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".
Friday, 16 June 2006
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.
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...
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.
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.
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.
Friday, 19 May 2006
In new music we trust? (Or, radio killed the really good bands)
I love music. I listen to music all day long, every single day. Radio in the morning while I'm getting dressed; cassette tapes in the car (CDs weren't invented when my car was born); Internet radio at work; side two of the tape on the way home in the car; iPod in the gym; CD at night when I'm reading in bed.
I'm a slave to music.
In fact, sometimes I like to pretend that the music is actually the soundtrack to the movie that is my life. And I'll change the songs on myPod according to my mood and/or current situation, as one would expect in the movie. For example, if I'm feeling particularly down, I'll put on some really lonesome tunes, and imagine the camera panning out from my face as I stare disconsolately out the window, the rain lashing down outside, and the sound of a blues guitar wailing the background.
Yes, I am sad; no, my real life isn't fulfilling enough; yes, I have an over-active imagination; and, yes, I have far too much free time on my hands. Thanks for asking.
However, I've started to notice that new music is crap. And not in the good way. I like plenty of crap music, for example, Good Charlotte (they're hilarious, and they look so ridiculous that I'm convinced they're just doing it for a laugh!) and Fall Out Boy (I love the fact that they're fugly, pot bellied little things, with lamb chops on the sides of their heads, and they write great lyrics - "loaded god complex/cock it and pull it"). But I don't see why people feel justified in ridiculing my taste in music, while at the same time, jumping on the Arctic Monkeys/Dirty Pretty Things bandwagon.
Don't they realise that the only reason these bands are "famous" is because the likes of Radio 1 hypes them up so much?
Let's take a couple of prime examples - Coldplay and Franz Ferdinand. Remember when Coldplay used to be good? I know, it was a LONG time ago, but just try to remember.... The first album? Something about Parachutes..? No? Well, it was a really good album! But then it got played so much on radio that it became painful to listen to. Then, the band started believing the hype written about them (I read something about Chris Martin saying they were going to be the next U2... Why anyone would actively seek to become the next U2 is beyond me.), and now they're just another bunch of pretentious posers with shite songs that all sound the same.
Same thing with Franz Ferdinand. Their first couple of songs were quite good. But, again, they were overplayed and talked up to the point that when I did actually see them live, they seemed to expect the audience to prostrate themselves in glorious wonder before them as they wowed us with their Scottish accents and funny straight-legged trousers.
The Arctic Monkeys make me laugh. And not in a good way. In a cynical, bitter, "You think you're great, but you'll not last the year, you one-album-wonderless maggots" kind of way. They released one song (which was actually quite good) and next thing they're nominated for about ten Brit Awards, knocking Kaiser Chiefs off the charts. What's that all about? According to Radio 1, they're the best thing since sliced bread, and yet their last single sounded like somebody gently placed an out-of-tune guitar against an amp, turned it all the way up to 11, and then stood about five feet back, shouting nonsense into a microphone. What rubbish! That's one band seriously in danger of disappearing up their own arses in a vain attempt to find the sun that supposedly shines out of there.
And now all this hype about Dirty Pretty Things, who are only famous 'cause one of them used to be in The Libertines with Pete Doherty who used to shag Kate Moss and is now addicted to heroin and is in court every day, but keeps getting off 'cause he promises to be good. Or something.
As for Gnarles Barkley.... Now, I love Zane Lowe. I think he's done wonders for new music in this country, and I'd have his babies tomorrow if he asked me to. But, god help me, if I ever see him in the street I'll break out the pimp hand and give him a taste of my knuckles for introducing that bloody "Crazy" song. Of course, I'll offer to kiss him better afterwards...
Then you've got people like James Blunt; "singer/songwriters" who get overplayed so much that they pretty much destroy any hopes of real talent (such as Paddy Casey or Josh Ritter) making a breakthrough into the charts.
*sigh*
It makes me sad that my gorgeous baby niece will grow up in a world where lyrics and sound doesn't matter half as much as who the lead singer is dating, and what drugs he's currently trying to snort up his nostrils. Where radio DJs have the power to make or break a band, depending on the amount of airplay he's willing to give them (for a price, of course).
When it comes to new music, I think the Kaiser Chiefs said it best when they said "Every day I love you less and less".
<--------------------- END RANT -------------------->
"And that was the latest effort from blackie, who's slipped a further five places in this week's chart. Next up, Beyonce, with another song that sounds exactly like all her other ones! Time now is ten past eight..."
I'm a slave to music.
In fact, sometimes I like to pretend that the music is actually the soundtrack to the movie that is my life. And I'll change the songs on myPod according to my mood and/or current situation, as one would expect in the movie. For example, if I'm feeling particularly down, I'll put on some really lonesome tunes, and imagine the camera panning out from my face as I stare disconsolately out the window, the rain lashing down outside, and the sound of a blues guitar wailing the background.
Yes, I am sad; no, my real life isn't fulfilling enough; yes, I have an over-active imagination; and, yes, I have far too much free time on my hands. Thanks for asking.
However, I've started to notice that new music is crap. And not in the good way. I like plenty of crap music, for example, Good Charlotte (they're hilarious, and they look so ridiculous that I'm convinced they're just doing it for a laugh!) and Fall Out Boy (I love the fact that they're fugly, pot bellied little things, with lamb chops on the sides of their heads, and they write great lyrics - "loaded god complex/cock it and pull it"). But I don't see why people feel justified in ridiculing my taste in music, while at the same time, jumping on the Arctic Monkeys/Dirty Pretty Things bandwagon.
Don't they realise that the only reason these bands are "famous" is because the likes of Radio 1 hypes them up so much?
Let's take a couple of prime examples - Coldplay and Franz Ferdinand. Remember when Coldplay used to be good? I know, it was a LONG time ago, but just try to remember.... The first album? Something about Parachutes..? No? Well, it was a really good album! But then it got played so much on radio that it became painful to listen to. Then, the band started believing the hype written about them (I read something about Chris Martin saying they were going to be the next U2... Why anyone would actively seek to become the next U2 is beyond me.), and now they're just another bunch of pretentious posers with shite songs that all sound the same.
Same thing with Franz Ferdinand. Their first couple of songs were quite good. But, again, they were overplayed and talked up to the point that when I did actually see them live, they seemed to expect the audience to prostrate themselves in glorious wonder before them as they wowed us with their Scottish accents and funny straight-legged trousers.
The Arctic Monkeys make me laugh. And not in a good way. In a cynical, bitter, "You think you're great, but you'll not last the year, you one-album-wonderless maggots" kind of way. They released one song (which was actually quite good) and next thing they're nominated for about ten Brit Awards, knocking Kaiser Chiefs off the charts. What's that all about? According to Radio 1, they're the best thing since sliced bread, and yet their last single sounded like somebody gently placed an out-of-tune guitar against an amp, turned it all the way up to 11, and then stood about five feet back, shouting nonsense into a microphone. What rubbish! That's one band seriously in danger of disappearing up their own arses in a vain attempt to find the sun that supposedly shines out of there.
And now all this hype about Dirty Pretty Things, who are only famous 'cause one of them used to be in The Libertines with Pete Doherty who used to shag Kate Moss and is now addicted to heroin and is in court every day, but keeps getting off 'cause he promises to be good. Or something.
As for Gnarles Barkley.... Now, I love Zane Lowe. I think he's done wonders for new music in this country, and I'd have his babies tomorrow if he asked me to. But, god help me, if I ever see him in the street I'll break out the pimp hand and give him a taste of my knuckles for introducing that bloody "Crazy" song. Of course, I'll offer to kiss him better afterwards...
Then you've got people like James Blunt; "singer/songwriters" who get overplayed so much that they pretty much destroy any hopes of real talent (such as Paddy Casey or Josh Ritter) making a breakthrough into the charts.
*sigh*
It makes me sad that my gorgeous baby niece will grow up in a world where lyrics and sound doesn't matter half as much as who the lead singer is dating, and what drugs he's currently trying to snort up his nostrils. Where radio DJs have the power to make or break a band, depending on the amount of airplay he's willing to give them (for a price, of course).
When it comes to new music, I think the Kaiser Chiefs said it best when they said "Every day I love you less and less".
<--------------------- END RANT -------------------->
"And that was the latest effort from blackie, who's slipped a further five places in this week's chart. Next up, Beyonce, with another song that sounds exactly like all her other ones! Time now is ten past eight..."
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