Joey Mnemonic

Computers are noisy buggers aren’t they? Mines currently destroying the Zen of Joe with an omni-present buzz. Yep – one of the reason’s I’m saving up for a laptop. The other is that I guessed my pin number incorrectly too many times and can’t actually get to my money – therefore saving by default. What’s the source of this new found income? (My non-existent readers cry in chorus). Well… it all started a long, long time ago…

Mon 12 12 05 s--- county hall

After another white knuckle ride of the vehicle of endless surprise, and a visit to the illustrious primark to pick up a moderately priced waist coat; I arrive.

On surveying my team members, I quickly discover no hot girls. Dam. Four guys and one rough looking woman – I strictly asked to placed in attractive female environments only! What kind of depraved temping agency is this? Instead of jumping on the phone I decide to turn the other cheek this once and follow the group upstairs.

Ian the manager.

Late thirties, used to be the front man of a glam rock band. Refers to everybody as “guys”, and keeps saying “get ready to rock” - even though were waiters for a load of civil servants (evidently from his frilly haired, tight donning days). Think a bland version of Brent, attached great importance and difficulty to the task of running a shoddy Christmas party for the paper pushers of surrey county council. Order us to furnish the tables with coloured tissue I wouldn’t grace my arse with, cram as many chairs around them and throw stained cutlery about. Easy.

Ian: “Are any of you guys buddies – you’d like to pair up with?”

“No…we all hate each other”

Joe retorted, mistakenly taken in jest.

The fact is that we’d hardly been introduced; I was just voicing the instincts people have when seemly in direct competition (all from the same temping agency). E.g. the hissing when you get too close etc…

During the hour long lunch break I got to know them better – which co-incided with the discovery that we could waltz up to the canteen and order anything we like and not have to pay (the fools! ha ha)

I order a chicken bacon baguette with cucumber and mayonnaise. I felt pleased with myself until I discovered that I’d wasted 55 p on a can of tango when I had the choice of a variety of soft drinks -free. This dismay increased double fold when I observed the guy next to me had a considerably better sandwich then mine! At the counter he asked what meat do they have - went on to say “all of it” in a thick Hungarian accent.

Zoltan Alban (29)

The master of extravagant (free) sandwiches. Only his second month in the u.k; so his English was limited. He made up for it by possessing extremely funny mannerisms – usually ferocious, predatory behaviour toward poor, unsuspecting diners. He was paired up with me and I felt like he was my evil hunch man. I’d teach him tricks e.g. if a grazing civil servant catches your eye – hurry her up by making eating gestures. I’d have to hold him back when clearing time approached – he’d probably snatch the plates away before you’re halfway into your second bite. I’d say “not yet Zoltan…” Zoltan restless with anticipation, then I’d say “NOW” and he’d storm in. We admired each others style – prided ourselves in being the fastest… at all costs. Plus Zoltan is a cool name – like something off flash Gordon (or something…hmm)

I may as well profile the other members of the group.

Tom (26)

Looks and acts like Darren Brown – but with beard. Out of work thespian (no not lesbian). Very deliberate, and has a theatrical use of intonation. “You’re nothing without your talking car hasslehoff!” He cried (angry fist in the air) when hasslehoff was on the radio announcing some competition where you can win tickets to see Madonna’s music video being shot. “Tickets to see Madonna being shot would be better” this time muttered by me (I develop repours with people by nicking their humour). He was a good person to exchange one-liners with. I told Zoltan he could take away a bottle of soave away from a table. Tom suggests having a glass. “Soave...” I said distractedly “I’d rather drink someone else’s sick” matter of fact-ly. Snobbery comes with the job. Unfortunately the owner of the soave bottle was standing right behind me and wanted it back. I blamed Zoltan for taking it away – I console her with “you can’t trust these foreign types”, patting her on the back. If all else fails - Pure effrontery never does.

Leo (23)

Slippery Brazilian, reminded me of what-his-face in “that 70s show”. Like chesure cat, laid back wide smile, very likeable. Avoided hard work at all costs. Extremely bad drawer. He once offered to sketch the table plan. Tom mentioned it looked like a Picasso. Ian blandly retorts with a “yeah right” and Joe produces a tantalising “more like… Pick-your-ass-o!” If any one could depict the glee upon my face when I said this would be worth a thousand Picassos. Leo too, was blessed with occasional wit- I’m asking Zoltan about his girlfriend and what he gets up too – and then said I needed the information for a biography of his life. “It’s not going to be pretty” Zoltan said Hungarian girls are pretty (Faulty towers moment). I correct him adding that I’m sure that his girlfriend is pretty. Leo interjects, with a timely “I’m not…” Leo in the meantime, broke up with his girlfriend in brazil and also works in Sainsbury’s 9pm – 7am (sleeping a max of four hours a day – working the rest) – he’s saving up for a new girlfriend.

Idris (23)

Tanned, surfer type. Fathers welsh, mothers Malayan. Intelligent enough to realise how funny everything is, pleasure to have around. Looks foreign which is an asset in waitering because then you can pretend not to understand anything at all. For example, the other day after buying seemingly flame – resistant fire lighters – I return to the convinence store (the only shop which sells stuff apart from antiques in Hampton court). I complain that they don’t work leaving a pause – no reply. I enquire whether he got them wet or something and he perks up with “do you want liquid fuel?” in a confused manner. Right… yesterday we had a full blown conversation about local events and now you can’t speak English. Yep- when in doubt – play the foreign card (convinence store manual, page 3 next to the tits). Anyway back to Idris, should be pronounced id –dris but I call him eye –dris (like the ginger beer – which tom usually picks at lunch). Got his own internet surf merchandise site, part of an extreme sport network. He writes about good places to surf etc. I suggest filling it with puns like the heading “finding your S-spot” and he (unwittingly) goes “I’ll take it on board” we laugh and he says ”yeah creative thinking” – I correct him with “creative sinking” I usually end these types of conversation suggesting that he should always have a pen and paper handy when talking to me.

Gill (37)

Looks like a female darth vader when he takes the mast off. TOTALLY GORMLESS, WADDLING PEDANT. And that’s putting her in a good light! The sort of person you don’t want in you way when trying to serve food in a confine area. Just piss off! AARGH She actually had the temerity to call me unenthusiastic. Those words actually passed those down turned trout lips to encroach upon my ears! I was the light of that group cheering everyone up whilst she was the dark side – sucking up good feeling with her death grip comments.

“errrg you’ve got some mud on your shirt”

“yes.. Well you’ve got slapped bottom were your face should be” (I should have said).

Appalling….

The actual feeding of the civil servants would usually commence with an announcement from Commander-in-chief Ian.

He’d first mention the raffle and how in previous years it was done by some guy dressed up like Santa; unfortunately he is now passed away so give generously. Right, so what you’re saying is SANTA IS DEAD, great way to start a Christmas party, Ian. I’ve got to hand it to him – he said that EVERYDAY –I trying my damnist not to laugh. (if they asked me to do the speech I’d counteract with “ho ho ho dear”). Fortunately, Ian got ill for the last couple of days of our week long job. In fact I was all most in a position to completely take over. First I’d get rid of the shitty Christmas music, mostly comprised of “I saw santa fucking mommy” or whatever. Replace it with “people equal shit”. The raffle was fucking lame too. The final day the dinner ladies massacred it by using two books - so there were two winners every time (inexpressively dumb). The top prize being either a sugerbabes DVD (Ian’s wife works with them or something) or a Blink 182 DVD. Usually handed to some coffin dodger who wishes he came second to win the whisky.

The END of the (Gravy Train) line

Something foul was afoot; Joe could smell the fear in the air (apart from that emitting from his de-deodorised armpits). Gillian from the agency had just phoned asked me to work from 6 till one after the shift at county hall. I agreed, she then phoned back saying actually from 3. Fucking hell, give them an inch and they’ll ram it up your nose and slap you about a bit. That’s when my other shift finished, which means I was to be automatically late. She told me that everyone seemed to be pulling out of this one and that she needed me. Alarm bells were going off in my head. Temps are like shawls of fish, somehow always the first to sense danger; darting away in waves. Unfortunately, it was too late to back out as it was the day before plus I’m new. Idris was also caught in the net – no amount of wriggling can save us now…doomed.

W---house

I’d asked the others what they knew about this place, tom screwed up his face to emphasise his disgust, expressing it simply with “no….” Adding how anal they were about everything. I asked Zoltan if he’d been asked to work there he initially replied in the affirmative. He then retracted that statement upon further enquiry (text – book foreign card). I did detect, however, a glimmer of fear in those wolf-like eyes.

Friday 3.25 pm

Hills aren’t my forte, especially on a bike as ill-equipped as mine. Want to change gears? Forget about it! Kingston hill, the mother of all hills is my nemesis. I need injections like off fast and furious except for a cyclist. So that would be adrenaline injections (speed), just before getting to the hill I need to inject a load of wiz.

A worn out Joe approaches his new employment peril. A Posh conference centre.

“Nice trousers” Yep being too poor to buy matching trousers with my waist coat sucks. Christoph is French and a sadist. “Nice stubble” WHAT? I’d shaved that morning! What does he want? The moon on a stick? (Tom requested it at the sandwich bar). Of course the first call of action is to immediately ask every member of staff if they have a razor; I paraded like a shamed school boy. Surprisingly no-one does but hold on… – he now remembers (fancy that he knew all along!). Pulls out a shoddy bic razor I wouldn’t graze my arse with and tells me there’s no shaving foam but the toilets this way. The Blood was pouring down my face – no preventing it,

Shit razor + no foam = cut to fuck face. Idris was horrified when he walked in. I said “welcome to hell…..”

When a staff comprising half temps, half regulars culminated in the pantry he told everyone to sort out the menus while he decided who was doing what. Now this job requires communication – especially if you haven’t done it before. AS soon as anyone uttered a word it was an abrupt “Quiet!” ejaculated from the French mans mouth. Probably the only word universally understood – so thick was his accent that his directions to the new comers were totally beyond comprehension. If he looked at me - I smiled and nodded. If he laughed – I laughed. He asked who among us was experienced in serving drinks. Now even though this agency specialised in catering/bar work no body dared to put their hand up – that is all apart from me. “Where have you served drinks before?” he asked haughtily. Don’t fuck with me you snivelling frog – I’m doing you a favour here. “A pub?” my reply indicating that I really don’t give a shit and am not about to start name dropping places I’ve worked. “A pub ha” he echoed contemptuously, deliberated before assigning me the drinks task. This involved handing out champagne willy nilly. Yep- because that is a highly skilled job, requires years of high pedigree training to achieve; prick.

My group included Nigel, Joel, Lucy, Rin, Heng, Ed (dam I’ve got a good memory). Nigel (permanent) was a very proper, balding butler (forty –odd) type who seemed to be disappointed with life. Joel (Permanent), Aussie with wobbly head, seemed okay although hated the job and his workmates. Lucy (temp) quite cute Slovak. Rin (permanent) tried to be the ultra-logical pragmatic type but in reality ultra stupid and awkward. Heng – a cheery Chinese guy, from shanghai, I liked the most. Ed – something familiar about ED. Rin even remarked upon it. He had a massive sandy bouffant, what I’d call a lion/ trumpet head. Wobble his head around totally oblivious. He said “oh – I’ve never been a butler before” Well you’re not one now – YOU’RE A WAITER. Slight difference, numbnuts. He’d answer questions with “hmm possibly” trying to act knowingly when I knew full well he knew FUCK ALL. Turns out I did know him. I mentioned that the lead singer of Keane is playing in the cricket team I used to play for and mention the small town I come from. He comes from the same place and I realise that he’s that annoying little twat two years below at prep school. Great this job is going bad to worse. We had to stand there for over an hour before people came. Christoph frequenting the room in the mean while sending me off to do pointless jobs – all because I looked bored. PUT ME IN A ROOM OF BORES AND TELL ME TO STAND STILL FOR AN HOUR AND YES, I WILL BE VERY...FUCKING…BORED. The only noteworthy conversation being when Ed suggested spiking the drink with E and getting everyone raving (what a tit). I said that I thought he was about to suggest spiking the entire party with date rape pills, raping them and then sending them the tapes. That’ll learn them…

Finally people arrive and the first thing Ed does is drop a tray load of strawberry champagne. Witnessing this hugely embarrassing incident was “Possibly” worth my previous tribulations. He then tries to pick up another – almost dropping that before a sturdy Joe intervenes. “Perhaps you’d better stay away from trays”. I start a funny conversation with the first group (who look bewildered by the impressively white room and silent staff) – it’s against the rules to engage them (you have “know your place”), but I live dangerously.

“So… what company is this?”

The women said something that sounded like fabric sunglasses. I remarked that fabric sunglasses would fall off. She corrected me and told me they used to be called animal sunglasses. I go “animals can’t wear sunglasses some see in black and white don’t they? – they’d get really confused” It turned out it was just the name. After demonstrating my extensive knowledge of the client I leave with the leer of Christoph on my back. As the Party wore on –all I had to do was serve out drink on food on trays. Heng managed to get the top button of his waist coat caught in the centre of someone’s low cut dress – a 50-old women with full bosom. He desperately tried to yank away, as the two did a sort of entangled dance. He made the mistake of accidentally fondling the woman’s breast as he tried to release himself. Thankfully the woman saw the funny side (like the other 90 odd watching in hysterics). What was shit about this job? The total lack of ergonomics. The kitchen station miles away from the function rooms meant we had to endlessly dilly dally about with trolleys – only to be confronted with a swamped washing area. Total nightmare. The staff were nearly all foreign and had their own little language so it was hard to discern want anyone was fucking going on a about. Amongst the chaos I ran into a bedraggled Idris – who clearly isn’t enjoying himself. We both get roped into to glass shifting debacle. Due to the necessity of using this extremely hard to steer trolleys, a number of skirmishes broke out over control over them. Everyone would try and fuck each other over for possession of the precious trolleys.

After clearing up we had to set up stuff for the morning, polishing plates and shit. A related the tale of ED to Idris. - Idris goes “yeah smarmy type was he?” and this guy ~Rin who I’d mentioned before and interrupts and goes “Smarmy…Interesting – I’d never heard that expression before…interesting...” and wanders off, posing upon his observation like a wise old philosopher (no sense of jest). I and Idris both look at each other and I go “yeah - just like that!” The most perfect example of smarmy kindly demonstrated by our observational colleague. He had goggley eyes, weedy constitution with glasses. Carried himself a bit like a mousey woman. Thought he was the catering industries answer to Spock.

Anyway to cut a long story short it was a shitty job which went on to a whopping HALF THREE in the morning. That’s 17 HOURS STRAIGHT and by this time dead man shoes were seriously kicking in. Idris foolishly offered me a lift home – that meant a good ten minutes trying to cram my bike in the back seat (stupid bike!) ten minutes when our patience was not to best be trifled with. Idris remarked on the way home that “they all prided themselves on being gits” – my sentiments exactly. Exactly – that’s how everything was to be done, slogging on in the early hours of the morning with some French guy correcting every spoon position laid down for breakfast. How about getting the basics right? Like temperature – for instance everyone was fucking baking in the room I worked in, plus the stereo was in the adjourning room instead of the room where it was needed. I had to do another shift the next day, shifting my motivation for living more like. Idris and I had been given water duty for this old girls birthday party (god knows why anyone would bother with a massive non-Christmas party so close to Christmas). I thought –Great an easy job…WRONG. Gittiest job ever… “Remember what everyone is drinking – so you don’t have to ask them twice” WHAT! There’s about a hundred guests – all related (I know – weird) everyone looked the same – like fat prince Charles’. Fuck. Idris took one half of the room – I took the other. Unbeknown to me this Chinese girl had served half my tables. Fuck. No way of knowing what they had. (Choices being sparking or still). Worse still I had to keep everyone’s glasses to the brim.

Christoph “if the glass is half empty – fill it up”

I felt like saying – is the glass half empty? Or half full? One guy keep downing his, he must have drunk about 5 litres! (I’m not joking) I almost decided to refuse to serve him and safety grounds (you can die). Decided against it – it might be funny, save sending in the clowns. The worst thing was that everyone had being given these party bags containing pea shooters with fuck loads of ammunition. So as well as endless towing and fro-ing trying (in vain) what water people had, I’d be pelted with soggy balls (the pea things – not sexual abuse). What is it with coffin dodgers and their obsession with acting childish at parties? “Hey look at us were so full of beans” “still young at heart” yeah if you confuse ‘young’ with ‘disease’. I kept hoping someone would swallow their ammunition and choke which would then force me into performing the heinrech manoeuvre. That’s what people would think I was doing…really I’d just be thrashing them about a bit, smack them about a bit before they die. Ultimate revenge. Like that punch in the heart – yep..Take that you fucker. “He was dying?” the inventor of that would have said with a dismayed look on his face as he realises he’s revived the cunt.

Occasionally I’d look enviously at Idris, pouring with a devil-may-care attitude. How is he remembering? I catch him on the landing. “I don’t – I just pour any old drink in” Shoddy. I get one persons drink wrong and I have to change it while Idris wilfully pour sparkling into still and verse versa and get away scot free! Doesn’t anyone complain? I ask. “No –I just say it was somebody else”. That somebody else would probably be the only other water guy being… me. Perfect. Right – it seems Idris is adopting the resident staff attitude of fucking each other over – whilst Joe has to deal with the continuing sabotage. Not only that but the tables kept swapping over so any semblance of a system I built up was quickly destroyed. ARGHHH.

I did have my moments of cheek though. Two guys were walking out of the toilets and one ra ra head was saying he was sick of people telling him what he can and cannot do.

“You can’t say that, sir” He probably thought I was joking (one step away from in forcing it with some on- the spot – dentistry).

At the end of the shift (half three in the morning again). Christoph ask me if I want to work full time – I hastily mention that I’m moving to France (I thought he would respect that). Idris wasn’t so quick of the mark and said “indefinitely” – I felt like interfering and say “you told me in the toilets that you are never working in this hell hole again”. Idris is a push over, I chastised him on the way home, told him could either lie or burn his phone – going back was ‘not an option…

Word just crashed. Thank fuck for auto save that’s all I can say. More on my life when I can be bothered.

# posted by Some Cleverly Ironic Name : 7:07 PM