Friday, December 09, 2005
No longer an audience to entertain, I am free to type willy nilly. I don’t regret deleting my blog. It was the only way I could express my desperation – I suddenly felt empty…. My usual flow of thoughts has somewhat coincided with a restoration of activity and opportunism. So shall carry on my diary until I get depressed and delete the whole fucking lot again! …..fuckers
“Taste that” a spoon crammed into my mouth before I could even object.
“Mmmmm” - usually a favourite of mine to express patronising disinterest; in this case rendered to appease this ape of a chef.
“Now that’s what we do here! Perhoper food” in his convict-cum-jamie oliver voice, as he bounded into the kitchen.
Not bad I mused, before noticing the empty box of cart dor and biscuits which I had just been spoon-fed. His sincerity produced an alarming effect not so much because of the deceit but the lack of thought into the cover up.
The Manager, mike, a different character displays the patience and egoless logic usually associated with Scandinavians (well – the ones I’ve met anyway). It was a bit of a shock not to be working for a dick, to be governed by reason instead of sheer Boss Bravado. Still he doesn’t seem cut throat enough to be a success in the cunt-eat-cunt industry that is bar/catering. Not that I particularly want to be. I only took this job to survive the cruel winter of Hampton Court, and the fact that the last interview I had went so badly….
Esher, last week in a restaurant, formerly a pub called The George and now cunningly called “George” see what they’ve done? Genius.
Potential employer (max): “Tell me about your approach to waitering”.
Hapless interviewee with the words “just be yourself” from the girl at the agency echoing in that cavernous skull: “Well Max…(soave Tony voice) Waitering is a bit like making love to a beautiful lady. First you treat her with respect... ply her with drinks, give her a good stuffing and then … (searching for a punchline) slip her the bill?”
Stern look. That’s bad, quick say something “he..erm.. that’s why they call me..err.. gigolo Joe ..he” shit I should have left it at bill now I’ve underlined my self as a sexual deviant. He frowned - I smiled which looked more manic that I’d hoped. All was not lost – he gave a trial day of Saturday (6 30). Not waitering though – he wouldn’t dare unleash me upon unsuspecting customers. Consigned to the living hell that is kitchen portering. I backed off and nodded my way through the rest of the interview recklessly agreeing to anything in the vain hope of success. If he told me I had to wash the dishes in the blood drained from my bollocks – I would have probably assented. He’d already wrong footed me by asking me for a cv (which he should have asked the fucking agency for). He had the upper hand and he knew it, displaying his tenacity by bawling at some barman for no apparent reason (although he was sporting a scarf whilst wearing a t-shirt indoors – the true sign of a pretentious cunt).
Saturday 6.35 pm
Bepedadappa “ Hello?”
“who’s this”
“max”
“yeah?”
“just wondering where you are”
“ I’ve had a change of heart, didn’t the agency tell you?”
“oh right okay bye”
HA TAKE THAT YOU FUCKER!
Checkmate. True - I had to sacrifice my queen, but the prospect of working for MAX CUNT was worth the lost income.
Yes, I hope he enjoys his understaffed Saturday pondered Joe as he supped his beer watching footy with sibling Bren in a pub near Kingston in a picturesque blokey way.
I thought the agency would be pissed after I told them I only want easy part time, ad hoc temporary work. Otherwise, I shall forever be skivy instead of an aspiring composer. But no, agencies are like girls either never call you or once they do they don’t fucking stop. I’m tempted to say “sorry can I ring you back? – I’m in the middle of a wank” I never do – I’m not wasting precious credit – so I just carry on, imagining how she’d sound with my cock down her throat – probably mumbled but professionally enthusiastic. Yes I’m available and no I don’t have a clean white shirt. Why? because it costs fiver a go on what a loosely be described as a partial soaking and then warmed in the tumble dryer (tumble my arse!). I could clean it better by stuffing it in my portaloo and pissing on it and swing-dried by slapping it around peoples faces! (always the preferred option). They gave me the forms and a map a whole 10 mins before I was supposed to start! Right.. when I said “ad hoc” I didn’t mean - due to my powers of teleportation I was able to work anywhere at a moments notice; and if I hadn’t brought my bike I would have been late – not that it mattered it was only a one-off (or was it?...)
“Right Joe, I’m giving you the easy job”. Music to my ears. Mike, this could be the start of something beautiful, I thought as my boss explained the taxing duties bestowed upon me. Serve out lasagne and just take care of things in the buffet room – which his occupied by school teachers and mums. I was to be der der daaa… a school dinner lady! Well sort of (minus kids). Piss easy, the chef was a wanker and kept telling me to stay out the kitchen even though the boss told me to go in there to get something so I just barged passed the fucker. 6’ 1 in my new shoes, unstoppable. He was saying stuff but he’d visibly backed off – the type who’s used to pushing waiters out of the way was now cowered by the almighty Joe, champion of the oppressed! I made it up to him later with a scornful “sorry I invaded your special area” that’s right, let’s get this straight: I’M THE GROWN-UP WHO’S ABUSING YOU KIDDO, sorry.
My charms worked too well as I chatted up forty-odd forty-odd women, swarms of them went up to mike and raved on about me. I am a Mums (wet) dream, polite – hint of posh, semi-good looking and skilled in the art of flattery centred humour. Yes! I basked under the glow of their approving eyes! Mike now wants me to work all the time. I bartered him down to part-time starting next week - but I know the game; the emotional blackmail – like I really need you to work something or other sob sob. They’re all the same - bosses just want you for your body. He even rang me today (the day after -classic mistake) begging me to work Saturday. No-fucking-way! Saturday I’m in the recording studio making fat hip hop and then off to party full of posh totty . Anway, it’s good to make them wait…
“Taste that” a spoon crammed into my mouth before I could even object.
“Mmmmm” - usually a favourite of mine to express patronising disinterest; in this case rendered to appease this ape of a chef.
“Now that’s what we do here! Perhoper food” in his convict-cum-jamie oliver voice, as he bounded into the kitchen.
Not bad I mused, before noticing the empty box of cart dor and biscuits which I had just been spoon-fed. His sincerity produced an alarming effect not so much because of the deceit but the lack of thought into the cover up.
The Manager, mike, a different character displays the patience and egoless logic usually associated with Scandinavians (well – the ones I’ve met anyway). It was a bit of a shock not to be working for a dick, to be governed by reason instead of sheer Boss Bravado. Still he doesn’t seem cut throat enough to be a success in the cunt-eat-cunt industry that is bar/catering. Not that I particularly want to be. I only took this job to survive the cruel winter of Hampton Court, and the fact that the last interview I had went so badly….
Esher, last week in a restaurant, formerly a pub called The George and now cunningly called “George” see what they’ve done? Genius.
Potential employer (max): “Tell me about your approach to waitering”.
Hapless interviewee with the words “just be yourself” from the girl at the agency echoing in that cavernous skull: “Well Max…(soave Tony voice) Waitering is a bit like making love to a beautiful lady. First you treat her with respect... ply her with drinks, give her a good stuffing and then … (searching for a punchline) slip her the bill?”
Stern look. That’s bad, quick say something “he..erm.. that’s why they call me..err.. gigolo Joe ..he” shit I should have left it at bill now I’ve underlined my self as a sexual deviant. He frowned - I smiled which looked more manic that I’d hoped. All was not lost – he gave a trial day of Saturday (6 30). Not waitering though – he wouldn’t dare unleash me upon unsuspecting customers. Consigned to the living hell that is kitchen portering. I backed off and nodded my way through the rest of the interview recklessly agreeing to anything in the vain hope of success. If he told me I had to wash the dishes in the blood drained from my bollocks – I would have probably assented. He’d already wrong footed me by asking me for a cv (which he should have asked the fucking agency for). He had the upper hand and he knew it, displaying his tenacity by bawling at some barman for no apparent reason (although he was sporting a scarf whilst wearing a t-shirt indoors – the true sign of a pretentious cunt).
Saturday 6.35 pm
Bepedadappa “ Hello?”
“who’s this”
“max”
“yeah?”
“just wondering where you are”
“ I’ve had a change of heart, didn’t the agency tell you?”
“oh right okay bye”
HA TAKE THAT YOU FUCKER!
Checkmate. True - I had to sacrifice my queen, but the prospect of working for MAX CUNT was worth the lost income.
Yes, I hope he enjoys his understaffed Saturday pondered Joe as he supped his beer watching footy with sibling Bren in a pub near Kingston in a picturesque blokey way.
I thought the agency would be pissed after I told them I only want easy part time, ad hoc temporary work. Otherwise, I shall forever be skivy instead of an aspiring composer. But no, agencies are like girls either never call you or once they do they don’t fucking stop. I’m tempted to say “sorry can I ring you back? – I’m in the middle of a wank” I never do – I’m not wasting precious credit – so I just carry on, imagining how she’d sound with my cock down her throat – probably mumbled but professionally enthusiastic. Yes I’m available and no I don’t have a clean white shirt. Why? because it costs fiver a go on what a loosely be described as a partial soaking and then warmed in the tumble dryer (tumble my arse!). I could clean it better by stuffing it in my portaloo and pissing on it and swing-dried by slapping it around peoples faces! (always the preferred option). They gave me the forms and a map a whole 10 mins before I was supposed to start! Right.. when I said “ad hoc” I didn’t mean - due to my powers of teleportation I was able to work anywhere at a moments notice; and if I hadn’t brought my bike I would have been late – not that it mattered it was only a one-off (or was it?...)
“Right Joe, I’m giving you the easy job”. Music to my ears. Mike, this could be the start of something beautiful, I thought as my boss explained the taxing duties bestowed upon me. Serve out lasagne and just take care of things in the buffet room – which his occupied by school teachers and mums. I was to be der der daaa… a school dinner lady! Well sort of (minus kids). Piss easy, the chef was a wanker and kept telling me to stay out the kitchen even though the boss told me to go in there to get something so I just barged passed the fucker. 6’ 1 in my new shoes, unstoppable. He was saying stuff but he’d visibly backed off – the type who’s used to pushing waiters out of the way was now cowered by the almighty Joe, champion of the oppressed! I made it up to him later with a scornful “sorry I invaded your special area” that’s right, let’s get this straight: I’M THE GROWN-UP WHO’S ABUSING YOU KIDDO, sorry.
My charms worked too well as I chatted up forty-odd forty-odd women, swarms of them went up to mike and raved on about me. I am a Mums (wet) dream, polite – hint of posh, semi-good looking and skilled in the art of flattery centred humour. Yes! I basked under the glow of their approving eyes! Mike now wants me to work all the time. I bartered him down to part-time starting next week - but I know the game; the emotional blackmail – like I really need you to work something or other sob sob. They’re all the same - bosses just want you for your body. He even rang me today (the day after -classic mistake) begging me to work Saturday. No-fucking-way! Saturday I’m in the recording studio making fat hip hop and then off to party full of posh totty . Anway, it’s good to make them wait…
# posted by Some Cleverly Ironic Name : 10:48 AM
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Oh pookie! i never thought anyone one would bother checking my blog after all this time! how are you?
Im grand thanks..I just read through all of it and you have a good way with words very entertaining :)..Shame you never text me back lol
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