I was hard at work on the bar last night (I like that I can say that here, and know that there’s a chance that you might believe me), when I went down to the cellar to grab a few extra bottles. As I descended the stair case, I was met by an unusual sight. In a corridor with no windows or external doors, I was ominously greeted by a tree branch, laying on the floor. An uninteresting encounter this may seem to be, but this was no ordinary tree branch…
There was a really nice customer at work today who came up to the bar to pay for his meal. It was about £40 which I charged to his card. As I gave him his receipt, he handed me a note, and said “and this is for the service, thank you.”
Now, the standard amount to tip in England, that few people even do, is 10%. This young man handed me a £10 note for a £40 meal, so I though him very generous. However, as soon as he gave me the note, he looked at it and widened his eyes. He then looked back at me and smiled nervously before looking back at the note and hurriedly departing.
I think perhaps he was intending to have given me a £5 note… I immediately began thinking of him walking home through the storm after having no taxi money, or running out of petrol on the drive back. I wanted to say something, but it was too awkward.
Oh well… A tenner for me is pretty good anyway.
This is basically a mild disaster story. When I say disaster, I mean a somewhat posh, snobby, first world disaster. Okay… Let’s call it what it is. I’m about to complain about the service at a restaurant. I was quite unsure about writing this, because I’d absolutely hate to come off as some pompous brat who’s upset because his lobster bisque was more warm than hot. Honestly, that isn’t the case; my favourite meals come out of microwaves! I only decided to write this, not to complain, but because I genuinely thought it ended up being quite funny… So bear that in mind as I start whining…
Yesterday, my girlfriend Rebecca dragged me through a Primark shop to grab a couple of last-minute Christmas gifts. For anyone who doesn’t know, Primark is a horrific place; perhaps the closest representation of the Christian interpretation of hell, on earth. It is a never ending jungle of cheap, tatty clothes, patrolled and overpopulated by a vicious breed of horrific rhinoceros women, clawing at one another for that last little frilly top, as their suicidal boyfriends sit on floor; their souls almost visible as they slip from their bodies. Fourteen year old girls with push-up bras and mini-skirts trot around the lingerie section with their new born babies, while barking insults at the kid who may or may not be the father, as he begs to be allowed to leave after the third hour. It truly is humankind’s worst offering to the retail universe.
Anyway, so there I was, thinking fond, warm thoughts about the fact that I would eventually be dead, and would never have to set foot in a shop like this again, when I came across a particular item. It was called the ‘Extreme Pushup’ bra, and it was “designed to majorly enhance a lacking cleavage”.
I know it’s pretty tacky to have a go at a charity song, but we’ve got that old Band Aid ‘Feed The World’ song playing over and over again at work, and it’s really starting to dig at me. Okay, I get the premise and the concept and it’s all lovely and friendly and warm and fuzzy-wuzzy and whatever… But here’s what irritates me… Probably a little more than it should
Enclosed, please find a list of unbelievable (and rightly so) animal facts. These facts have been well researched and documented and as such, it would be very wise to read them openly and assume that everything you are about to hear is completely true and is most certainly not a load of absolute twaddle.