Water load of nonsense....

I was flicking (scrolling?) through The Guardian's Food Blog, Word of Mouth the other day when I stumbled upon a story about how the arse had apparently dropped out of the bottled water market. Watery poo everywhere, ha. My, people do seem to get themselves into a pickle about bottled water, particularly in restaurants. Everybody has their own buying-water-in-a-restaurant horror story. Everybody except me that is, as I am not a bed wetter.

Anymore.

get thee behind me watery satan...

The best I've heard was from a comment on that story from The Guardian about the time when the holy and exalted, Anthony Bourdain, was chucked out of one of Alain Ducasse's eateries in New york. Apparently our hero (he is our hero right?) was less than amused with the water waiter's too enthusiastic by half description of each of the bottled waters available. Our Tony was said to have chortled out loud and into the face of the water waiter and was less than complimentary with regard to his florid and flowery description of each of the bottled waters characteristics, provenance and reviving qualities.

Now I wouldn't normally condone such behaviour as waiters, even water waiters, are human people with feelings and emotions. But such feelings and emotions shouldn't be used to describe goddamned water. Seriously.

Another commenter said that they had been charged 70 pence for a jug of water. Excuse me what? You paid seventy pence for a jug of tap water from the tap, for corporation stock, as my da calls it? Well you need a slap and the restaurant needs an award for having some set of balls for even doing it. If whilst dining in a restaurant it became apparent to me that they were charging for tap water I would quietly get up from my seat, push it back under the table and make my way outside collecting my coat on the way. I would then set the fucking place on fire. I would marvel as the the flames raze the place to the ground. And when the fire brigade show up to put the fire out I would advise them to charge at least 70p for every second the hoses are on.

Charging for tap water in a restaurant is some shameful shit but paying for it is even worse. Don't do it. Just ask yourself, "What would Anthony do?" and take appropriate action. Clearly you shouldn't ask yourself ,"What would Manuel do?" and burn the restaurant down. Obviously.

Manuel doesn't do jokes......anymore.

I don't tell a lot of jokes, I'm not very good at telling jokes. I get all tongue twisted, confused and if I am being honest a little frightened too. I make a mess of it every time and not just by giving away the punch line at the start.

You know how it goes - a small group gathers round to be amused and chortle at my cheerful monkeyshine but as they fall silent my tongue swells, my face goes red and I end up insulting the women and fending off threats of violence from the chaps. I wouldn't mind but it was just a simple little witticism about Gordon Brown, a monkey and Led Zeppelin's Robert Plant but somehow I managed to mention Josef Fritzl, the late Jade Goody and the never ever funny subject of euthanasia.

it's a whisky business

On the soul of the great Emo Phillips I have committed never to make people laugh again, a vow Emo himself took just before he started in comedy.

I just cant tell jokes, but not that I let that stop me......

It was Thursday night and I was in peppy and playful form. All my tables were finished or nearly finished and being pay day I was dandering about the restaurant with the swagger of a Texan billionaire. This swagger made me more confident than I really should have been. I was chatting with the guests as I wandered and giving it a bit of the old, "How you doing tonight?" sort of palaver complete with cheesy winks and flirtatious salutes.

I happened upon one of my more regular tables, three older women and their male work colleague. Good people if a little dull. Nowt wrong with being a little dull in fact we could all benefit from a little dullness from time to time. Anyway I sidled up beside them and had a quick chat with them about life and work and the crunchiness of their credit and all that jazz. We were laughing away at this that and nothing so I thought I would throw a little joke into the mix.

I never learn, really, I never do.

"So did you hear about Jonathan Ross?", I asked whilst trying not to laugh. For those of you who don't know Mr Ross is a British chat show host who cannot pronounce his "R's". It's important that you know this.

"No, what's thon fella been up 'til now?", replies Maggie with a disparaging look in her eyes. I don't know if she is called Maggie or not but she looks a touch like our late Prime Minister Mrs Thatcher. Is she late? I mean has she actually died yet? Is it wrong to say, I hope so? I really do, as I did not care for her or her nasty politics. Did not care for her at all, frightful woman.

"He's been caught shoplifting! Eh what ya think of that?", says I all gossipy and dramatic.

"Shapliftin? Him? Shapliftin? On his wages? Well that there is a disgrace so it is" says Maggies wee mate.

"That's right shoplifting....in Debenhams no less."

"Debenhams? I shap in Debenhams...", says Maggie clasping her bag closer to her chest just in case Jonathan Ross tried to make a move on it, "I was there the other day Shirley, for thon blue cross sale. Got some new tarls [towels] for the bathroom"

I was thinking that I may not have to ruin this joke all on my own as Maggie was doing it for me with her mid joke chit chat with Shirley.

"Aye..", says I trying to regain hold of my joke "....he was caught shoplifting and they arrested in the kitchen section"

They looked up at me with shocked faces that I was sure would crack with laughter when I confidently delivered the punch line....

"He said it was worth the whisk!" I stood back beaming from ear to ear and waited for the laughter to come.

The laughter did not come.

"He stole a whisk? Sake and him on those wages....it's just tarrible so it is." I agreed that it was indeed terrible and slowly backed away vowing never ever to tell a joke again in my life. The problem was that I was too far down the line to tell them it was a joke. I would have made them feel bad and that had not been my intention at all. So I just let them think that one of Britain's most loved and highly paid celebrities was a seedy little shoplifter. Sorry about that Mr Ross.

Well what was I to do? And for the record the joke is funny, just don't have me tell it to you.

British summer time....

BST?

BST my hole. I renounce BST and reclaim my lost hour. I shall make tea in this newly reclaimed hour. I shall make tea, drink that tea and carry on as normal, just an hour behind everybody else.

Will you join me?

This week I was mostly...

This week I was mostly loving the internet and all the delights contained therein. This new found love for the information super highway was brought on by the lovely people at Scanwiches - "Scans of sandwiches for education and delight." It does exactly what it says on the tin. So strangely awesome, it's hard not to just sit there and stare at them. That's right I sit alone in my darkened room staring at pictures of sandwiches. Don't judge me.....

This week I was mostly listening to music from ye olden days, the late 80's and early 90's that is. Well you cant sit and stare at scans of sandwiches without a soundtrack. I have mainly been enjoying the tweely lovely pop of Ireland's own, The Would Be's and as a contrast the dark and moody post-punk of The Chameleons. Both bands were responsible in their own ways for helping to lead me out of the velvet garden of Gothdom. They were my musical methadone if you will. Finding new music and turning away from the faux doom and introversion of The Fields of The Nephilim, The Sisters of mercy, Christian Death et al was step one of the de-gothification programme. It's a 666 step programme.

Like any alcoholic you are never really cured of your gothness and sometimes you have to fight really hard the urge to dress from head to toe in black velvet whilst slapping the girlfriend's lippy on over your lips and whole lip area a la Fat Bob Smith. But I fight that urge because being a goth is so crap it's not true, still better than being a hippy or a mod but still crap all the same. And imagine the horror of being served by a goth waiter, "You want some dead cow, oh the waste of life.....I'm really a vampire that's why I work at night." Hmpf, on body wants that. My name is Manuel and I am a recovering goth, it's been fifteen years since my last act of gothness.

The Chameleons - Monkeyland.

This week I was mostly poking my uneducated nose into Leftovers. Not the remains of diners dinners you understand, although I am no stranger to the half eaten steak - wipe it, bless it, eat it and scrape the rest into the bin. No, I refer to course to the "small arts focused magazine" based in Manchester. I wondered at first how small the art was, were we talking stamp sized art but soon realised I had just read it wrong. Sake. The current issue features a fantastically silly, and I mean that in the nicest way, story by Natalie Doris Irvine on her weekly flights onboard a "spaceship." Heh. There are also illustrations by Belfast's answer to Del Boy and massive beard aficionado, Ryan Darragh. It's a lovely little read and I recommend it to everybody who likes yer art in a smal and compact format.

Get your noses into some Leftovers, whether it be the half eaten food of strangers or a small arts magazine, and have a lovely weekend.

Ta Ta.....

"Blagging, lying and whinging..." Crikey, did I say that?

I have a little mention in this month's Restaurant Magazine. I'm complaining, as usual, about restaurant uniforms this time. The piece by Tony Naylor is about the never ending delight/horror of restaurant work wear and what have you. It's good work and Tony is good people, not just cause he wrote it and name checked Well Done Fillet. I believe the phrase was, "highly amusing". Cheques in the post Tony.

I managed to pick up the last copy in Easons, which was a relief. I like to think my 85 words of wisdom and bitterness helped drive sales for them. I like to think it, it's not true, but I like to think it all the same. That said, picking up the last copy wasn't as easy as it sounds as I ended up doing the magazine stand two-step with, as it turns out, one of Belfast preeminent restrauteurs and chefs. I wanted the last copy of Restaurant magazine and he wanted all the food magazines. All of them!! From Melons Monthly to Cupcakes Digest he scooped the lot. You could have set our dancing to music, probably something jaunty and Gay Gordon like, as we switched sides and crouched and jumped around each other with all the skills of Fred and Ginger. I was Fred before you ask.

Anyhoo, Restaurant Magazine, I'm in it, get it bought. Available from all good magazine stands, dancing chefs not included.

Hi, my name is Ronan Keating and I'll be your waiter...apparently.

clicky to make biggy...

What's with the waiter outfit Ronan, eh? Seriously he looks like a plate schlepper from some sort of pretentious, upmarket, douche frequented place called Chez Simone or Katz Place or something as equally disappointing. Oi, Keating, knock it off fella, you're giving us working waiters a bad name. I don't meander about the place dressed like a dandy crooning and swooning at all the young mums and mums of young mums. Sake, it's humiliating. Now that I think about it I did have some uniform go missing last year. Hmmmm.

Oh and I should point out that taking a photograph of a large Boyzone billboard on a Tuesday afternoon in Belfast is a sure way of getting yourself shouted at by men in vans. Most of which involved the word, "fruit". Charming I'm sure.

not a waiter...

The Thee Tenors...

Before I describe to you the events of last Thursday evening you need to understand that the "Thee" from the title is the Belfast pronunciation of the number three. So for example if you were asking a person to count to three he or she would say, "Wan, two, thee", wan obviously being the number one. It's a delightful dialect and in no way like a chainsaw through the head. Here endeth the lesson in how til speak Norn Iron like.....mate.

It was late on Thursday evening and I was all pooped out, that is to say I was done in, tired, exhausted. I would hate to give you the impression that I had been enduring under a heavy case of the Eartha Kitts, because I wasn't. I am still in full control of that region and touch wood, fingers crossed for sometime to come yet. That said I was feeling rather shitty. The Snow Patrol crowd, who had filled all my seats with their jeaned bottoms earlier, is an unforgiving crowd and a lot less bed wetty than you might have expected. They had me run ragged chasing cars and getting them chocolate. And beer, lots and lots of beer. Well you would wouldn't you.

But as I say it was now late and order and balance had returned throughout my 100 seater universe. There was little left to do and I was clearing the many bits of paper, corks, bottle tops and half sucked aniseed balls from my pockets in preparation for going home. I was thinking about the big bowl of chicken and chickpea curry that I would soon be shoving down my pie hole with disgusting haste. I dribbled a bit. But I was snapped out of my curry-licious musing by what can only be called a kerfuffle at the door.

In fell three chaps, literally fell at that. Whilst the wee one picked himself up off the floor the tall one opened up with, "Aw reet der mate. Are table ready en er wah?"

Balls, fuck, shit and Sandler I had forgotten about these delightful chaps. They had arrived earlier and as I didn't like the cut of their jib or their complete lack of a neck I gave them the old run around telling them we were full and that would have to come back later, much later. Off they popped and I was sure that by now they would either be deep inside an alcohol induced coma or just inside, a jail. But bugger me they were back. Don't you just hate it when well thought out plans come back and bite you on the ass?

"Ah yes......right....eh", as you can tell I was all over this situation.

"We'll jus sit over der", grunted the tallest and loudest of the three men.

"Oh no you won't", replied the oldest and grumpiest of the waiters, that is to say me. I quickly had to make this sound less combative than it came out as the tall one was quick to detect the less than welcoming tone in my voice and was staring at me with a head smashing look in his eyes. Crikey.

I directed them to a table much closer to the bar where I could keep an eye on them and where the phone is should I need to call in the long and coffee addled arm of the management. These chaps were quite squiffy and I wasn't sure if I should get them the bottle of Ree-oh-jah (Rioja) or not. I also thought that correcting them on their pronunciation of this decent bottle of Spanish red would be wasted and probably leave me lying on the ground with claret pumping from my lovely head.

They were loud and boisterous and fidgety and more importantly they were doing my head in. They looked at their menus for what seemed like ages but when I went ot get their order it was like they had been reading something else entirely.

"I'll hawve a burger mate. Youse do chicken burgers aye?"

"No, no we don't do chicken burgers, mate." Now for some reason I had decided to throw caution to the wind and inject some cheek/sarcasm into my responses. Why I was playing fast and loose with my mortal existence is beyond me. I am too young to die. Whilst they were being sort of jovial at that moment I had a very ominous feeling it could change at anytime.

"OOOOh..", says chicken burger man, "....we don't do chicken burgers.....too good for chicken burgers." Actually he did a good impression of me.

"Fuck up you, just let the fella do his jab...", said the tall one and I assume the leader of this trio, "...give us the duck mate with chaps and spuds and vegetables. Reet? Thee ducks?"

Ah balls. Oh how I was lamenting the recent decision to remove duck from the menu.

"Nay duck? Fuck me wha...Jaysus Christ....nay fucking duck....you wanna get some duck mate, ever have duck?", there then followed a five minute interlude as they discussed the fun times they have all enjoyed eating duck. Sweet suffering mother of Gordon Ramsay my curry was disappearing into the distance.

And on it went. They would stare at the menu, think, for a bit and then select something we don't do. I had to peek at one of their menus just to make sure they had the right ones. In the end they/I ordered thee differing meals for them as they requested and another bottle of Ree-oh-jah. Five minutes after they ordered their food they started with the,

"Ere mate is are dinner ready yet wha? Fuckin starving til death ere you know."

It was a blessed relief when the food finally did arrive. They were silent for about two minutes as they set about their plates like men just rescued off a mountain. But then again I suppose you do gain an appetite when you have been beering all day.

I stood with my mouth open watching them eat from the relative safety of the bar. Food, fluids, both bodily and other, and wine was sloshing around the table like it was a medieval feast. It was as entrancing as it was hideous. There was food on the table and food on the floor and food on their sleeves and food on their faces. No wonder they were hungry when so little manages to make it down their pie holes. As expected the burp chorus took place the moment they dropped their cutlery. Parp, parp, parp went the three bon vivants. Only the tall one managed to clear his plate, probably why he grew up so big, strong and have the ability to burp louder than your average hippopotamus.

Irish coffees were next up and as I served them they began with the "singing". Oh my. Now, normally I wouldn't be standing for such palaver but like I say they were the only table left and they were all much much bigger than me, even the wee one.

I was treated to a truly truly awful version of Maggie May by Rod Stewart, "Wake up Maggie I think I've got something to show you", they all grabbed their crotches. Nice. Then there was Sam Cooke's, "Twistin' the Night Away", which was bastardized to become "Fistin, fistin, fistin the night away". My desire to make it stop was in sharp contrast with my desire not to die without having gazed one last time upon my Little Miss Manuel.

The Thee Tenors carried on until the tall one called a halt to the proceedings, by punching his chums on the side of their fat heads. He wanted a star solo role. Adopting a sombre mask and with the other two quiet, for the first time, maybe ever, he began to sing, "Workingman's Blues" by Bob Dylan. He did it justice too. Oh so very odd, ironic too as i'm sure he has never done a full days work in his life.

The Thee Tenors left a wee while later having tipped like......having tipped like men with an unusual form of income that is probably best left unquestioned. All the class has gone from this job, seriously...

Manuel es Muerto....well nearly

As the years go by and I become older and grouchier and more set in my ways I find I am becoming less tolerable of the mouther breathers, finger lickers and downright idiotic members of society. Sunday was Mother's Day, a day that fills me with fear every year. It's part of the holy trinity of restaurant events that induce panic in even the most fearless of waiters. The others being New Years Eve and St Valentine's Day. There are others that cause a milder panic but these are the three most buggery of all.

chaclats and flowers
your mother, your present.....!

But despite my fear, or maybe because of it, it was actually a pretty swell day. The atmosphere in the restaurant was quite lovely and free from the bingieness of previous years when it was more about the booze than the food. But there's always somebody that ruins it for everybody else and by everybody else I really mean me. Just one person on one table was all it took to change me from happy go lucky waiter at large to bitter twisted carrier of plates and fork stabbing psychopath.

"Here mate I need a word before my ma gets here", said the fat lad sweating with the profusion of a heavy weight boxer who has just done 12 rounds. I wouldn't mind but he had just walked round the restaurant.

I hunkered down beside him as he indicated with his chubby wet hands, "Yes sir what can I do for you?"

"Here's what it is like...youse must be giving the ma's some like free flowers or chaclats or som'hing like dat tilday seeing as it's muhers day. Is der anyway yis can gi me them now. I fargot til get her anyhing heh"

Oh my, what a fucking charmer! She is blessed to have such a loving wonderful son such as this douche.

"Free flowers sir? No, no we don't normally do that on Mother's Day sir", says I remaining on my knees despite the fact that I could feel my leg cramping up. Getting up was gonna be a challenge.

"Wha?", exclaimed the chubster, "...no flowers? Chaclats then?"

"No chocolates either, sorry bout that."

"See you fat bastard, you were told til get her a present last week!" Despite his best efforts to keep the content of our conversation from the other guests at the table his sister knew what he was at and was not best pleased.

"Why'd you even bring him?", asked the father with consternation and genuine anger.

Fat chops bolted upright which caused the sweat on his face to fly off and hit me.

It felt as hideous as it sounds. Sometimes I wish I had just stayed in school and finished the massive nerdy computer course I was on. Life would have duller for sure but the chances of being hit upside your face with the bodily fluids of fat sweaty people would have been slimmer.

I could not have been more disgusted if he had spat on me. But the urge to stab the sweaty selfish oaf was hard to resist. But resist I did and anyway his sister was talking him apart with a verbal volley of abuse that I haven't witnessed since I tried to jump over the horse in school. My gym teacher was a sadist and a master of sarcasm. So there was really nothing left to stab.

But despite his piss poor attempt to pass off the non-existent restaurant flowers and chocolates as being his own gift and despite him hitting me up my face with his pissy and no doubt hangover perspiration it got worse.

"Here ma...", says the heart attack in supermarket jeans and shirtless sweater, "...the tight gits don't even give youse any chaclats nor flowers fer muhers day. It's a disgrace so it is like."

I stood there, sort of erect as my leg was cramping away like goodo, with my mouth wide open at the balls of it all. I went sort of red too and then I remembered that this wasn't my Mother and I was under no requirement to furnish her with anything other than good food and good service and maybe a little bit of wit but that's all.

But quick as a flash she hit back with, "Well it's a good thing I have your present to open then."

"Ha!" exclaimed I as I walked away leaving sweaty balls to explain himself.....

Meh-thers day, done.

I'll be sleeping if anybody needs me......

More This week I was mostly....

This week I was mostly looking forward to the return of that magnificent bastard Malcolm Tucker in the new movie, "In The Loop". Malcolm Tucker, for those of you unaware of this sweary control freak, was the government spin doctor in-chief on Armando Iannucci's The Thick of It. Anyhoo he's back, this time on the big screen with James Gandolfini, Steve Coogan, Gina McKee and Tom Hollander. Peter Capaldi plays the role of Alastair Campbell Malcolm Tucker with absolute relish in the TV show and by the looks of it he is in top form in this big screen outing. I cant fucking wait, as Tucker himself said, "Out of the loop? Fuck you. I am the loop." And my favourite Tucker quote, To the editor of the Daily Mail: "If you break this story then I am going to eviscerate you. Now I'm not as educated as you so I don't exactly know what that means, but I think I'll start by pulling your cock off and then just busk it from there!"

This week I was mostly thinking about the scallops and black pudding I had in the Barking Dog on Belfast's Malone Road. As Clay Davis may have said, "Sheeeeeeeeeit, they were good". As was the smoked haddock with crushed new potatoes topped off with a poached egg and béarnaise sauce that I had after that. The Barking Dog is essentially a gastro pub minus the pub. There are three menus to choose from - a restaurant menu, a bar menu and a set menu. We had the restaurant menu.

Little Miss Manuel had the bread to start and the lamb which was sublime despite being cooked just over medium. But then again that's what she asked for. The restaurant menu is pretty well balanced with three fish options, three meat options but alas only one veggie option which considering it's location may work against them. I am learning to love our meat dodging chums. But it was the sweet juicy plump like little ping pong balls scallops that won me over.

Waiter Chum Number One also assures me that their Belly Pork Bites are the "dogs bollocks". I assume that was here way of telling me they were delectable and not that they are actually the testicles of a castrated pooch. Tremendous stuff, I heartily recommend The Barking Dog, get it done, you'd be barking not to.

Barking? So close, so unbelievably close.

Barking Dog
35 Malone Rd
Belfast, BT9 6RU
028 90661885

Desktopian dreams.....

Have we seen yours yet?

Readers desks……oooh show us yer dirty desk.

This week I was mostly...

This week I was mostly exhausted and had very little time or energy for anything else other than whinging about being tired. It's been quite a week for all the Waiter Chums and Chums of Waiters what with St. Patrick's Day and St. Lionel of Richie's two days and all the shenanigans, malarky, and tomfoolery associated with both. That said the Lionel Richie crowd aren't really much of a problem what with them mainly all being like at least 68 years old. Malarky from these folks tends to come in the shape of a slightly suggestive seat wiggle and the wearing of jaunty shirts. But I really do like the Lionel Crowd, they are easy, easy like a Sunday morning. Eh eh, didn't see than coming did ya? And in terms of concert going crowds they are the most generous. I think they are just happy to be out of the retirement home for the evening.

This week I was mostly smirking as the boss was rallying the troops in preparation for St. Patrick's Day service. But alas the troops could not be rallied. It's hard to motivate people sometimes, especially when the odds are so stacked against us. There were potentially hundreds and hundreds of customers and so few of us. He tried channeling the spirit of old Braveheart himself, William Wallace, and the speech he gave before the many clans of Scotland went into battle against the old enemy. It was all blood, guts, and glory. Not sure it entirely worked as I over heard Waiter Chum Number Three mutter, "Why cant we be the English instead?". Heh, made me giggle.

This week I was mostly in fear for my special relationship. Little Miss Manuel, who had taken a day off from uniting needy kids with the cash of their absent and no doubt shoddy fathers had suggested a walk along the beach. This worried me as the last time I went for a walk along a beach with a woman it was to deposit an unwanted cat. Was I to end up like poor old Guido the fat ginger cat who couldn't control it's toilet habits and find myself alone on a beach wondering what time someone was going to come back for me? I gotta be honest with you, that's the sort of news I can take over the phone. So needless to say I was worried.

But when she arrived round she suggested lunch first and a walk second. I correctly surmised all was well as intending dumpers rarely take the dumpee out for lunch first. And I have much experience as the dumpee. Anyhoo we ate lunch, which was jolly pleasant, at Apartment and then we collected Little Miss Manuel's family dog and went for an afternoon's jolly up the beach.

It was all very wind swept and interesting and I enjoyed nodding smugly at/with all the other people who were enjoying the beach on a Wednesday afternoon whilst the rest of the populous was working. But by fuckery was I shattered by the time we had got to the end of said beach. I longed to be at home twittering and eating twisters, both regular and mini. Actually what I really longed for was a bus to get us back to where the car was parked. No such bus/rickshaw service is available on the beach at Helen's Bay. I shall be writing forthwith to North Down Borough Council to see what services they do provide for the larger and lazier chap who finds themselves way too far out of their happy place.

I jest. The trip to the beach was sweet and lovely and it makes me ache for the summer and the three possibly four good days of unbroken sunny weather we normally get. But the journey home was less sweet and lovely than one would have hoped for as Little Miss Manuel made Sooty the dog and I sit in the back of the car as, "you are wet and smell". I'm still not sure which of us she was talking to.

Have a good weekend. It's Mother's Day on Sunday, don't be upsetting her and forgetting about it. Sake, she is your mam after all.

Ta ta.

The basket case and my quest for the precious...

Wednesday was a day spend relaxing and recuperating following the dubious "fun" of working all day on St Patrick's day. I went to the beach with Little Miss Manuel and her family dog, which was exciting. The wet and smelly sort of excitement that only a manic dog can bring but it was a good day none the less. But the real excitement of the day came with the visit to my local all seeing, all knowing, all providing supermarket. I prefer to get my provisions from the local shops, butcher not included, but I was whacked from an afternoon chasing after a dog chasing after a ball so I went for the easy option.

shopping 101:

stuff goes in here

I picked up my basket and began the drudgery of the schlep from one end of the supermarket to the other obeying the unspoken rule of the one way system. The bloody place was rammed with hungover students recovering and restocking from the annual St Patrick's day riots. God I hate students and I hate subsidising their afternoon riots. The smell of stale Buckfast lingering in the air was hastening my meander round the shop quite considerably.

Have you ever come across a person who doesn't know how to shop in a supermarket? You know the sort, doesn't know how to use a basket let alone where they are kept. The sort of chap that wears an expression of part wonderment part confusion part dismay at the crassness of it all? Well he wandered my way whilst I was deciding which size bottle of ketchup to buy.

He was carrying all his shopping in his arms and was clearly having some trouble balancing them all whilst he sought out other things, stuff and crap. He looked like a game show contestant, "Who wants to be a massive douche?", sprung to mind. He was also zipping about from aisle to aisle in the most disorderly way paying no mind to the unwritten one way system rule. I moved on quick sharpish lest he want to engage me in conversation about which was the best mayo to mix with his caviar.

I got myself to the frozen food section and away from the foppish idiot, honestly he was like a character from a Richard Curtis borefest. Having found the mini-twister ice lollies that I sought I was all a fucking rage as I couldn't reach the last box. There it was all glowing and lovely like the ring from that film about walking, The Lord of the Walks. But the preciousness I could not reach. So I set down my basket and practically climbed inside the freezer compartment to get at it. But as I struggled and reached out like a man trying to save his lover from falling over a cliff I felt a tap on my back. "Bollocks", thought I, Tesco's finest were pissed off that I was all over their freezer section with my sandy shoes. But when I turned round who did I find there? That's right the foppish idiot no less. Argh!

"Hello..", says he wobbling about from foot to foot with his bleach and his lettuce and all the other crap looking like a giant game of Jenga.

"Yeah?", says I curtly.

"..hello...., " again, "...do you work here? Could you point me in the direction of the fish counter? I cant seem to find it...", he asked as he tried to keep his golden jewel encrusted tiara from slipping from his head.

Now I will never know how I rested the urge to say, "Yeah that's right I work here. Tesco fits all it's staff out in Scotch & Soda sweaters, blue Wranglers and classy Spanish Camper shoes, you fucking massive douche." But resist I did. I informed him that this Tesco did not have a fish counter but if he wandered a little to the left and up a bit he would find the pre-packaged shitty fish offerings that they do stock. And off he wobbled nearly taking out a skinny looking Polish family whilst he was at it. They gave me a dirty look. I was too engrossed in trying to get the last box of mini-twisters to tell them that he wasn't my mate. I damned my shortness and gave up in the end, settling for a less than pleasing box of fruit pastille lollies instead. Why does the world hate me so much? Why?

As usual I got to the checkout's to find them understaffed with queues of filthy students and friends of filthy students loitering all over the place. I joined a queue and waited for the, "All multi-skillers to checkouts please" announcement. From the corner of my eye I could see yer man, the foppish idiot, with an old woman. She was taking the stuff from his arms and dropping them into a basket for him. "What an utter cunt", I thought as I shuffled patiently up the queue whilst keeping an eye on the kid with the 24 pack of beer in front of me. He was eyeing my chicken breasts up with a little too much drool for my liking.

At that the expected, '"All multi-skillers to checkouts please" announcement came and is if from nowhere came wave after wave of blue sweatered Tesco employees. Are they chameleons? Do they change colour so that you cant see them against the tins of beans? Anyway that didn't matter, what mattered was that there were now new checkouts open and the rush was on to move from stupidly long queue to empty queue. I picked my checkout, lifted my basket and shuffled left, I shuffled like a man has never shuffled before only to find that I was beaten to that newly opened checkout by....the massive fucking douche with the foppish hair.

"Fucking pish!", I exclaimed a little louder than I probably should have as heard me and turned round.

"Sorry?", he asked

"You get some fish?", I replied

"Yes, yes thank you for that. Don't normally get the goods, the wife does that."

You don't fucking say. You know what gets me the most? He walked straight out of the chips n dips aisle to an empty checkout. He probably thinks it's like that all the time. He didn't have to queue with the rest of us and the dirty, filthy, smelly, stale Buckfast omitting students. The bastard. As the woman on the checkout packed his bags, I mean what the fuck is that all about, they never pack mine, he turned to me and said,"So you must be finished work then? It's a great place you have here." And off he went.

Meh.

Manuel can from time to time be rather petulant...no really!

No one is talking to me at home. Meh. It happens from time to time especially with my tendency to slip in to asshole mode at the drop of a hat. Actually if you drop my hat I will beat you, hard. But I am used to riding it out, the coldness of others shoulders rarely bothers me. The many many many unanswered text messages, emails, and voice messages mean nothing. I am an island and yes my name is Madagascar.

This latest bout of freeze out the waiter was brought on by some tremendously petulant behaviour. By me, obviously. In my defense I was tired and not in the mood for pleasant conversation and/or the normal civilities of person to person contact. The decision not to replace my last packet of Niquitin lozenges was, in retrospect, premature. I spent most of Sunday rattling like a heroin addict, rattling and snapping. And I did feel bad, for a nano moment, when I snapped at the child who asked for the bill for her mother.

"Your mummy wants the bill?", I asked in one of those cutsie voices people adopt when talking to the little people.

"Yes please Mr Waiter Man", replied the little girl with the cutsie pigtails and chubby little dimples that would make even the most hard hearted bastard go,"ahhhhh".

"Well why don't you tell your mummy to get her fat fucking ass off the seat and come ask for it herself. Okay? Can you remember that? Good girl." And then tapped her on the head and pushed her out of the way.

Okay I didn't but I was sorely tempted. Waiter Chum Number One got a touch of my snap snapping when she suggested I should have seated a table of eight somewhere else and not in her section. Snap. It's funny how much work you can get done when no one is talking to you. Funny but lonely all the same. I was heading into a very dark place when I was stiffed by my last two tables of the evening and that despite having managed to get myself back onto a workable level of happiness. The Aussies left nothing, how unusual, and the lovely people from Cork left Euros. Euros? How fucking offensive.

I swore and I huffed and puffed and kicked the bottle skip as I stuffed my fat little arms into my coat. I was quite delighted to be going home. Home, where there is tea and giant cups from which to quaff the precious brown liquid. And this dear readers is when the real petulant action took place.

The Cousin, who was sitting quietly minding his own cousinly business on the couch, was greeted with a grunt when he wished me a hearty hello as I stormed my way through the sitting room. He was watching The Departed and was quite excited by this and he shared his excitement with me. I didn't care and made some snarky comment or other, I needed a cup of tea and not film reviews. I bashed the kettle on and lifted a cup from the cupboard and poked my chubby paw in the direction of the tea caddy to retrieve the bags of life only to discover that there were no tea bags contained therein.

You can take away my money, you can take away my farty smoking replacement lozenges, you can blank me and ridicule me behind my back or to my face and I will not really care but if you deny me my apres-work cup of life affirming tea then you can expect a reaction. And react I did, poorly at that. Threats were made, stairs stamped on, doors slammed, things thrown that shouldn't ever be thrown (mobile phone for example), sweary text messages fired off to people who shouldn't be spoken to in that way. Oh yes, I was no longer a man, but rather I was a man child and acting in every way like those petulant, arsy customers I detest so much. I was ashamed. But what the hell, one needs a blow out from time to time.

So to my Little Miss Manuel and The Cousin I apologise, oh and Waiter Chum Number One same goes for you too. But I really do like tea....

Oh this again...

ho ho yerself you little wanker
where's my crock of gold?
crock of vomit covered pennies more like.

Now, I'm no practicer of shazam and woo and I do not own a crystal ball and when it comes to predicting things I tend to fail with disappointing regularity. And annoyingly, I am not a multi millionaire living in a giant apron shaped island having never accurately predicted the winning lottery numbers, well not on the same line. But with a huge degree certainty I confidently predict that today shall be messy, in the worst way.

Ho hum, what ya gonna do?! I have a well stocked supply of Niquitin farting tablets and the tea caddy is stocked once more. And remember wearing a big felt Guinness hat green and foam finger doesn't make you Irish, complaining about it does.

Happy St. Patrick's day.

Bring it on....

The "Hawpy" Birthday Fail...

Birthdays eh, why have they become so difficult? The celebrating of a chum's or a family member's birthday should be a fairly simple thing to organise and execute - book restaurant, invite friends, turn up, sing appropriately dull song when the fat man brings out the candle covered cake. When done right everyone goes home feeling a little younger, with one obvious exception, and a whole lot smugger. Simple. But why oh why do some people make it more complicated than the invasion and subsequent pacifying of Iraq? Why? Why? Why?

slice it into 20 please..

If it's not odd requests for his favourite meal when he was a wee lad, I mean what the fuck is chicken a-la-bloody king anyways?, it's requests for the music of the birthday celebrants formative years. Now this ain't so bad if the person was getting their rocks off in the 60's or even in the 70's but it become less amusing if the birthday boy was breaking hearts along to Whigfield or god forbid the Pet Shop Boys.

Bleurgh.

But the most annoying and all together brain crushingly loathsome aspect of working a table when someone is celebrating a birthday is the ballachery associated with the birthday cake itself. For a start they are almost always hideous, quite often offensive, and regularly disgusting. I mean nothing says, "happy birthday and we are glad you are here with us grandfather, father, husband and brother", more than a £2.99 Chocolate Sponge from fucking ASDA(WalMart).

There was one the other day for a grandmother who had, wait for it, survived cancer, a stroke, a car crash (a fucking car crash mind?), the saddening death of her life long companion and husband (I assume it was the same person, if not she's a fucking albatross of a woman) and made it all the way to her 80th birthday only to be treated on the special day by her ungrateful children to a filthy little jam filled abomination with icing more akin to bird shit that barely covered the sides of the cake and with a picture of a too cute by half puppy on it. She was mortified and more than a touch hurt, I could tell. I think it was the way she was crying and asking for more brandy that exposed her true feelings.

But it's not just the cake, even good ones come with problems. There is the birthday cake ritual/wink-a-/nod-thon to be got through before you even get to the sing song bit. This is all very very bothersome and takes up way to much of my time when I could be standing or slouching or even drinking tea whilst slouching. But instead there I am every Saturday night at about half ten playing the winky/noddy game with a fat lass from a council estate waiting for my cue to proceed with the cake. One has to wait for the appropriate moment before setting off in full song with a cakified inferno. I mean doing it once is bad enough but having to repeat the performance because Uncle Bob was having a pee is just not conducive to a happy evening. So you wait for your cue whilst your face slowly melts from the 30 candles they insisted you put on the tiny cake.

Now, I like to start the table in the traditional singing of Happy Birthday to You but like a good catholic I like to withdraw before the climax leaving it to the recipients friends and family to finish it off. And they normally do. But by fuckity it's not cool when I am the only one singing. I mean I have the voice and general physique of a manatee. Having me lurching over you whilst dripping with sweat from your 45 birthday candles as I belt out birthday wishes is not what anybody asked for as a present. No sireee bob.

This is what happened last night.

I had just set the cake down in front of Stacy, she looked like a Stacy, and was just working my way through the second line of the birthday song with what seemed like the full backing of her 15 friends when...

"Hawpy birthday til you..."

"Haaaaaaawpy birthdaaaaaaay dear...", I ejected at this point to leave it to her friends to finish the song of but instead of following this line up with "...dear Stacy, Hawpy birthday til you" we instead got...

"Fuck her, Im nat singing for thon one", from the other end of the table. It was as clear as day and as loud as my underwear. Oooooh I had to step in quick sharpish with my dulcet tones and quick wit and finish the song off before the hair and teeth went flying. Nice way to end the night I can tell you, ten women in the toilets with a weeping Stacy whilst another five defended their position from the birthday table. But why come? Seriously? Why were they invited? If you cant sing the birthday song, don't go to the birthday party.

Also if you do bring a cake to a restaurant bring enough cake for everyone, and I don't just mean your guests. If you expects the waiter to cut your cake then you can expect him to eat it, so get the big cake eh.

This week I was Mostly...

This week I was mostly watching the feast scene from Big Night over and over and over again. It's absolutely captivating. It's been a very long time since I watched a film from start to end with a big smile all the way across my normally gnarly and angry mug. The feast scene, in particular, is incredible. I like to watch people eat, not in a hands down my trousers sort of way you understand. I mean it's not as if I'm standing outside restaurants shuffling myself into a frenzy as people stuff over cooked pasta and soggy salad down their pie holes. Mmmmmm, pie.

What?

Where the hell was I?

Oh yeah, but I do like to watch people eat. I like to see their faces light up as the fork full of tender meat or what have you gives up it juicy flavours. Theses initial reactions cant be faked, they are instant and they are real. The feast scene is full of these reactions and more and is simply beautiful to watch. Thank you for recommending it to me and if you haven't seen it then I heartily recommend it. I laughed out loud, like the kids do, at this scene....

Reminded me of this.

This week I was mostly concerned about my nicotine replacement lozenges, Niquitin. I can't function without them. Seriously I found myself rooting through pockets, bags - both man and regular, on desks, under desks in search of one, just one, the other evening. I eventually found a half sucked one in an old work shirt pocket. These ten minutes of frantic searching put me in mind of the dark but pleasing days when I smoked. That's not good. I have to say that I think I have just swapped a smoking problem for a Niquitin lozenge problem.

So I turned to the internet, it would have the answers. Turns out they are addictive. I mean what the fuckity fuck is that all about? That really is taking the piss. Sake! And, you'll like this, prolonged usage makes you fart like you have just a full evening of Guinness and raw steak. Which does go some way to answering that particular issue. I thought I was trousers trumpeting more than normal but when people started opening the window when I entered the room I knew there was an issue. So obviously that's the end of the nicotine lozenges. It's cold turkey and swearing from here on in folks. Manuel will not be slaved by nicotine for a moment longer. Well I'm gonna finish this packet first, be rude not too. And from then I'll be free...and less smelly.

This week I was mostly less than amused at this shit right here. Well spotted by Keith. Who the fuck thinks like this? Who?

This week I was mostly less jolly than normal, so I sent Little Miss Manuel to the butchers, obviously. Have a swell weekend folks, stay safe and sing up United.

I cant work with this script anymore....

I was taking the order for a table of eight the other night when I became very aware of something that I do. I've always known that I do it, I just never really thought about it.

I approached the first person at the table, a well dressed lady with a huge laugh that sounded something akin to the crash bang wallop of the coal lorry. Coal lorry? That's right the coal lorry, I'm that old.

In her best Belfast accent she said, "I'll hawve the lawmb shank wi the chawmp so ah will."

"Beautiful madame", says I as I translated what she asked for onto my order pad/napkin.

I turned to the next chap who I assumed to be her husband due to the obvious passive aggression emanating from them.

"I'll hawve.....eh.....where was it now......eh...Mary, what was it again", he was lost in the menu, lost with no conceivable way out.

"Sake....", snapped the lady beside him, "....he'll hawve the liver an bacon so he will, with chaps."

"Beautiful choice sir."

The next person to order was a young lady, it was her 21st birthday and the reason why everybody was out. She was sporting the new necklace her parents bought her to mark this significant moment. Nothing says happy birthday daughter more than a shiny hologram pendant thingy with your dead grandparents on it. Seriously.

"I'll hawve the rissatto wi just a wee bit of salad.........so ah will."

"Rissatto? What's rissatto? You nat gettin a steak?", asked her mother in complete horror at the thought of risotto.

"She finks she pash", added the brother.

"Grease yer heels 'n slide on wee lad", came the fantastic response from the risotto ordering sister. I nearly peed with laughter.

"Oh no the risotto is a great choice, just beautiful", I added to reassure her.

And off I popped round the table securing orders from all the diners, translating into to English along the way. I love the Belfast accent but crikey it does offer a few challenges.

I got to the last person, a young man wearing a fetcing pink and grey sweatshirt with the very obvious remnants of his baked bean flavoured lunch. Nothing says happy birthday sweet sister like not changing your sweater. For some reason he was sniggering, in fact the whole table was sort of sniggering. I assumed I had missed something or it was an in-joke that I wasn't involved in.

"Now sir what can I get you this evening?", I asked with pen poised over my order pad, such as it was.

"I'll hawve the steak, nae sauce or any of that there salad or anyfing like that....just the steak awnd chaps."

"And how will you have it cooked sir?", I had already written down "well done" but it's only polite to ask.

"Vary well done mate", says he smiling at me.

"Very good sir", and with that I collected the menus. But I could see them all nudging each other and struggling to control their laughter.

"Was his nat beautiful?", asks the daughter, "Mines was beautiful.... so was my mummy's"

"So was mines and his too", jumped in the Aunty whilst pointing at her husband.

"HA! Yeah I do that, sorry, it's just a force of habit. Your steak will be beautiful too sir", says I reassuring the young man. No it bloody wont though is what I was thinking. But by this time the table had descended into a cacophony of laughter with the mother's coal lorry laughing practically drowning everybody else out whilst they told each other that their shirts were beautiful and their bottles of beer were beautiful. Crikey!

I do it all the time. I comment on the order as I get it. There are lots of, beautiful' and lovely' and good choice' as I write the order down. But try as I might I just cant say anything positive when someone orders a well done steak. I just cant. Anyway I escaped from the table leaving them to their hearty laughter. At least they were laughing and having a good time, pity it was at my expense.

"Why you so red?", asked the boss.

"Got pwnd by the table of spides over there"

"Ha!", says he, "Well you should have been more careful"

"Eh?" replied I confused to what he meant.

"Always beware the spides of March"

"Beautiful", thought I.

Brassneck....

Ah Saturday nights. Saturday nights are the zenith of our week, the pinnacle of our seven days of drudgery. All the Waiter Chums and Chums of Waiters are present and correct on a Saturday night, their little faces all a panicky shade of white at the thought of the slog ahead. Waiter Chum Number One and I have no such fear and instead prowl the edges of the restaurant waiting for the hungry hordes of cutlery fiddlers and finger sniffers to arrive and defile my special place. Such is their want.

check guest...

Friday night had been a rip roaring success despite some creative scheduling and oddly placed reservations which when combined had left us a bit short on the floor. The punters had been happy and tantrum free, the chefs had been both cooperative and pleasing with their sumptuous offerings, management had loosened their authoritarian grip and I was in a jolly mood. It was all rather odd. But we went home with bulging pockets and smiles on our tired little masks.

Far be it from me to say it was perfect, for that is for others to judge, but by fuckity it was. And with hopes of recreating that perfectness we found ourselves on the cusp of yet another Saturday night service.

Two hours in and the first signs that we were not going to recreate the loveliness of the previous evening showed themselves. All had appeared well as we were coming to the end of the first sitting. Waiter Chum Number One headed off for a wee smoke break and I was watching her section. The other Waiter Chums were still holding it together. Which was as nice as it was surprising.

I was called over by a woman on a table of eight who had all finished and was seeking the bill. They were in sparkling form and the wine and whiskey had been flowing freely. Well if I was off to see Michael Flatleys's Lord of the Dance I'd get juiced up too. All that dancing erectitude and kickety feet action doesn't seem like my kind of Saturday night. Then again I'm not a middle aged woman, despite what the chefs may tell you.

"Here listen...", began the lovely woman whilst glugging at her whiskey, oh how I wished to be glugging too, "....that was just really really lovely food and that. And that wee girl what served us, she was just really really lovely too n all so she was."

"Why thank you madam that's very sweet of you to say so." I really do talk like that, seriously.

I returned a moment later with the bill and presented it to the lady who had sought it. The women were having a swell old time and the craic was flowing like the wine and whiskey. I'd say these ladies could have a ball without the hard liquor and grape juice, they were just fun happy people. Around this time Waiter Chum Number One returned from smoking a lovely cigarette, oooh how I miss thee, and I filled her in on the activity in her section since she left. I took my time as I was sniffing in her smokiness. This being what I am reduced to now. I may have to take up drinking again.

"You gave them the bill?", she asked with less appreciation than I had expected. Pfft. Actually I was a bit pfft off. It appears that there were still a few things to be added to the bill before it was presented. Oh crikey. But as it happened the lady who got the bill pointed this out to Waiter Chum Number One as she approached the table. So no harm no foul, just a little red facedness. The corrected bill was presented a moment later.

Now, a few minutes later I was clearing a lively table of six when I felt a tug on my shirt. I spun round, actually my days of spinning round are well and truly in the past so to be honest I lumbered round more than I spun. I expected to find a Waiter Chum or even a Chum of a Waiter or even a manager. What I didn't expect to find was a rubbery faced woman sitting back, at a rather precarious angle I might add, on her seat looking up at me with a stern and peeved looking visage.

"Can I have a word with yis?", she scowled as she spoke. Crikey mummy! Knowing that she probably didn't want to reiterate the lovely platitudes of her friend I took my time clearing the other table in the vein hope that Waiter Chum Number One would happen on the scene before I would have to talk to rubbery faced woman. Alas this was not the case.

"Manager!", she exclaimed as I stood there up to my man boobs in crockery my twig like arms aching under the weight of our bin lid sized plates.

"Scuse me madam?", I asked for no real reason as it was very apparent she wanted to see a manager. But still there is no excuse for the sloppy and brusque manner in which she spoke.

"I wanna see the manager...... bout this bill, it's nat on", she explained whilst clinging to the little bill in one hand and glugging from her whiskey glass with the other.

I retrieved the manager forthwith. He was getting a coffee at the time. Ha! But off he popped like a good soldier onto the field of battle. He returned forthwith looking rather chastened and refusing to spill beans, well to me. But it transpired that one woman, the rubber faced one, was refusing to pay the second bill, the amended bill as she said it was unfair. Actually she said, "it's nat on, so it's nat. We wuz given dis bill and den we wuz given anudder one. It's nat on, so it's nat"

There then ensued some frantic to-ing and fro-ing and hard bartering involving just that one woman and the manager. There was cross table finger pointing and voices raised. I kept my charming little nose out of it and carried on with the other table who were well down their third bottle of shiraz by now and were feeling a touch giddy. Hearing all the shenanigans on the other table they took to loudly exclaiming how much of a wonderful time they had had and how simply superb the service and the food was. Oh my! Whilst amusing afterwards it really wasn't helping at the time.

But yer woman was refusing to pay the amended bill but her chums were. I found this all so confusing. Yes we, and by we I mean me, had given them an incorrect bill but it was they who had honestly pointed out our, and by our I mean my, mistake. So what was the huffing and puffing all about. Her chums ushered her out of the building, which was nice. But each one of them returned over the next five minutes to apologise for their friends behaviour. It was all so frightfully annoying and I felt quite embarrassed for the rubber faced woman and her brassneck. You eat it, you pay for it. End of.....

You wouldn't do that would you? Would you?

Cradling the porcelain...

I really feel for celebraty chef, Heston Blumenthal. Oh how the woe and gloom and headachery must envelop him. What started as a few people with dicky tum tums soon became 40 people with the uber shits and has since then has turned into one of the largest cases of mass (alleged) food poisoning in quite a while. There are now over 400 reported cases of pant pooing and dicky tumminess all involving the Fat Duck.

Oh my!

I mean the last time this many people heard the brown noise was when Bruce Willis did that god awful and quite shameful cover of Under the Boardwalk.

nothing worse than imaginary sickness

Now as you know I'm not a cynical person, much, but the fact that most of these claims of trouser trumpeting and uncontrollable boking came after good old Heston offered a free meal to all those affected by the outbreak of whatever the hell it was following a visit to his restaurant makes me think that some people are taking advantage of this messy situation.

The swines.

There is no doubting that something, whether it be the fault of the Fat Duck or not, has gone wrong but I also have no doubt that some people are at their lark. Over my near twenty years of schlepping plates to and from restaurant punters I have lost count of the many phone calls I've taken from people complaining of food poisoning. Normally from the same people who I have had to pour into taxis at the end of the night due to the imbibing of ridiculously large amounts of booze and hooch and hoochy booze. Personal responsibility is always eschewed in favour of blame, for where blame can can be laid compensation can be claimed.

"I was sick as a pig for the rest of the weekend. I was throwing up all day Sunday and was sure I was gonna die. And it was your chicken what done it. I'll be phoning the health authorities and the papers and, and, and, Steven Nolan.......Oh a voucher for a meal for two with wine included? Yeah that will do lovely, see you on Saturday."

That's how it goes. Customers pull scams. They do it with big balls and brass necks. They complain about food poisoning but neglect to mention the 10 pints of beer, 5 cocktails, and half bag of coke they took in the hours after they left the restaurant. No, no it was the chicken what done it, honest. They really do have diarrhea, verbal diarrhea.

The shit they come out with, "I thought it tasted off, but didn't want to say".What? You thought it tasted off but didn't want to say? You thought that it would be okay to eat something that tasted off? You fucking deserve to get food poisoned you idiot.

I suffered under the sweat filled ass raging yoke of food poisoning last year. And to my eternal shame so did my guest, Medbh. That said I couldn't possibly say what her symptoms were. But my ass was both sweating and raging. Have you ever had food poisoning? If you haven't spent two days clasping your bathroom porcelain whilst calling for the sweet and merciful release of death then you haven't been food poisoned. I was never so sicky bad in my life. It took me days to get over it and days to regain my full masterly control over my food. I was feared of it, I just didn't want to eat again.

That situation has since been rectified and those missing days when I couldn't eat have been made up for. Doubly so. Food poisoning is just so grim that you shouldn't anger the gods of karma by faking it. You'll see what I mean when you are doubled over projecting fluids from every hole, pore and fingernail.

But back to Heston and his woes, it's all a very far cry from the heady days of the recent past when The Fat Duck was named the Best Restaurant in the World and second best last year. Lets hope The Fat Duck doesn't become synonymous with food poisoning and the effects of it. Will the kids be complaining to their mothers that they cant go to school due to a bad case of the Fat Ducks? Or will it be, "I'm gonna Blumenthal all over the floor....ah man." Not so cool. No one wants their name to conjure up images of shit filled pants and sick covered chins, I mean just ask Adam Sandler.

Heh! I hate Adam Sandler. Not so fond of claims of fake food poisoning either.

Democracy eh......

Democracy sucks balls. No, seriously it really does? Sammy Wilson is testament to this fact. Okay well maybe democracy doesn't suck balls in the larger sense. I suppose if you have a large country to be running democracy is a swell way to do it. Power to the people and all that. But online restaurant reviews definitely do suck scrotal sack. Again, this requires qualification. Reviews carried out by professional eaters/reviewers (a job I yearn for, obviously) who know what they are yammering on about and have the ability to construct it into a coherent sentence and not only have spellchecker but know how to use it, they are okay. Well for the most part they are okay. Some are just smug self satisfied cunts.

But some online review sites make me want to gouge eyes out, not my own obviously as they are beautifully blue and I need them to see stuff, but I would certainly like to attack the peep holes of a lot of the contributors to these sites. Oh man do they make me want to do a sick in my mouth. I came across one the other day for one of my more favourite Belfast restaurants that left me seething. I seethed for hours after, seethed I tells ye. It put me right off my post work cup of tea. Well nearly.

The contributor/idiot was all a tizzy because the restaurant they dined in didn't serve a full range of meat dishes. Now one quick glance on their website would have confirmed this. But instead we ned up with little nugget of delightfulness/helpfulness....

"I have to say I was very dissappointed to find no chicken or beef on the menu mainly fish and vegetarian dishes. I do like fish but this night I really would have liked a steak."

Really? You wanted steak eh? I dunno maybe you could have gone to a steak house or maybe like just about any other restaurant in Belfast. Just saying. Bleurgh.

Still it's heart warming to see others have decided not to go down the eye gouging route, although I still consider it as a viable option, and have instead embarked on a much more satisfying way of getting back at the online numpties who contribute to review sites.

From Boing Boing...

Pizza joint gives staff t-shirts with the text of 1-star Yelp reviews.

At San Francisco's Pizzeria Delfina, they know how to own their pain. Rather than wringing their hands over Internet sourpusses who give them one-star Yelp ratings, they've printed up tees with excerpts from the most scathing reviews ("This place sucks") and given them to the staff to wear. Instead of simply bitching about Yelp, they've made Yelp their bitch and taken quotes from one-star reviews posted on Yelp about the pizzeria and made them into T-shirts for their staff to wear. (They also have one that simply says, "This place sucks," a quote from yet another typically eloquent and insightful Yelp review.)

Ha! Quality. Still, I hold a spoon for eye gouging in reserve.......

Feel free to leave your comments below, I value your comments and would never eye gouge any of you, well most of you. Also and with remarkable timing I shall be posting a review of my own later this week of Belfast's latest eaterie, The Barking Dog. All puns regarding the vegetables having, "bite" and that whole area will be avoided. Maybe......

They can fuck right off.....and stay there and whilst fucking off they can take the politicians with them.

From the BBC

Two military personnel have been shot dead during a gun attack at an Army base in County Antrim, police said. A spokesperson added that two further military personnel and two civilians, all believed to be male, were taken to hospital in a serious condition. The incident took place at the Massereene Army base in Antrim, 16 miles north of Belfast, at 2140 GMT. A spokesperson for the Ministry of Defence described the shooting as a "drive-by" attack.

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Oh fucking tremendous. Just as the tiny glimmer of hope that we had turned a corner and life was going to be a little less shitty than it had been was flickering perilously in the cold financial wind of late , the old men, probably in young bodies, in a murderous instance, have dragged us back to the heinous dark ages of the recent past and possibly snuffed out our little glimmer of hope.

They can fuck right off. They aren't wanted, they aren't needed, they have no support and all they will do is fill coffins and destroy hope. And will the death of these poor unfortunates free Ireland, whatever the fuck that means? I very much doubt it.

Fuck right off - no one wants you, no one needs you.

Post Curry Update @ 1.30am following a comment by chum Medbh...

It's a failure of the politicians making and by extension those of us who continue to vote these useless idiots back in time and time and time again.The murderous gangs only feel free to operate by exploiting the tensions that exist between the parties that tends to feed to the ordinary populous.

We need a revolution alright.....but not one of physical force or violence, unless booting the idiots out of power counts as violence, we need a true political revolution.

It's true some people never wanted to quit with the murder and the trappings of associated with it, their lives and very being was and is defined by their positions within these shady fucking groups. And despite what some politicians say they are exactly the same. They built their careers on weasel words and cliched responses. But what do they ever do that practically changes the status quo for the good of the working population?

Nothing, fuck all that's what. Sunday will be a day of cliches and pointless and wasted words. And yet two people will be dead and we as a society will retreat into our default positions of green and orange.

I am as depressed as I am angry....

This week I was mostly...

This week I was mostly trying a bit of the ol jebus woo and shazam on my Naga chilli plant. But I have finally admitted defeat with it and no amount of magic, fertilizer, water or gentle stroking of it's twigs will bring it back to life. Which is so utterly disappointing. I really loved that plant and it's fiery fruit. If only there was a website or blog where I could learn how best to garden and grow plants in an urban environment. Hmmmm. Oh wait! There is! And it has the best blog name I have stumbled across in an age, Ditches and Hoes. See what they did there? Well worth a look see.

riding the nu-gardening zeitgeist since 2009

apparently...

This week I was mostly listening to Yeasayer. Actually to be accurate, I was exclusively listening to Yeasayer. I bought the Dark was the Night album upon the recommendation of Nialler9. Seriously, I will get anything he tells me to. No joke. And the Tightrope track by Yeasayer has just blown me away. Here have a wee pop yerselves...

Oooooh it's just so super smashing great I wanna take it out behind the middle school and get it pregnant or failing that just hug it all up 'til all the tears have gone. I thoroughly recommend Yeasayer and whilst we are at it the Dark Was The Night album. It's for chariteeee so there's nothing to lose.

This week I was mostly in fear of my computer and the mighty mighty power contained therein. A lovely man arrived on Tuesday and brought lovely new go faster stripes for my Mac in the shape of 50mb broadband. Oh crikey mummy it's just so lovely. I'm done with jittery and unsatisfactory you-tubing and gone are the days of overnight downloading and stop start streaming. Huzzah for the man with the lovely go faster stripes and huzzah for the woman who phoned to see if I was happy with everything. I really was. Now we just need to get the leak under the sink fixed. If only.

This week I was mostly delighted to realise that Well Done Fillet is now two, today! Awh bless it's little bloggy socks. Two years eh, wow that's a lot of time sitting in front of a computer screen. Then again what else would I have been doing? Ta ta for reading and commenting. Your continued support both surprises and warms my cold and bitter heart.

Manuel hearts his readers....seriously.

Boundaries....again.

I was gleefully pouring the plonk, it wasn't good enough to be called wine, for a chatty table of four. Despite knowing it was nothing more than a less than delectable grape/anti-freeze concoction I still had to go through the whole gentrified process of presenting, opening and tasting and all that jazz. Whilst I would have loved just to slap the wine down on the table and go,"Yo, wines up" I really cant see the boss taking too well to it. And if I am being honest I do love all that waiterly/winey jazz. But some wines are just not worth the effort.

chutney

not really very funny at all...

The host, a very loquacious woman who hadn't stopped to take breath from the moment she arrived, was yammering on and on about her son's new girlfriend to the other guests at the table. It appears that her son had been going through some tough times, I dunno maybe his playstation was bust, and this new lady in his life was, "just the ticket", to making him happy again. Awh bless. Although if you ask me, he sounded like a right bed wetter.

The rest of the group listened intently, for they had no choice, with lots of sympathetic head nodding and fake smilery. The woman's husband added tedious little nuggets of information along the way such as who the son's new girlfriend's parent were and what they do for a living. This caused much ooohing and ahhhing from their friends. It was all so bleurghsome.

Now the wine may have been as cheap and as nasty as a member of 1980's hair and teeth band, Motley Crue, but it's cork was proving harder to shift than a field full of hippies on a summers day when there is a special offer on cider and petiole oil. It's reluctance to pop from the bottle was frustrating me but yer woman's flap jawing was distracting the guests from my fiddling and mucho mucho strenuous endeavors. Which was nice. As I finally got the pop I had been seeking I noticed that the mood at the table had shifted to being quite sombre as the woman doing all the talking became quite teary as she spoke. Her husband gripped her hand and her lady chum on the other side of the table reached out to touch her on the arm.

Crikey, maybe the son had broke his X-Box as well as his playstation.

I dispensed with the tasting of the wine and went straight to the pouring. Sometimes you just know they need a drink. There were soothing words as she gripped her husband's hand. The other lady looked quite teary now too. I just wanted the wine poured so I could get the hell out of there. I knew little to nothing about the situation but it takes very little to set me off and no one and I mean no one wants a blubbering waiter at their table.

I smiled affectionately at the woman as I poured her wine, she smiled back. The table went quiet, as much because they finally realised I was there and because there was nothing else to add to the conversation. They were taking a moment to reset their emotions. But from behind me I could hear the other gentleman, who up to this point had said nothing at all, ruffling and rustling. I turned round to pour his wine to find him fixing himself, if you know what I mean.

"Thank fuck for that! I was all tangled up....such a ball ache....what were you saying? Are having starters or what?"

A real class act! Talk about self involved! Idiot. He was glared at by his wife and the other couple just stared out the window in a, "we didn't hear that" kind of way. But he didn't care or notice and as the evening went on he became more and annoying finally culminating in his being sent to the naughty step by his wife, well he was told to go and phone a taxi, for making a very rude remark when I brought down the chutney for the cheeseboard.

"Chutney!", he exclaimed.

"Chutney's great", he added with vigor and if you will forgive me, relish.

"Up the chutney!" Except he said it three or four times and was as giddy as a school boy looking through his mother's clothing catalogue.

Oh my, a real class act. Boundaries, he needs em.

Floor Cheese...

It was like that
but with less cheese

I was elegantly winging my way round to table eight with a malodorous selection of Irish cheeses in one hand a finely crafted Irish coffee in the t'other. Okay to be honest very little of that sentence is accurate. In no way shape or form was I moving with grace or elegance, I was laboured and my movements had all the subtlety and preciseness of a case of the hiccups. The Irish coffee was less well crafted than you might have hoped for and I really did need to get it to the table before it sunk like the Titanic. My rule of thumb being once it's on the table it's your responsibility. But the cheeses did smell, in fact they were so smelly that I was sure my black pudding sandwich from breakfast was about to make a reappearance.

Crikey no one wanted that, least of all me. Not saying it wasn't just superb, because it was, but I didn't want to revisit it, and not all over table 18 either.

But as I say I was trying to get the cheese and coffee to the table in some sort of presentable fashion when one of the expensive wedges of cheese decided to make a break for it and dropped to the floor. Egads! Waiters are paid to bring stuff not drop stuff. It's this bringing of stuff that is the very essence of what we do. If you fail to bring the stuff then you are just a civilian in an apron and not really a waiter at all.

Helpfully the little boy sitting on table 18 pointed the cheese dropping incident out to me and everybody else in the vicinity. Aren't kids just smashing? Obviously I resisted the urge to tell him Santa was dead and that ice cream gives you the thruppenny bits. But I was sorely tempted.

Now, I'm not as young as I used to be and bending down and consequently getting back up is considered more of a workout than rudimentary action these days. And what with little Tommy Tell Tales watching my every move whilst giving a running commentary I wasn't able to take my usual action in such circumstances and just kick it under the nearest table and let someone else deal with it. Which was annoying.

"Silly me eh...", I said through gritted teeth as I notice the little "blessing" staring at me.

"Youa wubbish....mummy, mummy mummy mummy.....he dwopped the cheese hahahaha."

"That's as maybe but at least I can pronounce my R's you wee prick. I should kick you under the table", I thought as I considered my next move whilst sort of half crouching/half looking like I was going toilet in my trousers. That's a pretty picture for ya right there.

I had the cheeseboard in one hand and the half sunk Irish bloody coffee in the other. Clearly something had to be set down before I could retrieve the escaped wedge of Cashel Blue. I really could have done without all of this cheese dropping, coffee sinking, small boy staring palaver. Sunday's are less than delightful at the best of times but this really was extracting the Michael.

I don't work well with an audience and Little Tommy Tell Tale was annoying me with his pointing and laughing and snitching. He very much reminded me of my PE teacher at school. Dick. I decided the best course of action to take would be to slide the cheese under the empty table to my left and drop what remained of the cheeseboard off along with the Irish coffee at table eight. I would then make up a fantastic story that the tight wads in the kitchen had stiffed them out of a wedge of cheese that I would secure for them thus making me look like a hero and the kitchen look like villains. Everybody wins. Yippee! Oh and obviously I would go back and get the dropped cheese after get somebody else to pick it up.

Wonderful idea in my head. Less wonderful in practice. As I said the cheese was particularly smelly as it had been left out for a bit at room temperature. Cheese is best consumed this way. So when I pushed at the blob of Cashel Blue with my in no way small size sevens the cheese refused to roll as I had hoped. No it spread, like a cheese is supposed to. Actually it spread like white dog mess on the pavement.

"Ewwwwwe he's wubbing it into the gwound.....mummy mummy mummy mummy...that fat man is wubbing the cheese into the gwound.....look mummy..."

Fat man? Fat man? I swear to god if it's the last thing I do you are gonna fall down some stairs wee man.

But not only was the cheese not rolling under the empty table like I had planned but it was sticking to my foot. How could such a genius plan go horribly wrong? How? It was full proof.

"Playing football? You'll never score the winner with that!" came a pestiferous voice behind me. Just what I didn't need, Todd the bloody Toucher. He happened upon this scene of cheeseball on the way back from one of his many trips to the bathroom. Mook.

"Yeah, very good Todd", and I ushered him out of the way. Knobs to the lot of it, I thought and just left it as it was and went and dropped of the remains of the cheeseboard and half sunk and cooling coffee at table eight. They didn't appear to notice anything amiss so I said nothing and half sprinted away as quick as my little legs would carry me. Back to the cheese.

"You missed a bit....it's unda the table...", pointed Little Tommy Tell Tales as I scraped up the floor cheese with a knife and a napkin. I just glared in reply. This is what my life has become, scraping cheese of the floor with a five year pointing out the bits that I have missed. Awesome.

There is no moral to this story. But if you do happen into a restaurant for some Sunday lunch and you do decide to finish off with an Irish coffee and a cheeseboard please have the fucking decency to bloody finish it. Table eight did not, they left some cheese. You just don't know what we have to go through. You just don't know.

I need to lie down....