There are numerous words and phrases in the restaurant game that make me want to rip my own ears off and shove them down the pie hole of the person delivering them. Words such as foodie, pudding and supper make my skin crawl. But until yesterday the worst word of all that really really made me want to smack a puppy was mixologist.

Mixologist - cocktail maker or as we called them when I was a lad, barman.

Mixologist my ass, get the fuck over yourself. You pour a wee bit of this and a wee bit of that into a thing, spin a few bottles behind your back that really don't need spun, shake a thing for a bit and all of a sudden you feel the need to make yourself sound like a scientist.

Idiots.

Anyhoo, that was the worst, don't get me wrong I will always hate it and despise those who call themselves mixologists with the same fervour as I despise people who offer angel readings or who say the word bizarre with extra emphasis aaaaarrrree bit, but I heard a new phrase yesterday that left me ashamed of my own profession.

I was chatting with a chap of English extraction who was a waiter except he didn't like to call himself a waiter. Nothing worse than a self-hating waiter. No this chap wasn't satisfied with the simple pleasure  of bringing people the food and drink that the people want, ie being a waiter. No he described himself as, wait for it...

..."a sherpa, guiding my diners on a culinary journey."

He told me this with a straight face.

THE UTTER WANKER! Or as he would probably put it, a thorough chaperone on a voyage of onanism.

I'd rather hang out with the entire membership of the society of mixologists than spend another moment of my life taking to this man.

A sherpa?

A FUCKING SHERPA?

AAAAAAAAARRRRGGGH!

How deluded do you have to be, how insecure are you if as a waiter you imagine yourself to be a sherpa?

Wonder if he has a mixologist mate who accompanies him and the guests on their pretentious journey round the culinary island of Catchafuckinggripland.

I never slept last night pondering this and as a result, the point of life.

I despair, yet again, for the human race.

Chefs, bless their little cotton weed holders, but they are funny people. They are mainly funny to look at but occasionally they come out with little gems, like this one a chap emailed me with recently...

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.