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....

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.....

Everybody Hurts, and with good reason......

Todd, the Toucher, was in again on Sunday for lunch but he wasn't his usual self. He was less demonstrative, less touchy handsy feely crotchy rubby than normal. [shudder] He seemed sad, well sadder than usual. Actually it's not accurate to describe him as being some sort of a sad sack as he is anything but. He is quite the dapper Dan in both appearance and outlook. If it wasn't for his less than appealing and constant crotch touching I think I would quite like to spend some time in the old duffers company. But he's a toucher so that ain't ever gonna happen.

awh.....

No, something was up with Todd the Toucher. Even his perfectly tied Windsor knot seemed less tally ho than normal. I was in two minds whether or not to poke it out of him. I mean one could have been asking Pandora what she has in her secret little box. But fuck it, I went charging on in, out of concern you understand.

"Hey Todd, you okay today? You seem a little down?"

"Ah yes Manuel you noticed. How kind of you....", began Todd whilst clutching his sweaty hands. This was weird. I was wearing my Sunday shirt which is a little tighter than the rest of my work collection and normally this has Todd in a frenzy of under the table fiddling activity.

But not today.

"...It's my friend, he has past away, gone to the other side, Valhalla has called for him and I am alone once more with my thoughts and my sadness." His hands were gesticulating now like a Shakespearean actor.

Woe is me, and Todd, obviously.

Oh that's what you keep in your box Pandora. How nice. I just had to ask. I just couldn't have brought him a Gin and Tonic and a jug of water like he asked for. Oh no, not me. Because you cant just recite the specials and walk away can you? Well not after hearing that.

"Eh......er.....I'm so sorry to hear that Todd. Had your friend been ill?", that's right, delve a little deeper and see if you can get yourself an invite to the funeral.

"Yes, yes the old chap had been suffering for quite a while now. His bowels had gone, lost all control of them Manuel. Lost all control. You'd be out for a walk, we used to love a good brisk early morning walk and lo and behold he'd shit himself. Terrible stuff I can tell you. Just terrible. Didn't even know he had done it either, poor old chap."

"Right.....eh yes......terrible indeed". Sweet mother of Gordon Ramsay what had I done? All I could see in my mind, vividly at that, was a shit covered old codger and Todd the Toucher trying to help him. I nearly did a sick in my mouth.

"It's the end when the bowels go Manuel, the end. You have to treat them right and look after them. It's the end otherwise."

HELP! Proctological advice from Todd the Toucher? Christ no no no no. I nodded my head in a sombre fashion and tried to excuse myself from the table but I had opened the box myself and the pain and anguish was flowing, presumably like his late chums bowels.

"Wasn't that old either, just seventy last August he was." A little tear escaped from Todd's right eye. He was clearly still very upset at the loss of his friend. I felt bad for him.

"Seventy? You don't say. Still seventy is a good innings eh?", cliches are just fab when consoling the grieving. I followed this up with, "He's in a better place now" and "Well at least his pain is over." Good old cliches, because what the hell else do you say?

"And did your chum leave any children or family behind?"

"Yes, yes the old boy had quite a frisky life of it, not sure how many kids he had but there was at least fourteen at the last count", and then he winked at me. This was as unnerving as it was creepy.

"Sorry, fourteen?" Okay then, clearly Todd has had more than cornflakes for breakfast.

"Yes fourteen, that I know of. Well I suppose I'll have to get another one now", says Todd dabbing at his teary eye.

"Another gin?", odd because he hadn't even started on the first one yet.

"Gin? No, another dog! Probably get another Collie, lovely dogs Collies. Do you have dog yourself Manuel?"

"A dog? Your friend that died was a dog?"

"Yes, a border collie, lovely old fella he was too. Kept shitting himself though. Had to get the vet in, you know the old sleeping injection."

I walked away. I just walked away without saying another thing. I will never speak to him again let alone serve him, the creepy sleazy crotch rubber. Fucker had me all concerned for him and everything. The dog truly is in a better place now and all......

Todd the Toucher is a tedious tosser who takes thrills in touching himself in toilets

The music system has been at it again. This time with highly amusing results, well for me they were highly amusing. Then again I am easily amused. For example when the boss of bosses, the Great Leader, the dude from my pay cheques was in for lunch with his charming family it took to playing ABBA's Money Money Money whilst they were scoffing their roast beef and I was emptying the bin in the male toilets. Nice....

turn it up....

But it doesn't end there. It was Sunday afternoon and all was well. Barely a fork was being moved in anger. It was quiet, January quiet. Waiter Chum Number three and I had run out of conversation, such as it was, and had taken to sighing and heel kicking. What guests we had were either done or eating, either way they didn't need us. I went for a wander round the restaurant just to see if anybody wanted me, that's right I was touting for work - need your napkin folded sir? Jug of water madam? I can dance a little, you want me to dance sir? Cue a quick flurry of shuffling feet and jazz hands. Okay maybe not, but I was tempted.

There were no takers, just smiles of contentment. Bastards.

I went back to the bar and continued with the sighing and heel kicking. Waiter Chum Number Three smiled. I could feel my hair grow. Christ I could feel time actually slip very slowly by. I was fidgety.

"Every time you sigh you kill an angel"

Waiter Chum looked at me with a puzzled expression and said, "Really? Like actually?"

Bless.

"No, no I think it's just a saying", her little face was a picture of worry and guilt as if she suddenly realised she had sighed about a thousand times and that she was probably responsible for carnage and death on an unimaginable scale, in the angel world.

She smiled again and we went back to heel kicking and sighing. Well I did, Waiter Chum wasn't taking any chances. Then the door opened and in walked Todd the Toucher.

"Brilliant, this guy again." I said with a huge dollop of sarcasm.

Todd the Toucher is a tedious tosser who takes thrills in touching himself in toilets. And not just toilets either. Okay I've never actually seen him do it but you get the feeling that at any moment he could. Makes for quick and silent visits to his table.

Seriously.

He dines alone. On the face of it he is an affable enough sort of fellow - chatty and mannerly. But there is the issue of the touching and it's the sort of issue that makes your skin crawl. His hands wander under the table when he is waiting for his food. Actually that's not the worst part, his hands wander under the table when he is talking to you. And he leers at everything and everybody.

[Shudder]

So anyway Todd the Toucher was in and somebody had to deal with him, somebody named me. Obviously. I couldn't in good conscience send the sixteen year old teenage girl to serve him. He was in fine fettle and was chatting away when I noticed his hands moving under the table towards his crotch. There was much ruffling and what appeared to be stroking. Mother of jebus.

I got the order and practically ran from the table. But before I got to the bar the music changed from some dull easy listening classic/abomination or other to Radiohead's "Creep".

I burst out laughing right there and then. I couldn't stop myself.

Creep? Spot on. Still as creepy as Todd the Toucher is he is nothing in comparison to Sean the Shuffler. But that's a story for another day.

Is it any wonder I shower when I get home......