He had the chutzpah of a holiday monkey

Teachers eh, they really are a contemptible collection of ne'er-do-wells and shiftless rogues masquerading as normal people. I mean that with the greatest of respect, but you really are. I damned myself for forgetting that this weekend would be a teacher-fest, or infestation even,  what with schools finishing. I should have realised the pastel sweater wearing apocalypse was upon us, especially when one table phoned about eight times in four days to confirm their table. It wasn't that their numbers kept changing, they just didn't trust me. Mooks.

And so it came to pass on Friday night that my charming little restaurant became the plaything of inebriated men in their fifties with jumpers round their necks and women of a similar age with wizened faces and last year's frock. Frock? Are they still called frocks? Probably not. Actually they could have all been in their 20's but I assume teaching has a terrible effect on formally positive minded young folk with ideals and dreams. Nothing like a room full of delightful knife wielding children to knock those ideals and dreams out of you.

But they all looked the same, especially the men with their young boy jeans that made their bits bulge uncomfortably (for me and other people with eyes) and their wallpaper inspired shirts. Honestly they all looked like spokesmen for Stannah Stair Lifts or Pedigree Chum. It was all so ghastly.

And none of them had ordered at this point.

There was the usual snapping and snarling and finger pointing and I swear one blackboard interactive whiteboard messiah even had the gall to hand me the menu back and ask me to tell him what the best meat options were. I assumed he was joking and set the menu back down in front of him. Cheeky git, give me 500 lines of, "I will not get the waiter to read the menu to me because I am not Eric Cantona and thus am not worthy of such treatment." Sake, read the menu my ass.

But he did persist in being a permanent pain in my ass with his finger clicking. I kept thinking, "Once more asshole, just once more and your gonna get six of the best....with my girlfriend's car." In the end he had to be read the riot act. Up with his insolence I could not put. He had the chutzpah of a holiday monkey. If he had started stealing food from people passing by whilst furiously masturbating I really wouldn't have been surprised.

"Oh I'm breaking the restaurant commandments am I?"

"Commandments? Who said anything about commandments? I just need you to settle down a bit. We do have other diners...sir"

He looked back up at me like I was Oliver Twist asking for, "more." I'm not going to lie to you dear reader I was touching cloth. Teachers are like the angry street dogs that belong to the homeless, they are best avoided or at the very least you shouldn't go poking them with a big metaphorical stick. Well right now I had my metaphorical stick in this dog's eye and was twisting it. Only two thing would happen, he could run away with his tail between his legs or he would go for my throat.

The elongated silence was horrendous. Were these to be my final moments as a fully employed waiter? Would he demand to see the managment and have me pubically (spelling intended) humiliated?

But before anything could happen a waiter chum arrived with sweets for the table and my ass was saved by apple pie and ice cream...again. Don't get me wrong I would have fought my corner but it's easier if they just back down and realise they are being idiots without me having to point it out to them.

Teachers, pfft. As my waiter chum from a another mum chef, Belfast Plate Carrier, pointed out to me on Saturday morning as we sought solace in the comfort of market food, "It's good to see the Tories back...scares the shit out of them"

Quite...Here's to Michael Gove! Go get 'em Tory boy.*

*I really, really don't mean that.