More toilet trauma

I had a genuine first at work on Thursday night, never happened before, and I pray to all that is good that it doesn't happen again.

It almost had me boaking my lunch.....

(boaking by the way is a charming Norther Irish word for being sick)

There was a young man eating on his own. Seemed pleasant enough, quiet, polite and a bit jokey. There were no immediate warning signs that he was in fact a sausage short of a good dinner. It wasn't very busy but he seemed to fade into the background all the same, I'm not saying we forgot about him, but maybe he could have got a little more love.

His plate was cleared and he declined the sweet menu and anything else. He seemed content enough so I left him where he was, like I say it wasn't busy so we didn't need his table back in a hurry. I plodded about, serving the few tables I had a with my usual charm and wit, which was of course pretty much wasted on the really rather dull Thursday night crowd. But whatever.

As I cleared another table I happened to catch yer man out of the corner of my eye, he was slumped over his table.

Good grief, what's this!

Dead?

The food looked fine!

I dropped of the plates first, I judged it bad etiquette to try and wake a dead man with plates in your hand. Eddie, who was sniffing about the manager as he was trying to get home early, was press ganged into coming with me to check on our dead punter. Turns out he was just having a wee snooze.

Let me tell you something nobody gets to have wee snoozes on my shift, nobody! So he was politely, but firmly, told that there would be no more snoozing, zeding, napping or any form of sleeping or he would be out on his ear. He apologised and said he would be leaving shortly. No problem thought I. A couple of minutes later I popped back to check on him and guess what? Yup, he was back in dream world again. The bastard. Up with this I would not put! Eddie was called for again, I'm not good in potentially physical situations, not with my pretty face.

We roused sleeping beauty's brother and informed him of his right to get the fuck outta here! He started blabbering making no coherent sense what so ever. Jesus! I offered to get him a taxi, he said something about the weather in Madrid. Say what? I wasn't in the mood for all this. Time to go chummy, and up he got.

But as we watched him stumble away I noticed his wet jeans.

BALLS!

The dirty, sleepy, gibbering fucker had pished himself!

For fucks sake!

And that is a definite first for me. I have had sleeper before but never a pisher. Eddie, the legend, cleaned it up. I had tables that needed distracted, obviously....

**************

I am paid an hourly rate, which in theory, means I get paid for the hours I work. I say in theory because sometimes whacky things happen. There's quite a bit of rounding going on, mainly in a downwards direction. I might bring a lawyer and accountant to work next week when this months wages finally make the bank. But for once I feel a bit sorry for the management at work. Next Friday, as you know, is the 29th of February. Bonus day! It only comes once every four years. And if you get paid monthly, as the management do, you wont get paid for this extra day. And I assume it is the same for most if not all salaried employees. Crikey working a day for free whilst the tills are over flowing with cash, not sure I could do it. I shared this startling little fact with a couple of the clipboard warriors on Thursday night. There was a definite whiff of revolution in the air as I walked away.....

I wasn't shit stirring...
honest

Piss off

Picture the scene...(but don't try too hard)

Mens Room, Sunday afternoon at about 3pm. A handsome yet stout waiter meanders in to check and take advantage of the facilities. There is one other chap in there, numbers ones in the stall, with the door open.

Classy.

Hehehehe

Small willy I assume

you taking the piss out of me?

"What you doing in here?" says the punter as he turns round to find me checking the hand soap.

"Excuse me?" says the handsome yet stout waiter (that's me by the way)

"What are you doing in here, you shouldn't be in here!" says surprisingly irate punter.

"Okay...eh...whatever."

I wasn't in the mood for explaining myself. It was clear to anyone with a titer of wit what I was doing. Plus I'm not really a fan of having conversations with strange men in public bathrooms. And it wasn't as though he asked me on his way out, he was looming over me whilst zipping his fly. I just moved to pass him and carry on about my, work related not personal, business. There was no way in hell I was unzipping with this character hovering about.

"Don't you have your own staff toilets? You should be using those. It's not very hygienic what with you working with food."

He was being cocky, no pun intended, and condescending and as a result was pissing me right off, again no pun intended.

CHEEEEERIST!!!

Fantastic! It's shitty enough, no seriously I'm really not doing the toilet puns on purpose, working on a Sunday without having to deal with the super paranoid toilet police. We have to check the toilets on a half hourly basis. We check them for supplies, toilet roll, hand soap. We check that they are clean and that kids/idiots haven't stuffed 25 toilets rolls down the head or that people aren't snorting their own body weight in Columbian Marching Powder. We sign off a sheet on the wall when the job is done. Now having to explain this to a tall man with a small willy, hell any size of willy, was not how I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon.

I have to be honest I really don't put a huge amount of effort into checking the toilets.

Toilet roll? Check

Hand soap? Check

Stalls free from coke snorting fiends? Check

Toilets still attached to walls and floor not 3 inches deep in "water"? Check

In and out in 20 seconds, unless I gotta go.

I'm a simple man with the needs of a simple man. I go work when I'm asked. I eat when I'm hungry and I God damned pee when I need to God damned pee. There is no customer, manager, law, or etiquette that's gonna stop me. And actually staff cannot be stopped from using public toilets where they work. We have full toilet privileges. And the staff toilet is not, what's the best way to put this, of this world. It's not cool, not cool at all. It's Glastonbury like at the best of times. [shudder]

Back to the paranoid toilet police. He stood for a moment and considered what I had told him. He thought on it. The cogs cranked into gear. His eyes went blank for a moment, far away almost. And then he hit me with his retort. This would be his winning come back, the line to knock me out.

"Well make sure you wash your hands before you leave."

"Yeah my mum showed me when I was four......" and followed it up sharply by muttering "small dick" and slammed the stall door shut and.....well you don't need any further information.

What is happening to the world when a handsome, yet stout waiter, can't even get a pee in peace?