Ring Ring

Ring Ring

Ring Ring

"Sake, is anybody gonna answer the phone?", I wouldn't mind but I was on the other side of the restaurant. Waiter chums, and managers for that matter, stared at me as if I was a mentalist. Staring back at their confused little faces I wondered if maybe I was indeed the only one that could hear the phone ringing.

Ring Ring

Ring Ring

No, they heard it too, they just couldn't be bothered to answer it. They stared at the phone apparently confused and bewildered by this strange devise they have never seen before.

Throwing them all dirty looks I answered it.

"Ah hello, this is Q from Newry. I'm coming up to Belfast on Saturday for a concert. There's a concert on. There's a fella singing, big fella like. Me and the father and the brother in-law are all going to the concert. Really looking forward to it now, gonna be a great night. Seen him before ye know but he's always good. Knows how to entertain a crowd. He's a pro, a real pro."

What the fuck was this? Are people just phoning up for a chat now? Arrgghh! I had things to be doing what with a restaurant full of people going to see Elvis in the Odyssey. A bit of a trick I'm sure what with him being dead and what have you. Turns out it was a hologram of Elvis or something. Is this the future? Will we all be going to see holograms of our favourite dead stars in the years to come? Anyhoo, yer man was waffling on and I was getting as frustrated as I was bored. I assumed he wanted to reserve a table and wasn't just phoning up for the hell of it. But I wasn't sure.

"Now they tell me...", continued Q, "...that your place is a good place to go for a feed before the concert. Is that true now, you do a good feed?" S'pose yer gonna say ye do do a good feed, stupid question"

I still hadn't spoken, not a word apart from the required greeting.

"YES, yes sir we are a good spot for dinner. Would you like to book a table for Saturday?", I had to cut him off before he gave me chapter and verse of his ten most favourite dinners/big feeds."

"Aye, aye that would do. Now what time do ye think we should book a dinner for? The concerts at eight and me da wont want to be late. Well I don't want to be late either. The brother in-law would be late for his own funeral. But it's okay he's not driving...."

SHUT THE FUCK UP! JESUS! I could see one of my tables giving me the evil eye. They had need for gin and Q was slowing up their juniper flavoured anaesthetic.

"Sir, sir...", I attempted another interruption to no avail. "He was late for his wedding you know, terrible fella. Ach I don't mean that. He's a right fella..."

"Sir, I'll reserve you a table for 6, that will give you plenty of time." It was like trying to make yourself heard when faced with a crazy Scientologist. See here. But roaring at guests, even those on the phone is very much frowned upon.

"Six? Aye, aye I suppose we could make it for six. Now do you...."

No chance matey, I was putting an end to this before he started any more nonsense. "So a table for three at 6 it is then. What name shall I book your table under?"

"Q", replied the man with unnerving brevity.

"Q?"

"Aye, Q", confirmed the man.

Q? As in James Bond's quartermaster and gadget freak? Q? What the what?

"Sorry sir did you say Q? As in the letter Q?"

"The letter Q? Naw, naw lad. Q as in the name Q." Well that's that cleared up then.

There was an awkward silence as I wondered what the hell was going on. I could see Waiter Chum the Smaller down at my table. No doubt they were complaining about their unintended sobriety from lack of gin.

"Ah, you mean Hugh?"

"Aye, Q"

Fuck. There was another two minutes of fumbling and pishing about as he tried to remember his phone number.

"Well we'll see you on Saturday then at six. Taker easy fella", and off he popped.

I dampened the sweat from my furrowed brow and wrote the booking on to the booking sheet. In someone else section. Fuck that.

Q?

As Larry David put it...

"Fuck Hugh...."