Sunday afternoon...again. It's always Sunday afternoons.

I seated a chap and his delightful young lady friend. They weren't so much as pitching woo but rather hurling barbed comments and pointed insults. There was the occasional break in hostilities and not always when I was at the table.

"Yer a fuckin dick wee lad..."

[inaudible reply]

"Aye yer brave when ders someone standing beside ye." So much passion, heh.

Woah, I am waiter I bring food to the people who ask nicely (although not a requirement) for food. I am not referee nor backer-up of hopeless causes.

But truth be told there was little said between them and when they weren't grunting at me they were jabbing their Elizabeth Duke covered digits into their phones. Honestly he had Mr T's neck spread over his fingers. She on the other hand had a veritable graveyard of dead relatives swinging from her neck in hologram form.

Hologram necklaces, crikey they are a bit rum what. That said I might get one made for each of my surviving relatives in advance of my own demise and insist they wear them. I mean you have to respect the wishes of the dead.

Arf.

Now whilst they were slicing each other with cutting remarks they were pretty civil to me. There was even a very pretty smile from time to time. Maybe that's what they were arguing about? But he did insist on smiling at me every time I came to the table. Odd.

Now this couple were probably in their early-ish 20s. No more than 25 years old probably. Their fairly emaciated faces, bad skin and homemade tattoos gave the impression of older, more beaten, people but when you looked beyond the obvious hangovers and lack of a proper and well executed moisturising routine you could see they were young.

Bearing this in mind you can imagine my surprise when he referred to me as, "son". I had just served them their soup when he responded with the overtly friendly, "Nice one son" and gave me a cheeky wink. The wink was more  nice work than nice ass but still, no need.

I let it slide.

But when he had repeated it for the fourth time, this after my having served him another "battle af apple juice" (cider) I was beyond annoyed with him.

Never mind the despicable chumminess, there's no need for chumminess on a Sunday afternoon when you are in the middle of fighting with your Blackberry hoofed sweetheart, I am nearly forty for god sake. I am probably closer to his father's age.

Sake.

I served their mains and awaited the by now customary and offensive salutation but none there came. Well not son. It had been dispensed with in favour of something a whole lot less pleasant.

Lad.

I had been downgraded from son to lad. What next, buddy? Pal? Wee man?

My distain was written in a well furrowed brow all over my face and this was picked up by the Blackberry Widow. She chastised him as I walked away.

"Stap calling him lad n dat"

I'm not sure what ensued after that but he ended up in fits of harsh, throaty laughter whilst she stared at him with venomous eyes.

It's nice that she had my back. I couldn't help but thinking that if he didn't pipe down he was probably going to find his hologram likeness swinging from her neck sooner than later. But it didn't stop and every opportunity he had to call me lad or son he took with unbridled gusto.

The dick.

I was warming to her though as she kept apologising for her beau's behaviour. She would apologise, swear at him and I think once she even tried to kick him under the table but hit the pole in the middle. He loved that.

Anyhoo, I was tidying up their table sometime later in the vain hope that they would take the hint and bugger off when he asked for the bill. Result.

"Here son, be a good lad and get us the bill wah"

I so wanted to unsheathe my petite fourchette poignardante and leave him perforated like a well holed tea bag but I didn't, obviously. But before I could even so much as give him a dirty look she jumped to my defence.

"WILL. YOU STAP. IT. He's like..eh...I dunno...fifty or something and youse is calling him lad and son n that. Stap it now"

Fifty is it? FIFTY? Fucking fifty? Aaaaarrrrrggggh.

Jesus wept.

I went home a little depressed that evening. I've also thrown out my various moisturisers and manly face creams as they don't appear to be working.

But fifty?

Sigh.

Have a good weekend kids.

Heh.

I would suggest positions like these don't come up very often - the opportunity to work with one of the founding fathers of modern cuisine, Paul Rankin, in one of the city's most celebrated restaurants, Cayenne. You'd be as daft as a horse in a swimsuit not to seriously consider this position. If you are interested contact paul@cayenne-restaurant.co.uk. Tell 'em Manuel sent you. Don't contact me (unless you get the job and want to thank me by way of an expensive gift), I have nothing to offer by way of salary and can in no-way enhance your career.

I do have sausage rolls.

But they are mine, obviously.

This is a serious job offer that requires your serious attention.

From CourtNewsUk...

Heh, the moral of the story being don't come between a waiter and his/your leftovers and his best pal. Clearly the judge thought so too. I think this gives me licence to threaten if not actually stab*.

Should have used a fork though, much classier.

* Overreacting idiots get-out clause (there have been a number of these recently, overreacting idiots that is) - I don't actually stab people...not physically.

As I stood in the rain on Sunday morning talking to a grown man in a Marvel Comics hoody, ill-fitting red trousers and food on his face waiting for a sleepy headed manager to arrive and let us in I began to wonder that somewhere, somehow my life had deviated somewhat from the carefully laid out plan that would inevitably lead me from the hood to world domination. It wasn't meant to be like this, I wasn't meant to spend my Sunday mornings in the rain talking to folks, as lovely as they are, who are like extras from The League of Gentlemen. By now my Sunday's were supposed to be about brunch and long leisurely walks and reading the paper, including supplements, from cover to cover and jazz clubs and cleaning out the rabbit's hutch and having the Foxly-PooPah's round for games night etc etc.

But instead of all that I was having a barely coherent conversation about who would win in a fight between Iron Man and Batman. (Batman, obviously)

Sigh.

Anyhoo, I can't really complain. The weekend was superb, football results aside. Belfast and it's dining citizens were as magnificent as they have ever been - jovial, almost on time, presentable (no velour tracksuits or sports wear of any sort) and as generous as they could reasonably be expected to be, all things considered. Well played you magnificent bastards, well played.

But all joking aside I must bring to your attention an issue so serious, so important, so demanding of your time that if it's not addressed soon it may force me from this job of waiting that I have loved for so long. It is a concern shared by all my Waiter Chums and Chums of Waiters alike. It has us vexed, demoralised and almost broken. It seems to be getting worse and I fear for my very sanity if it is not stopped in it's tracks immediately.

I am talking, of course, about the scourge that are old men jokes.

They are the hell that will not cease. They are relentless. Like an uncaring soulless machine set to kill without mercy or thought for their victims old men rattle off these mind numbingly shite quips at a rate that would have a Gatling machine gun blushing at it's own ineptitude if it was capable of such an emotion.

You can't make a simple enquiry and expect a straight answer of any men over the age of say, I dunno, 55.

It starts with the simple,

Can I get you something to drink sir? "Ho ho that's very good of you?"

and ends with something akin to a Les Dawson/Rodney Dangerfield routine but not a good Les Dawson/Rodney Dangerfield routine.

This happens on every table, were an old man is seated, on very night of the week. Imagine that, hundreds of old men telling the same waiters the same jokes over and over again seven nights a weeks year after year after year. It's a wonder I'm as well adjusted and sane as I am. [who said you were? LMM/The Cousin/The Sister/Most people who know me]

It needs to stop, now. And if it can't be stopped then at the very least old men need to come up with new material. I swear to almighty Gordon of Ramsay that if I have to fake laugh through one more dodgy old man comedy routine that is normally borderline racist and 100% sexist then I will not be held responsible for my actions.

And, like I say, it's not just me. I'm not far off the old man stage of life so I can understand, mostly, what they are saying and how their shite patter works but can you imagine, have you any idea, what it's like having to deal with this sort of nonsense when you are but a slip of a child? Some of my younger waiter chums end up more confused than a chef in a library after even the slightest of contact with old men telling jokes.

Here are the top shite one-liners old men tell when out for dinner.

• Can I get you something to drink sir? "Ho ho that's very good of you?"
• Can I get you something to drink sir?  "No I'll get it myself sure"
• How would you like your steak cooked sir? "In a pan"
• How would you like your steak cooked sir? "Wipe it's arse and send it out"
• Would you like anything to start sir? "No, this is my starter" [Holds up pint of beer]
• Would you like anything with your lamb sir? "A million pounds and a blonde dolly bird." Old men are obsessed with 'dolly birds'. I blame Bruce Forsyth.
• Did you enjoy everything tonight sir? "No, it was terrible" [Laughs and points at empty plate] Arsehole. By the by everybody needs to stop doing this not just old men. It's never been funny.
• Can I get you the dessert menu sir? "No, I'm sweet enough" NO, NO YOU'RE FUCKING NOT. YOU SMELL OF FARTS AND OLD SPICE.
• [Waves empty glass at waiter and says] "Have you any flowers?' Flowers sir? "Yes flowers to decorate this empty glass with?" Ah you'd like another drink "Aye that'll do then" ARRRRGGGGHHH

Like old men I could go on but I won't.

Listen I have nothing against old men, in fact it's my last great ambition - to be old men. [because you've achieved so much? - LMM] But the quality of old men one liners is at a critical level. We can't cope, can't fake laugh, can't put up with it anymore. So if things don't improve soon we will just stop laughing, fake laughing and then where will we be? Huh?

Think on old men, think on. If not for yourselves but for us, the little people.

]]> http://welldonefillet.com/2012/01/29/we-have-reached-the-critical-point-of-no-return/feed/ 15 http://welldonefillet.com/2012/01/26/retail-therapy-5/ http://welldonefillet.com/2012/01/26/retail-therapy-5/#comments Thu, 26 Jan 2012 23:13:10 +0000 Manuel http://welldonefillet.com/?p=9535