Aliases.....

I was dum de dumming and tat te tatting my way through the Match of the Day theme tune at work on Tuesday night. This was as much to amuse myself as to relieve the boredom. It was early and there wasn't a lot going on and to be honest I was feeling a bit lonely. The MOTD theme tune is a comfort. Gary Lineker is not. All the waiter chums and chums of waiter, and most of the chefs, were all away out on the staff party. Being a grade three shut-in I volunteered to work and let all the kids go instead. I'm very magnanimous like that. (and was in no way because I'm a grumpy old git who prefers the company of strangers to that of his work chums)

Damn my benevolent heart because I was now mired in a very bitter case of jealousy. I wanted to go and get drunk on tequila and be sick on myself and say inappropriate things just like the rest of them. A little tear of sadness escaped from my eye as I waved them all off. By wave them off I really mean give them the fingers.

bokey bokey wrongness....

But I got over soon enough, tea helped. So there I was a while later, my tears all dried up, humming the theme tune to Match of the Day again when in walked The Family Morris. I say walked but the Morris' don't really walk, they appear, they materialize even, as if from thin bloody air. I don't know how they do it but they definitely don't walk.

I had been doodling on the booking sheets, whilst humming (how's that for multi tasking?) at the time and nearly shat a brick when Morris Senior discreetly coughed to announce their presence. Honestly they are like shape shifters, one minute you think you are standing beside a rather humdrum and browning ficus plant and the next it's an odd family of three with seemingly magical powers.

It's all very disturbing. They aren't really called the Morris' but it's what I call them mainly due to Mr Morris' general appearance being that of a Morris Minor car. That is to say he is more rounded than fat. It's as if somebody has taken a big wood plane and smoothed off all the pointy bits. As well as Mr Morris there is his wife, Morris Dancer (she likes the ballet) and their daughter Morris Minor, obviously. They were allocated their names before I was aware of their shapeshifting/stealth skills.

We give most of our regular guests nicknames. This shouldn't be taken as a sign of approval or even endearment, it's just an easier and quicker way for us waiters to recognise who we are talking about when we are talking about them. And we are always talking about them, unless of course we are talking at to them.

For example Waiter Chum Number One and I were shooting the breeze before the restaurant opened on Saturday evening when she mentioned that Mr and Mrs Smith had been in the previous Thursday night.

"Who?"

"Mr and Mr Smith, you know them! Tall guy with blonde hair? Wife works in the bank? Stays for hours? You served them last week! Cagney and Lacey!"

"Oh Cagers and Lacey! Why didn't you say?! Have a little drink or twelve did he?"

She looks like everybody's favourite mumsie cop and he likes a drink, hence Cagney and Lacey.

Then there are the three geeks. They wear glasses and constantly fiddle with iPhones, Blackberries and laptops during lunch and almost always wear short sleeved shirts with more pens in the top pockets than in your average Office Depot. So obviously they are the Bill Gates'. See what we did there eh? Wonderfully enough they come in three handy sizes - Big Bill, Medium Bill and Wee Bill so this makes things a little easier when you are sending food to their table. "Big Bill is on soup and Medium Bill is having salad" etc.

Lovely Man says "lovely" no matter what you bring or say to him.

"And now sir, your steak"

"Lovely"

"And your water sir"

"Lovely"

"Your car is on fire sir"

"Lovely"

And on it goes.

And of course you know Todd the Toucher, Dances with Glue and Slovenly McGinbreath but there is also Smells like Feet. He smells like feet, obviously, despite his penchant for bathing in gallons of aftershave. It's not a pleasant combination I can tell you, feet and Hi-Karate or whatever the hell it is he slaps on. It gets you in the back of your throat and leaves you dry heaving and gagging for hours. Much like being exposed to the work of Adam Sandler.

Of course the trick is not to call them their nickname when talking to them. I mean I really don't think Mr Dick for a Nose nor Ms Globulous Maximus would take kindly to it. Still the letter of complaint would make fascinating reading.....

The first step of the long surrender.....

I was chatting with Dances with Glue, one of my more regular customers, on Tuesday night about this, that, and the other. She gets her name due to her fondness for handicrafts and that sort of thing. Practically everything she was wearing had been handmade or altered or had something garish sewn into to it, from the crocheted coin purse with "attractive" frog on it to the wooly cigarette case adorned with sunny flowers. Yes because putting them in to a wooly "sock" makes them less deadly. Honestly birthday gifts from her must just be a delightful surprise, delightful like diarrhea.

mirror mirror on the wall

who's the grumpiest of them all....

We were just shooting the breeze whilst we waited for the kitchen to bodge together her tagliatelle. And when it comes to pasta they always bodge it together. It's as if they must leave it under the hot lamps for a minute or two before they send it, just so that it develops a nice thick skin. We were discussing all manner of nonsense from the state of the world to her difficulty in acquiring cheap fuzzy felt when she turned the conversation to my not smoking. We had enjoyed numerous conversations in the past about the best places to go for a smoke when in town and the rights of smokers in general. Obviously she knew I had quit.

"So how's it going then, cracked up yet?", she inquired with her usual forwardness.

"No, I feel fine. Eating a lot of fruit and nuts and that sort of thing."

"You've been eating a lot of something that's for sure" says she and pokes me with her pinky.

Obviously I was taken aback at her impertinent remark and assault on my pudgy person. I was at a loss for a good comeback. I did consider asking about her boyfriend who had recently done one but didn't. Familiarity does indeed breed contempt, and a waiter poked with a sharp little pinky is a waiter who will hold your pasta under the hot lamps until it has a skin thicker than a rhino. I was annoyed for the rest of the night. Mainly because it's true.

You see your average French waiter is tall, model tall with Bowie-esque cheekbones and has the ability to stare down at his own feet without having to both suck and push in his tum tum. This was particularly the case at the fancy Cafe Marly at the Louvre. Crikey they were better dressed than I was on the morning of my wedding, and none of them bore a haunting look of impending doom. Still I've always thought the staff shouldn't look better than the guests. The only way for that to happen with these guys is if a bus run of lovelies from the planet of beautiful people show up.

I was considering this and Dances with Glue's fickle fat pointing finger whilst staring at myself in the mirror on Tuesday night. Believe me this isn't something I do often. I normally throw a shirt over the looking glass to shield myself from the horror it reflects. This has been a tactic that has served me, if not the general public, well over the years as I've grown from a waif like teenager to a bald 36 year old with a spread more generous than your average deli counter. Little Miss Manuel enjoyed the view though, shit I think I went a bit gay for them too....for a bit.

Like watching a good car crash or Kerry Katona on a daytime TV show it was hard for me to take my eyes off the grotesque reflection. How it had happened was not in question, a fondness for pies, cakes and all the wonders of the pig. Why it happened was not in question, greed and the folly of youth. Ah I think back with fondness to the halcyon carefree days of last year when I could eat, drink, and smoke what I wanted without worrying about whether it was likely to keep me up all night with indigestion. Those days are over. How am I gonna shift it and return this once wondrous body (Ha! LMM) to it's former svelte like condition, now that is a question.

Eventually I gave up trying to suck my paunch back inside my body whilst trying to imagine what I might look like after some intensive dieting and climbed into bed with two mini twister lollies and a half bag of minstrels. As I lay in the dark developing strategies to lose weight without having to give up any of my favourite foods and eating habits or having to exercise I got a nasty case of heartburn. Christ the world is out to get me. I tossed and turned and beat my chest and in the end I had to get up again.

So as I sat on my bed in the dark with the light from the modem flickering off my hairy legs trying to belch the pain away I realised that this was only the beginning, the first step of the long surrender. Soon I will be one of those men who has to pop twenty pills in the morning just to keep his bowels under control and I'll have to takes swigs from a bottle of Milk of Magnesia after every meal as I complain about, "my guts." All my food will be boiled or steamed and be devoid of all flavour. And butter will be treated like my own personal kryptonite. I'll wanna order a rare steak with chips and LMM will suggest the "heart healthy" fish that comes with nothing but derision and dirty looks from the waiter.

Fuck I cant be arsed with getting old and having to change my ways. If anybody needs me I'll be eating butter straight from the tub and throwing hand grenades at the pretty thin people.

Or of course I could not overreact and maybe I should just not let Dances with Glue back in again........