Tuesday 27 June 2006

In anticipation of a hangover

There are some days when you finish work and you feel that all is right with the world. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, your boss didn't annoy you too much and you've just been paid.
And there are other days when you finish work and you just think, "I need a drink." Today is one of these days.

Luckily for me, one of my beer monsters, I mean, friends, is in town tonight, and is ready for action! And so, without further ado, I'd like to dedicate this blog to tomorrow's hangover.
I love those nights when you go out, usually "just for one", and you know in your heart that you're not going to be doing any work tomorrow. In fact, if you make it into work tomorrow, it'll be a frickin' miracle. You won't be capable of much more than drinking a pint of lucozade and eating a few bites of a bacon sandwich, whilst trying to piece together the last few hours of last night.

Your head will pound, your stomach will roll, your muscles will ache and your arms will be covered in those tiny little bruises that look like someone's been stabbing you with a pencil all night long. So much pain, so much agony. Is it really worth it?

Of course it is! And here's why!

The first beer of the night. He Who Provides The Beer places that first glass of heaven on the bar in front of you, and all you have to do is give him some metal discs in return. You lift up the cold glass, feeling the reassuring weight of the amber nectar inside, and return to your seat. You don't take a sip straight away, no. Instead, you gaze upon its glory for a little while, marvelling in the neverending stream of tiny bubbles that race their way to the top. You watch the slow lazy trickle of condensation on the outside of the glass. You shiver in anticipation of that first sip.
You lift the glass to your lips and drink. The bubbles burst on your tongue and then the cold liquid hits the back of your mouth and slides down your throat, all the way to your stomach. You delight in the instant sensation of the cold elixir moving down your throat, immediately followed by the heat of the alcohol, warming your torso and slowly spreading to encompass your entire body.

You take another sip. You accidentally gulp too much liquid and the bubbles fizz up your nose, not unpleasantly, tickling you from the inside. With each succeeding mouthful, you become more and more convinced that, truly, this is the drink of gods.

Whilst the converstation flows around you, the warm feeling spreads to your brain, wrapping it in cotton wool, and you become convinced of the goodness inherent in everything and everyone around you. All your problems start to melt away and everything seems bathed in a fuzzy amber glow.

You decide to order another beer. It would be rude to leave now! It would be an affront to the gods, the givers of life and beer! He Who Provides The Beer smiles at you with approval as you order a second drink from the holy grail. He places the second glass of frosty nirvana on the bar in front of you, you exchange metal, and return to your table holding the glass aloft. You stare at the glass again, and your body tingles in anticipation...

That is why one beer is never enough. That is why hangovers are worth it. That is why beer will never go out of fashion.

Hangover, I salute you!

Monday 26 June 2006

Food, glorious food

In preparation for the bikini season, The Maori® has decided to put me on a strict diet & exercise regime for a couple of weeks, starting tomorrow. Thus, today will be my last opportunity to indulge in food that actually tastes of something other than bland, and all the other nice things in life, like alcohol and coffee.

Food is a touchy subject these days. There's such a glut of information about calories, carbs, grams of fat, salt content, sugar content, preservatives, additives, vitamins, nutrients, minerals, protein, GI level, slow-release energy and so on and so forth. None of it complementary, and all of it utterly, utterly boring.

I'm completely fed up with these food bores, who drone on and on about the negative calories in a piece of lettuce. The world is becoming food obsessed - you're either too fat or too thin and either way, you need help. And it's not just the ladies who are obsessed with waistlines and calorie-counting. The boys are at it too!

The other day, the beau announced, with great surprise, that ham and cheese pizza was, in fact, loaded with saturated fat.

The beau: This thing has about 20g of saturated fat in it!
Me: Eh.... your point being?
The beau: Well, I had no idea there was that much fat.
Me: Oh, you thought pizza was a health food, did you? Recommended by doctors?

If it tastes nice, of course it's bad for you. What about these bastards who are suing McDonalds because eating three fast food meals a day has made them fat. What the hell is that about? Are you serious? Really, why hasn't someone taken these people out yet. Shit, I'd even pay for the hit. Here's ten quid, go tell those people to stop eating burgers all fucking day long, and then shoot them. Shoot them in their big fat heads. Please and thanks.

If you need to lose weight, then don't bitch and moan about it whilst stuffing that sixteenth slice of choclate cake into your maw. Go to the gym. Swap your McChicken sandwich meal for some fruit and veg. Get your ass up off the sofa and stop being so fucking lazy!!

Monday 19 June 2006

It's not easy being green

So, I recently admitted that I enjoy being a consumer, that I love these new 24-hour mega-super-markets, and that I'd rather peel off all my skin and roll around in salt than purchase the goods in my local corner shop. Supermarkets are better for one simple reason: choice of products.

But, rather than being allowed to wallow contentedly in the fact that I can eat foods from all over the world; rather than being allowed to marvel with my fellow consumers at the ever shrinking nature of our spinning space-planet; gasp at the wonders of modern technology that allow us to purchase apples from New Zealand and bananas from South Africa; and cosy up in some sort of feelgood "we're all one global village" cotton-wool world; rather than being allowed to do all this, I'm being made to feel guilty. Why? Because I'm not buying local, and thus I am effectively strangling the very same world that I thought was marvellous just a few moments ago.

When did everyone suddenly become so obsessed with the number of air miles their food has travelled before it reaches their plate? I don't really care if my food has travelled to the moon and back four times before I wolf it down. I agree that, in theory, it's a good and moral stand to take, but I have a few issues with it.

The problem that I have with buying local produce is that I live in England, and local produce means cabbage, asparagus and potatoes. Now, I agree that locally grown food can be delicious, if you like that sort of thing. But I don't. I prefer foods that actually taste of something, like chillis, pineapples and mangoes. It's hardly my fault that they don't grow locally, so I have to buy the foods that are imported from Mars or wherever. Why should I punish my taste buds just because I live in a climate where the food I want to eat couldn't, and wouldn't grow, even if you held a gun to its... eh.... roots?

I do actually try to shop locally when I can. When I did my grocery shopping last week, I bought all British fruit and veg (with about three exceptions), so I felt quite proud of myself and I'm sure the checkout clone girl was thinking what a hip and PC young woman I was.

I'm feeling a similar sort of pressure with the car that I drive. When my car was born, the words "fuel" and "efficiency" would never have been uttered in the same sentence, and, thus, my car is a petrol-guzzling behemoth. I would drive a hybrid car if I could afford to buy one, but I can't so I don't. I would car pool with the people at work, insteading of driving to work by myself each day, except I work with just three other people, each of whom lives in the opposite direction from me. I would cycle to work, except I live 35 miles away. I would get public transport except I work in the middle of fucking nowhere and the nearest train station and bus stop are an hour's walk from the office (no exaggeration - I did get the train to work one day. Never again).

I have similar problems with recycling. I used to recycle pretty much everything when I lived in Ireland. I even had a compost bin! But in England, all I'm allowed to recycle is paper (magazines and newspapers), tin cans (beverage cans only, please!), and glass bottles or jars. I can't recycle cardboard and I can't recycle plastic bags, which is just ridiculous. If I did want to recycle these items, I'd have to drive to a specialised centre which is over 50 miles away from where I live, so I'd still be killing the planet with my pollution-belching monster car.

I just can't win.

I want to buy local produce, but I can't get the foods I want to eat locally. I want to buy Fairtrade produce when I can't get it locally, but it costs almost 50% more than "normal" (unfairtrade?) food, and I can't afford that. I want to buy a hybrid or fuel efficient or planet-loving car, but they're also too expensive for my budget. I want to recycle, but the country doesn't have the facilities for me to do so.

So, in summary, I have three things to say:

1. Kermit the Frog said it best when he said: "It's not easy being green".

2. Denis Leary also hit the nail on the head when he said: "I didn't break the planet, it was this way when I found it".

3. I've tried to be a good person. I've tried to look after the planet. I've tried to do the right thing. But, at the end of the day, I figure I'll be long dead before the world becomes some sort of Mad Max-type desert planet.

So, screw the air miles. Screw the pollution. Screw the dolphins getting caught in the tuna nets. Anyone for a spot of tiger hunting?

Friday 16 June 2006

I am consumer, hear me roar

These days, it's not cool to be a consumer. Or, at least, it's not cool to admit to wanting to be a consumer. Nobody doubts the fact that, every now and then, you have to go out and purchase goods and services in order to, you know, survive. But you're not supposed to enjoy it.

Well, I do.

In fact, I love it.

For me, heaven is not a half-pipe. It's wandering up and down the aisles of my local supermarket, breathing in the tantalising aroma of freshly baked bread, breaking out in pleasurable goosebumps in the freezer aisles, marvelling at the colourful array of fruit and vegetables from all over the world, and feeling overwhelmed at the sheer choice of salad dressings.

I know that nowadays we're supposed to support our corner shops, but, to be honest, the corner shop is overpriced and kind of rubbish. They only ever stock one type of bread - the stale, cardboard-type. The fruit and veg always have suspicious looking bruises on them, and look about two days overripe and maggoty. The breakfast cereal boxes have that faded look about them that you know means they've been sitting there for about a hundred and twenty years.

Also, the person behind the counter is usually separated from the rest of the world by an inch-thick plate of bullet-proof glass. And that just doesn't entice me into wanting to buy anything. Call me paranoid, but, if the owners of the shop feel it's necessary to place their employees behind a sheet of reinforced glass, then I don't really want to take my life in my hands by perusing their goods with a pocket full of change. I mean, if they do get robbed, and the guy with the gun can't get through the glass, well, he's not going to want to waste his trip, is he? He'll want some form of recompense, and I don't want to be on the wrong side of the bullet-proof glass when he decides he's not leaving the place empty handed.

The only things corner shops are good for are the types of things you run out of in the middle of the night, and really can't wait 'till morning to get, i.e., cigarettes, alcohol and milk (for making White Russians). Then, and only then, will I go to the corner shop. And then, it's only if I can't find a 24-hour supermarket nearby.

No, I like my supermarkets big, white, clean, air-conditioned and soulless. I like the fact that, no matter which Tescos, Sainsburys or Asda I go into, I know exactly where everything is, as they all have the same layout. And, if for some reason I can't find what I'm looking for, then there are always plenty of clones, I mean, employees about to ask.

I like the fact that, when I go to pay for my groceries, the clone, I mean, checkout person always gives me a big smile, asks if I'd like any help packing my purchases, and says please and thank you as though their life depended on it. Sure, in their minds they're probably thinking of numerous ways to kill themselves if they have to sit at that checkout for one more day, but I dont care. They're not separated from me by a wall of glass that resembles a sneeze guard, and I find that reassuring.

At night, when I'm trying to sleep, I go to my happy place, and it sounds like this: "Beep..... beep......... beep......... clean up in aisle four ..... beep".

Wednesday 14 June 2006

Sadistically surly in Scotland

Greetings from Glasgow. I'm sitting here in my hotel, overlooking the sunny city, and I should be feeling overjoyed at the fact that I'm not only out of the office, but also about 400 miles away from my boss. I should be reading some guide book or other to find out where the hottest haggis spots are. But, instead, I'm fuming (more so than usual) because three things happened today that really pissed me off (more so than usual). And I feel as though I should share these bubbles of bile with you, my dearest friends and readers, before they burst.

Betcha feel lucky now, eh?

The first little pustule of pus on my otherwise glorious day came in the form of a courtesy phone call from my mobile phone provider. I got this call at about 11:30 this morning as I was struggling out the door of the office, laden down with briefcase, laptop, maps, keys, etc., about to get into my car for the 250 mile journey to Glasgow, which I wasn't really looking forward to anyway. As I'm trying to pile all this crap into my car, the phone rings, and it displays "Withheld number" on the screen. Now, whenever my beau calls me from work, it shows up as a withheld number, so I thought it might have been him phoning to tell me something important about the car (our poor car is on its last legs, and the beau was a bit worried about me hauling it up to Scotland and back).

Anyway, I answered the phone, expecting to hear the beau telling me (again) about how to check the oil, or how to drive on the motorway (I'm a girl, you see, girls dont know how to drive on motorways because we're silly and only like boys and shopping, hee hee!). Instead, this is what I hear:

"Hiiiiiiyaaaaaaaa! My name is Mark, and I'm calling from your mobile phone company. This is just a courtesy call to check how youre getting on with your phone."

I replied with: "I'm sorry. I dont really have time to take this call right now." Very polite, non?

And he says: "Oh, right. So you dont have time to take the call, but you still answered the fucking phone? Hmmm..."

And then HE hangs up on ME!!! What the fuck is that all about?!? I could practically see the sarcasm dripping out of the earpiece of the phone. What a little prick!!!!!! Grrrr! I'm still fucking fuming over that (as if you couldn't tell).

I've had this phone for about eight months now, and, at the start I was having real problems with being sent unsolicited text messages from companies that would charge me £1.50 each time I received the text, even though I never signed up for it. And when I contacted my provider, I went round and round in circles trying to get it fixed. They fobbed me off from one person to the next, and it took me months to get it sorted out and get my money back.

The one bloody time they ring me and I tell them its inconvenient I not only get sworn at, but he hangs up on me too. That's customer service for ya! I hope that little prick gets run over by a truck on his way home.

I'm so fed up of these unsolicited phone calls. Every evening, we get a call on the landline for a "Mr. Walker". It's always from the same company, who are obviously based in Bombay or somewhere, judging by the accents of the people who phone us. I've tried being polite with them, explaining that there is no Mr. Walker living in my house; I've tried being firm; the beau has been downright rude to them. And still they call back. I've asked them to remove our phone number from their database, and all they did was get some guy with a Chinese accent to phone back the next evening. Boy, were we fooled! We almost untied Mr. Walker and let him out of the closet to take the call before we realized what was going on. Phew! That was a close one!

We've also been getting a load of phone calls from people trying to flog us house insurance, double glazing, car insurance, etc. Cold calling is illegal in Ireland. Why cant they make it illegal in England? NOBODY wants it, so why doesn't the government do something about it? I know they say you can ask the companies to remove your name & number from their databases, but, as my little rant above proves, that doesn't work. And in many cases, they just pass you on to different departments and generally fuck with you so much that you end up hanging up on them before they remove your number. And then they call you back the next day...

But I digress.

The second thing that pissed me off is, again, something that happens all the time, but that really got on my nerves today. As I mentioned, I had an approximately 250 mile drive to Scotland today motorway all the way. I set off from the office at about 11:30, so the traffic wasn't too bad all the way. However, there was the usual abundance of trucks on the road. At one point, on a three-lane-wide section of motorway, there was a truck in the far left lane and one overtaking it in the middle lane. Naturally, I moved into the right-hand lane, as I was traveling faster than both of them. Next thing, this dickhead comes right up behind me, and proceeds to sit on my ass. Thing is, I'm already doing about 15 over the speed limit, so its not as if I was driving slow. It was plainly obvious that I was overtaking the two trucks to the left of me. There was still a truck in the middle lane, so I couldn't pull over and the let the man with the obviously tiny penis pass me out. What's a girl to do?

Well, I had to wait for the truck in the middle lane to move back into the left-hand lane, and then I, reluctantly, pulled over to let the dickhead pass me out. What annoys me is that this whole episode took less than 20 seconds. The wanker in the car behind me was trying to intimidate me and bully me into pulling over, even though it wasn't safe to do so, just so he could pass me out and prove himself better than me. Why couldn't he just wait the 20 seconds for the other truck to pull over? I'm convinced the main reason he did this was because he could see that I'm a girl, and because I drive a fairly old car, and he couldn't stand the fact that I was in front of him.

Why do people do this, though? Why drive right up behind someone to bully or intimidate them into pulling over? I mean, if they're driving at 20mph in the fast lane, fair enough, you have a point. But if they're going 85mph, and they're obviously passing someone else out, why can't you just wait a couple of seconds? And it's always men who do it, too. I've only ever seen a woman do it once (and no, it wasn't me). Maybe it's because women don't have the balls to do it, figuratively and literally, or maybe it's because we don't feel the need to prove ourselves to be speed demons.

On a related side-note, I saw an incredible sight the other day on my way to work. I drive a 70-mile round trip on the M6, the busiest motorway in England, every day on my way to and from work. Last Tuesday, I was driving along at a nice 75mph, when a guy on a motorbike went flying past me. He must have been doing at least 90mph. We were on a straight bit of road, so I could see him for about a minute and a half in total. During that time, he cut across at least seven cars, on the inside and the outside, and each time, as the person in the car tried not to swerve into the other lanes to avoid him, and as they tried not to have a heart attack out of fright, this moron turned around and gave them the two-fingered salute! What the hell?!

I like to think that, some day, one of these people will pass me out, and, as I turn the corner, I'll see them embedded under the wheels of a truck. I've seen it once before, and the guy totally deserved it. Harsh, maybe, but these people - the ones that sit on your ass and bully you into driving faster or pulling over, and the guys on motorbikes who think the motorways were built exclusively for them - these are the ones that cause accidents, and are the real dangers on the roads.

Anyway, the last gripe I have, for today at least, goes back to an issue I've discussed here before road signs.

*sigh*

I dont think I'll ever get used to navigating around this bloody island. Having driven 250 miles and successfully negotiated my way into Glasgow city centre, I suddenly realized that Glasgow streets do not have any street names. At least, they're not anywhere I could see them. I had very specific instructions follow the signs to the city centre, take the exit for the A801 (or whatever, I don't remember exactly now), then take the left for Haggis Street, turn right for Bagpipe Road and the hotel is on the left. I made those names up, by the way, before any Scots condemn me to the third circle of hell, where the crappy motorists and the employees of the Bombay call centre live.

Anyhoo, I was driving along, looking for these street signs, and I couldn't fucking see a single one! I drove around for about half an hour, trying to figure out where the hell I was. I looked up and down, looked on the sides of buildings, lampposts, railings, anywhere for a street sign. Nada. I pulled over a couple of times to consult me map, but, not knowing what bloody street I was on, the map was pretty useless. I couldn't even phone the hotel and ask them for directions, as I didn't have a clue where I was. Ridiculous.

Eventually, I figured that if I just drive into the city centre, I'm sure to see a sign for the university and I knew the hotel was near there.

Just as I have given up all hope of ever finding the hotel, I spotted it. And then I spotted the teeny tiny street signs, at the top of the lampposts. They were obviously designed by pixies for very tall people, because they were so small and so high up.

Anyway, I'm here now, so I'll shut up.

Friday 9 June 2006

Tipping is not a small fishing village in China - Part III

Of course, there are some occasions when you shouldn't tip. I remember a particular weekend in Calgary, Alberta, where I was staying with my (now ex-)husband, and two friends from the ski resort. On Saturday night, we went to a popular restaurant downtown. It wasn't a chain restaurant, but they do also have one in Toronto. I can't remember the name of it, but it specialises in BBQ food. The place in Toronto is fabulous and the food is amazing, so we figured the one in Calgary should be about the same. How wrong we were.

First up, although we had booked a table for four, and even though the restaurant was only about two thirds full, we were left standing by the door for ten minutes before someone saw fit to seat us at our table.


The table they put us at only had place settings for two people. As we obviously had been sat in the invisible vortex where the waitresses couldn't see us and didn't want to come closer anyway for fear of getting sucked into a black hole (and possibly deposited in... oh, I dont know.... Wigan - a fate worse than death), I had to go and take two sets of cutlery, napkins, glasses, etc. from an empty table nearby.

Eventually, one waitress donned her special specs that allowed her to see the invisible table, and, in spite of the dangerous vortex, decided to grace us with her presence, although you could tell by the grim look on her face that she wasn't happy about it. By the time she came over to tell us the specials, we were clutching our stomachs with hunger. We told her we were ready to order. She took the food order from the couple, then from my ex, and, just as I opened my mouth to speak, she started walking away. Apparently she'd decided that I wasnt eating that night.

My ex called her back over, and she, grudgingly, took my order. I've never met the girl in my life, so I don't know what I'd done to offend her, but when I asked for a glass of water as well, she looked at me with murder in her eyes.

Our food arrived after about half an hour and it was average at best. The waitress didn't clear our table for about another fifteen minutes after we'd finished eating, and we had to wait about twenty minutes for the bill. As I said at the start, the restaurant wasn't that busy, so I can only presume that she'd since lost her bottle and the vortex was proving too scary for her.

When our bill arrived, everyone reached into their pockets, out of habit, to leave the standard tip. But I told them that I refused to tip that cow. The service was abysmal, she was rude to the point of being offensive and the food wasn't up to much either. However, I knew that if we didn't leave a tip, she'd just think that it was because were horrible people, or stingy or something. So we left her a dollar. Enough to let her know that we do understand the concept of tipping, but little enough to let her know what we thought of her waitressing "skills".

Another occasion where you shouldn't tip is when the staff are presumptuous. Once of my brothers told me that he recently went for a business lunch in some trendy restaurant in Dublin. It was in the financial part of the city, and thus was full of wankers in suits. The clientele wasn't much better (boom boom!). Anyhoo, he said the food was excellent and, while the waiters were a bit snooty, they were efficient so he couldn't complain. The bill came to €230, and, as none of the four guys at the table had any small notes, they ended up putting €300 on the table. They sat there, waiting for the waiter to bring back their change so they could leave a tip and go. And they waited. And they waited.

Eventually, one of them nabbed a waiter and asked for the change. He looked at him in astonishment and said, in his snooty voice, "I presumed the €70 was the tip". Needless to say, the boys got their money back and walked out without leaving any tip.

So, having spent three blogs waffling on about it, here are my tips (way hey!) to anyone who's interested or confused about the whole thing:

- If your waitress has been working her butt off for you, leave a generous tip to show your appreciation. It doesnt have to 20% but I think that 15% is a good compromise. If you can afford to eat out, then you can afford to leave a decent tip.

- Don't count out the tip to the last penny. It makes you look like a stingy twat. Round it up to the nearest dollar at least.

- If your waitress has a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp and is rude to you, then dont feel obliged to leave a tip. Sure, she's on minimum wage, but she can't expect to make any money by being rude to people.

Thursday 8 June 2006

Tipping is not a small fishing village in China - Part II

The next place I worked in was much better. It was the "Starbird Steak and Grill House" which was in Panorama Ski Resort, right up at the top of the Rockies, on the border between British Columbia and Alberta. Now this was a nice place. I worked there for the ski season 1999/2000 and had a fantastic time. Some of my fondest memories of Canada are from that time. I was living with a great bunch of people, down in the town of Invermere.

For many of us, it was our first Christmas away from home, so we had an Orphan Christmas Feast on Christmas Day which was amazing (lots of great food, unlimited alcohol and drunken Twister). We had a wicked New Years Eve party up on the mountain, which started about midday and went on until about 7am. We watched the tv coverage of the new millennium being rung in all across the globe, and everyone joined in in the Dublin celebrations (I was the only Irish person on the resort, so a bit of a novelty). Then we stole a load of champagne from the guests "Traditional NYE Feast" and drank it on the slopes whilst shooting fireworks at each other.

My going away party was one of the best I've ever been too. About a hundred and fifty people piled into our house and we partied until the Mounties were called (apparently there were naked people running around in the snow outside, frightening the elderly neighbours), and then we partied some more.

Precious memories!

Anyway, getting back to the waitressing thing. In this place, we were properly trained in waitressing, bar tending, making fancy coffees, dealing with dickhead chefs, etc. We had two lovely lady restaurant managers, Fiona and I forget the other girls name. While they were strict at work, about once a week after work they'd bring us to the pub next door and buy us shots all night - nice girls! The other waitresses were great craic. Howard, the head chef, used to try to make the girls cry, but was nice to me cause I'm Irish. Our bartender was a lunatic snowboarder who was always coming in to work with black eyes and broken limbs, but was one of the best bartenders I've ever known.

Anyway...

One day, four guys from New York came in after lunch and were seated in my area. I went over and told them about the specials, etc., and they said "Honey, we're not that interested in the food. Just bring us four steak sandwiches and a wine list." Initially, I thought they were going to be assholes, but I figured they were from New York so if I Irish it up a bit, I'd get by. I brought over the wine list and they proceeded to quiz me on it.

Now, we had to take a brief wine course as part of our training, so I knew a little bit, but it became pretty evident that I didn't actually know that much about the wine. Nonetheless, I threw in the occasional "begosh" and "begorrah" and the guys were putty in my hands! They stayed for five hours, and got through about ten bottles of fairly expensive wine, plus numerous beers. I think the bill at the end came to about $400, and they left me an $80 tip. Now, don't get me wrong, I worked my butt of for those four hours. I made sure they didn't once run out of food, wine or witty Irish banter for the entire time, so I earned my tip, but I still have to say that was pretty sweet!

As we were the only restaurant in the resort that served breakfast from 06:00 (meaning I had to get up at 5am every day, which was nice), most of the resort staff ate in our joint. And, even though these were people that we lived, skied and played with, and even though we knew how badly they were paid (i.e., as badly as us), they still tipped us every day. Admittedly, it wasnt 20%, but the thought still counts.

Of course, it wasn't all hearts and flowers. I remember a certain group of people from a country that shall remain nameless (*cough* I'm living in it right now *cough*). Sorry, I swallowed a fly. Anyway, this group of people had obviously been told that you tip 10% no more, no less. After every damn meal, they would count out the tip, to the last penny. So, on a bill that came to $72.30, they would leave exactly $7.23 as a tip. That's almost offensive, because you know they're tipping because they feel they have to, not because they felt that the service was worth it. Why be so stingy? Why not just leave eight dollars? Tight bastards.

Next door to our restaurant was a bar, where the guests and staff used to drink, and where one of my housemates, Christine, used to work. Chris used to give me a lift home most evenings, so I'd usually stop by for a beer after work whilst waiting for her. One evening, when I had finished, I went next door for a drink and couldn't help but notice that Chris was absolutely fuming. When I asked what was wrong, she told me the following:

A group of five Canadian guys rolled into the bar about 3pm that afternoon, having spent the day snowboarding. For the next six hours or so, they ordered beers and nachos, which Chris promptly served with a smile and bum-wiggle (she was gorgeous, and a bit of a flirt). She made sure they never had an empty pitcher on their table, laughed at their crappy crude jokes, etc. all day long. Now, on the 1st January 2000, BC brought in a smoking ban in public places, which included bars. So customers had to go outside for a smoke, which these boys did all afternoon. They never once complained about it. Whenever they wanted a cigarette, they would go outside and stand under the heated gas lamps, smoke to their hearts content, and then come back inside to their table, where Chris would top up their beers and flash them another flirty smile. All was good in that little bar.

When they finally asked for the bill, it had come to something like $300. Chris reckoned she'd get a pretty good tip from it, as she'd worked damn hard all afternoon. The guys charged the bill to one of their rooms, and, instead of filling in the little box where you can add your tip, they wrote: "No smoking, no tip". They were punishing Christine for a law that their own government brought it, and yet they hadnt complained about it once all afternoon.

Dickheads.

And morons...

...Because, you see, they left their room number on the bill, when they charged it to the room. So we went and found out who they were, and what rooms the rest of them were staying in. For the remainder of the week, whenever they tried to book a table in our restaurant they were told that we had no tables available. If they came into the bar, they got the worst service possible - always served last, beers slammed down on the table in front of them with as much spillage as possible, and I'm not even going to speculate on the sour cream on their nachos...

Wednesday 7 June 2006

Tipping is not a small fishing village in China - Part I

When I lived in Canada, way back at the turn of the century, I worked as a waitress for a couple of months. I had never waitressed before, so it was a new experience for me. I quickly got the hang of it, and I like to think I was quite a good waitress too (I knew how to "Irish it up" for extra tips).

The first place I worked in was a complete dump. It was on Lakeshore Blvd. in Toronto, and it had some really crap French name which I've since erased from my memory in an attempt to deny any involvement with the place. It was the kind of place that only served beer 'n' wings, and had at least one fist fight in the parking lot per night. You know, a classy joint. Anyway, I applied for a job because it was right across the road from where I lived, I was desperate for a job, and I didnt exactly have a... um... "legal" visa, so couldn't really get a proper job, as such.

On my first day, I met my "trainer" - a woman with the fattest ass I've ever seen on a relatively slim chick. Her name was probably Darlene or something, I don't really remember. She didn't bother learning mine, so I paid her the same courtesy. You can see we were off to a good start.

Darlene informed me that, as I had never worked in a bar before or waitressed before, I would have to do three days training before I could work by myself. During this time, all of my tips would be handed over to her as she'd really be doing double the work (mine as well as hers) while I watched and learned. Now, most of you are probably thinking "Why didnt you tell her, at this early point, to shove her job up her gargantuan arse, and walk out of there?" Let me remind you, I was desperate for a job. Also, I figured "How much money could I earn in tips in three days, when I've never done this before? Probably not much, so, fuckit, Ill do it."

And so, Darlene proceeded to sit on said enormous arse, smoking and drinking beer, for the next two days, whilst she ordered me around the bar. I worked my damn ass off. I remember one time she called me into the kitchen (which was, I might add, fucking disgustingly dirty. I wouldn't even drink water out of the taps in there) and bollocked me out of it for having spent ten minutes discussing books with one of the regulars sat at the bar. I protested "But, you told me to make conversation with the regulars!" and she replied with "Yeah, but none of that smart shit!" I swear to god, had I opened a book in front of her I would have heard the classic "Looks like we got ourselves a reader!"

In two days, I made about $100 in tips.

And that bitch took every penny of it.

So, on the third day, I told her that I didn't think she should take my tips that day, as I'd been working twice as hard as she had, and I felt that I deserved my tips. She said that them's the rules, and if I didn't like it, I could ring the boss (whom I swear is a member of the Canadian Mafia) and complain to him. So I told her that I'd do just that, and not only would I complain to him, but I'd tell him to stick his job where the sun don't shine. With that, I handed her my apron, got my coat and walked out. She followed me outside yelling that I couldn't just walk out after two days, and that I wouldn't get paid for it, etc., etc. I just kept on walking, never looked back.

Monday 5 June 2006

Dinnertime Dilemma

Last Tuesday, I was working in Southampton, and went out for dinner by myself that evening, having successfully ditched the boss. I found a lovely little restaurant down a side street - trendy enough to make me feel "with it", but not so trendy that the other diners would cotton on to the fact that I have no idea what "it" is.

I was seated and perused the wine list, pretending that I knew what I was looking at. My beau is the one with the wine knowledge (he used to work in the wine trade), and I always think we're like the two guys from "Sideways". Whenever we order wine, he sloshes and sniffs and samples and speculates about the bouquet and chocolate or berry notes. I take a big slug and announce: "I dunno. It tastes good to me."

Anyway, I ordered a glass of white to go with the pan-fried garlic chicken (hey, I was working so I knew I wasn't going to get lucky that night anyway!) and vegetables. The wine was nicely chilled and complemented the food beautifully. The food itself was fit for a king.

Now, when I had set out earlier in the night, I didn't bring any cash with me. I rarely carry cash anymore, as everything can be paid for with plastic nowadays. And, as I was on a businnes trip, I knew I'd be using my little flexible business friend to pay for the meal. And I knew there'd be one of two opportunities for me to pay a tip using my credit card - either the waiter would bring me a credit card slip with a little box for me to add the tip, or he'd bring me one of those electronic gizmos that let's me add the tip before putting in my pin.

There was neither.

The waiter brought the bill, but there was only a box for me to sign my name. Nothing about adding a tip.

I started to panic.

I had no cash. Nothing. Not a penny.

What if the waiter realises that I haven't left a tip before I get out of the restaurant, and blocks my way, demanding that I pay the value of the tip by washing dishes or something? What if he realises just after I slip out of the restaurant, and follows me down the street shouting derogatory comments about my financial situation? What if he........... oh god, here he comes.

The waiter picked up my signed bill with a graceful smile, and swept away from the table. I grabbed my coat and turned around, ready to bolt out of the restaurant. I ran straight into the waiter, who was hovering nearby. Shit! He glanced at the table, suspiciously sans tip, then gives me the filthiest look a strange man has ever given me.

I thought: "I've got three choices here - either I go bright red, and mutter an apology and slink out of the restauarant, thereby confirming his opinion that I'm a penny-pinching git, or I act as though the meal was disgusting and the service was crap and that I wouldn't spit on him if he was on fire and that I certainly would not leave him a tip, or I act as though I have left a tip making him wonder if he didn't see it, or if it had fallen down the side of the table or something".

I did the latter. I gave him the cheesiest smile I posess, thanked him profusely for the dinner again, and sashayed out of the restaurant.

And I chuckled all the way back to the hotel at the baffled look on his face, and the thought of him on his knees searching all around the table for the non-existent tip.

I'm going to hell for that one.