A short and wonderful snippet from an interview with Peter Cook by Michael Parkinson where he talks about his short spell as a waiter. He sums up the problem with the job quite well...it's all your fault you know.

 Watch it all or skip it to about a minute in for his take on waiting tables.

Imagine being served by Peter Cook, utter madness I tells ye.

Hat tips ahoy to the wonderful Eunice for the link.

Is there anything more enjoyable than watching certain people getting their comeuppance?

Having clicked her fingers, cast more dirty looks than a 16-year-old girl being told off by her mum for wearing too much makeup and generally been as rude to the staff as an 18th century land owner with a penchant for striking those he deemed worthy of a good crack on the cheek with a poker it was a joy to be able to take down this particular punter.

"Eh...can I get more wine please?", snarled the woman whilst pulling off that most particularly skilful of shit tricks -  managing to look down on me from a seated position whilst I lurched over her table. It wasn't her request for wine that so annoyed me but rather the way she said it. I mean I am literally paid to do exactly that - bring the wine that the people ask for. But still there was no need for the Friends-like upward inflection. Like how was I supposed to know she wanted more wine what with having brought a bottle to the table two minutes previously. **To be read with upward inflections all over the place**

"Yes madam, certainly what can I get you?" Maybe a small table sized guillotine? A brownie delicately dusted with anthrax? My balls in a jar?

"Eh I want a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon?", again with the by now laughable upward inflection.

"I'm sorry we don't have a Cabernet Sauvignon by the glass available this evening" and with that I went through her red wine by the glass options. To which she replied with, bear in mind as the punter she has all the power and despite what I might say on here I have to suck up the snide comments, upward inflections and dirty looks...

"Eh red wine? Hello, I said I wanted white wine? Cabernet Sauvignon?"

"Yeah, Cabernet Sauvignon? That's a red wine"

BOOM!

And the power was all mine again.

I rode my high horse, which I have named Cab-Sauv the Powerful, all the way back to the bar were I picked up a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and trotted back to her table again.

Listen, she started it by being a condescending asshole and as we know there is only room for one of those in the restaurant - me.

There was also a chap on Saturday who got taken down...but not by me. It's so much better when punters deal with their own problems themselves.

It was late on but the restaurant was still in full swing. People were laughing, people not including waiters I should add, and having a jolly swell time. Chefs were chefing and waiters were waiting although I'm pretty sure some were smoking.

Not me though, I was at the door explaining to a punter and his wife that we were full and that there was no possible way we could get them a table. I thought I was being affable and polite and explained the situation as best I could. But apparently not.

"Whadyamean? Full?"

It's a difficult question to answer without coming across as impertinent but bugger me with an empty table the word full doesn't leave a lot of room for wiggle. Full is full is it not?

He stood there, thought about the situation for a moment whilst I stared back, head at a sympathetic angle (as you do) with my biggest I'm sorry expression plastered all over my face like I was in a face pulling competition.

"So what? What are we mean til do now?"

I suggested a few other locations, again the actions of a top bloke if you ask me.

"So yer just gonna throw us out til the street? In the rain like?"

Christ, I've never felt more like a slum landlord in my whole chuff.

"Sir, like I said we are full, we have no tables now and we won't have any tables coming available soon"

"AYE AYE AYE YE SAID ALL THAT ALREADY SO YE DID"

Goodbye sympathetic head angle, goodbye empathetic facial expression and hello, Fuck off you hairy palmed, mouth breathing, crotch sniffing, armpit licking, foot fetishist (probably, he looked the sort) face.

"Right c'mon Joe, ders no tables", said the until now passive Mrs Joe.

"Aye...out til the street...in de rain"

As a parting shot he gave me a look that seemed to suggest he was memorizing my face for the future and making plans to move the key elements of my face from their current locations. Charming. I walked slowly and at a distance behind them as they made for the door.

"WHY THE FUCK YOU GAT TIL GET ON LIKE DAT?"

"What? I was just trying til get us a table"

"Aye by having a go at de wee lad? Yer a fucking muppet you know dat....I'm nat staying in yours tonight..." Wee lad? I'm nearly 40 FFS.

Ha, no dinner and no afters. Slap it up ye Joe, slap it up ye on yer own.

Waiters, we always win.

There'll be no post on Monday as I'm going to Waiter Chum Number One's wedding. Woo hoo for WCnO.

Have a good weekend.

I love Belfast.

I love the people of Belfast.

But bugger me with a big yellow crane our accent is tarrible so it is...

"I fawncy a wee chicken so a do..", says the lovely woman to her lovely friend and work colleague. They were clearly office workers, probably civil servants, probably advisers of some sort or other. Actually there was no probably about it they were exactly civil servants as they still had their work passes swinging from the lanyard round their neck's.

"Chicken? Ooooh I fawncy chicken too so I do"

Good so everybody fancies chicken. I fancied getting the fucking order in before I lost the will to live. Seriously people, don't call me over and tell me you want to order and then start the whole lamentable process of choosing all over again. It's annoying to say the least and it takes up valuable standing/gossiping/scratching time. That said I was pretty sure this order was a done deal what with both of them fancying chicken. Chicken fanciers I lol'd to myself as I stood there with black Lamy Pico pen poised and ready for action.

"Aye but...I dunno...I fancy a wee steak too"

Christ in a basket.

Turning to me the first chicken fancier says, "Here...you must think us-uns is daft"

I assured her I thought no such thing...I had a whole other level of descriptive terms for them other than daft. My mind had entered a much less pleasant town someway south of daft.

"Reet, we'll both hawve de chicken YES?"

Her mate, who was a lot less convinced of this earth shattering decision hummed and ha'd and eventually slammed her menu shut and gave in to the chicken love.

"Very good choice ladies...would you like something with that chips or champ maybe?"

They looked at each other, laughed and then turned to me in unison, "Chaps!"

"I only like my ma's chawmp.", says one to the other.

"Aye yer ma's chawmp is great so it is...wi loadsa budder n'all"

"Oh aye...love it when de budder melts all over it n all"

Brilliant, I was trapped down a fucking lane getting covered in buttery carbohydrate laced memories. Brilliant.

"Chips for both of you then ladies?" I had to interject before they got on to her ma's brilliant Irish stew or something.

I was all set to walk away when the first lady hit me with a question that had me perplexed.

"Is der flar in dat chicken?"

What. The. Fuck. Is. Flar? My tiny, mind free as it from having to know important things like physics and when particular Kings ruled particular countries etc still couldn't locate what a flar was and what it might have to do with chicken.

"Flar?"

"Aye is it made with flar?"

They were both looking at me wondering when I was going to answer what for them seemed to be a straight forward question that demanded a straightforward yes or no answer.

"Is it made with flar? Eh..", I was running the dish through my mind as if I was making it in the kitchen myself. I couldn't see any flar so I plumped for no. Which was brave, maybe a foolhardy thing to do. I mean in my mind I am a six foot god among men that is loved and admired by all for my generosity of spirit and time and not a five foot squat bitter prick who is more tolerated than loved by those closest to me because they know I will be dead soon.

The ladies knew I was bluffing too.

"You sure mister? I'm lergic til flar so I awm...Al swelled up like a balloon if I eat flar so I will"

And then it dawned on me...she was trying to say flour but when you put the word flour through a Belfast accent it comes out as flar.

Obviously when I finally worked this out I was able to assure her that there was no flour used in the preparation of the chicken and that only eating too many chips would make her swell up like a balloon. Probably didn't need to add that bit in as it didn't go down too well.

Ho hum...

Belfast, wonderful town, wonderful people, hideous accent.

I had to walk to the shop on Monday morning...in the rain.

But I won't go on about it like some fucking marathon running endorphin junkie. I went to the shop, in the rain, I came home, I ate pies. I'm no hero, I'm just an ordinary man.

I'm a chuffing hero at work though.

I took three, count 'em one, two, three loads in the face from old men on Saturday night. Old man spit is one of the most toxic and disgusting things on the face of Gordon's green earth. It's not just your everyday common or garden spit. No, old man spit comes with added extras namely whatever the silly old codger was eating when you happened to stop by his table to say hello.

Fuck me once was bad, twice horrific but three times and I felt like I was the star of some online Spit on a Waiter meme.

It's partly my fault. I mean if I had two working ears I wouldn't have to stick my face right into their face in order to hear them recant stories about the first time they saw a fish or whatever the hell they were rambling on about.

Spitter the first wasn't so bad, as far as getting spat in the face goes, as it was right at the end of the conversation when he was getting all animated about the thought of a "big bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce".

I wiped and walked.

The third spitter was more of a spit n run sort of situation. That said it did annoy me as I had finished work and was loitering about outside waiting for an overweight man in a pishy European saloon car to take me home whilst regaling me with stories about "this bird he had in the car the other day". No you bloody didn't you fat bastard, you smell of wee and you have more facial carbuncles than anything created by Jim Henson and Peter Jackson combined.

A besuited man approached me, "Taxi? Where'd you get a taxi from round here? Just need til get a taxi home like..."

Every time he hit the T of taxi I got a face full of warm beer spit. Jesus wept.

As I was off the clock and my uniform was under the cover of a cheap black sweater I felt emboldened enough to give him a dirty look, wipe my face (again) and walk away without saying a bloody thing.

But the second spitter was the worst, the very worst.

He captured me as I was on a jaunty wander round the restaurant. He has previous for being a talker and it's best never to make eye contact if you can avoid it. The VC didn't torture their captives nearly half as bad as this chap does. I would welcome six months in a partly submerged cage only getting out once a week to play Russian roulette with coked up combatants than have to endure his insufferable monologues about the state of society these days, his belief that steak is getting smaller everywhere and his constant bartering for a free drink.

Anyhoo I was captured and there was no getting away until he had made his various points. So there I was, hunched over and holding hands with a man old enough to be my father's big brother. I did mention he likes to hold your hand didn't I? I didn't? Well he does, he likes to hold your hand tight. I assume this is to stop you getting away. He has the vice like grip of a rather peckish crocodile.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

went the spit all over my lovely face. I couldn't even wipe it off. I COULDN'T EVEN WIPE IT OFF!

Oh the humanity, the horror, the dribbling down my face.

When I finally broke free/was released I made straight for the bathrooms and washed until I bled.

Old men need to stop spitting in my face because if I spit back it will not be because I'm hitting the T of the word taxi.

Sake.

So like I say, I am a hero at work. I take the spit in the face so that others don't have to.

One thing that really, and I mean really-really, annoys me is having to pick up customers used toothpicks.

IT'S BEEN IN YOUR MOUTH GOD DAMN IT AND YOU'VE LEFT IT STREWN ON THE TABLE BETWEEN THE GLASSES AND USED NAPKINS FOR ME WITH MY PRECIOUS FINGERS TO PICK UP.

YOU DIRTY DIRTY BASTARD.

Like I say it annoys me, every single time.

The only thing that has me reaching for the much under utilised stabbing fork with the same venom and anger is chewing gum. I can get more than a touch irate when I am clearing plates only to find a chewed piece of gum stuck to the side of a plate or in a glass. There was one of those the other day, stuck inside a cup it was...teeth marks and everything.

What is wrong with people? Why can't they wrap it up in a napkin and bin it or spit it down the toilet. Why must they leave it like a hidden prize for me to stick my tender little digits into?

Cunts and no mistake.

That said a charmless table of two just the other evening had they own unique way of disposing of their unwanted and most likely tasteless gum that was just as filthy and upsetting as leaving it on the side of a plate.

"And the soup for you madam...", says I as I set down the ridiculously full bowl of soup. Chefs overfill bowls so that so spill it and burn your hands and have to come back to them for more. I'm not paranoid you know.

Now as I turned to set down the gentleman's first course yer one, his lady friend, lets out, what can only be described as a gulder,

"Here I dun't want dis..."

Now obviously I thought she was talking about our wonderful soup but no, I was wrong. I could not have been more wrong.

She stuck two tanned fingers in to her mouth, pulled out a nugget of chewing gum, reached across the table the gum eventually finding its way into the hand of her chap before settling in its final resting place...in his mouth.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

I did a sick in my mouth.

Again I ask, and not rhetorically either, WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

I need a lie down.

Have a good weekend. I'll see you on Tuesday kids...