeys routine" cause all men like a honey. Manuel likes honey on his carrots and maybe occasionally in his breakfast cereal but that's it.
The ladies were rather pleasant and I enjoyed talking to them, didn't get them a table though.
"Just like I told your friends, Mark and Johnny, we don't have any tables for you even if you have just run a marathon."
Their little faces were precious when they realised that I had rumbled their ruse. They were just about to walk away when the horny spaniel man came bounding in all horny and spaniel like and blundered out, "Well did it work? We in?"
No, no horny spaniel man it didn't work. Minus four thousand to you and plus fifty to me. I waddled off and had a Snickers to celebrate my little victory. You cant bullshit a bullshitter and you cant give out tables you just don't have, even if the person wanting the table has just run a marathon.