Friday 19^th August

Accidentally keyed in the wrong numbers on the remote and ended up on Sky News. Not a bad thing as it turns out as I may be a little behind on a few issues. Apparently Londoners have been rioting this past week and I knew nothing about it. Have to start reading the newspapers I buy. The crosswords don't tell you squat, except to better your words and learn you to read good…money well spent.

From what I could gather, the rioters were on a mission. Not simply looting for lootings sake but standing up to the powers that be to reclaim their taxes, and take back what was rightfully theirs. They stood together as one, marching on London with their heads held high and their loot bags slung triumphantly over their shoulders. This was a proud moment for any Brit. Robin Hood and his merry men were back and ready to recoup the losses. Hear ye hear ye...trainers and flat screens for all! And all the mobile phones you can carry! Truly inspirational.

The rioting quickly spread to Birmingham, Manchester and Liverpool...shockingly! I’d imagine, as news of the riots aired on TV, there were a few unsympathetic Paddies with an opinion or two to share. Over the years, we Irish have developed a certain taste for tragedy, and our palate has never altered. Misfortune is like bullshit in Ireland, it's not rare but we like it. And an English misfortune? Well that's money in the bank.

Switched over to RTE news for the Irish version of events, and they were stopping people on Grafton street, asking them stupid questions like “So what do you think of the riots?” As if they were going to say “I love it. Can't get enough of the riots. Really breaks up the week.” They went on to discuss the rumour that the riots would be in Dublin before the weekend, and the indignant responses were laughable. The standard line seemed to be “Oh that would never happen over here.” Like we don't have our own breed of asshole, our own special brand of opportunistic pricks willing to loot our fair city for an i-phone 4 and a Burberry cap. And I'd imagine finding the culprits would be considerably easier in Dublin. The Guardai triumphant as Abrakebabras are raided across the city.

Current affairs quota met, I got ready for work, eagerly awaiting Newbie's tears. With twenty four hours to prepare, I could only imagine the kind of spirit breaking plan Bert had in mind. I considered taking my camera to work to document the occasion, but if caught, it might appear premeditated. On the other hand, if I did manage to capture Newbie's tear stained face on film, I could blow it up and use it to wallpaper my ceiling. When God gives you lemons…

I got stuck behind a bottle blonde in a queue for coffee, on a rant about excessive foam in her cappuccino. The rant continued for another five minutes, detailing her ever decreasing disposable income, inflation, the state of the economy, and of course, half-filled coffee cups. And then she turned the argument on me.

Blonde- I'm not going to stand for this.

Me- Good for you.

Blonde- I ordered a cup of coffee, not a cup of foam.

Me- Me too.

Blonde- Doesn't it make you furious?

Me- Some days it's all I think about.

Christ on a bitter bike, she didn't half go on! She should get a bit of Sky News into her; see what they're dealing with in London. In some areas there are children as young as ten having to loot their own dinner. It's fucking tragic!

The moment was upon us! I pulled Bert to one side and demanded to know the details, but Bert simply shook his head. There was no plan. There would be no tears and humiliation for Newbie today. I prepared to launch into a full blown tantrum, when I noticed something odd. The arch was gone. His eyebrows were parallel to his hairline. He looked almost sad.

-Jesus Bert, who died?

-My dad.

Fuuuuuuccckkkkk!!!

The funeral's in two days in the small fishing village of Baltimore, in west Cork, and he wants me to go with him. I explained, as gently as I could, that given my precarious state of employment, I didn't think time off was a possibility. Bert gave a nod of understanding and quietly exited the room. Moments later, an argument erupted in the back of the restaurant. I crept into the corridor between the kitchen and the offices, where two of the wait staff were loitering, and earwigging. All they'd managed to work out so far is that there was definitely an argument taking place, but they had no idea who it involved or what it was about. Won't be pilfering these wasters for my restaurant. Can't earwig worth shit. The shouting continued as we crept closer to the source of the racket. Crouching outside the office of Jacintha Hackett, I recognised the unmistakable voice of Bert. I caught the occasional word, but the general account of the conversation eluded me. Unless; “Bitch......time........work.......Sunday.......quit”, has some special meaning I am unaware of.

Bert came storming out of the office, slamming the door as he left. Holding me by the elbow, he dragged me into the kitchen and signalled for me to sit. He looked pretty angry so I complied, taking the stool farthest away from him. His face was all red and pinched with rage. I'd never seen this side of Bert before. He slowly massaged his temples, his knuckles kneading the ruddy skin, pulling it back with each circular motion, which gave him a sort of temporarily deranged look. He struggled to speak, repeatedly clearing his throat to get the words out.

-The bitch is giving you time off work. We leave at 7am Sunday morning. Bring rain gear.

For the next two hours, I contemplated the horrors of the impending trip, which will be the closest I've come to a holiday in years. Pretty sad considering I'll be spending two full days in the wettest region of Ireland, in a black dress and rain gear. I will begin my holiday by watching my friend's dad being lowered into a hole in the ground. And when that nightmare is over, we will all return to the house where I will be forced to make funeral small talk with strangers. In case you are unaware, funeral small talk is just regular small talk, but with a mournful twist. Think of the most tedious small talk you've ever experienced. Now imagine what it would be like, after you've stuck someone in a box, buried them in the ground and then gotten together to talk about it. Pretty grim, I can tell you.

The day grew steadily worse, as food was sent back time and time again, and dissatisfied customers had the waiters carry messages of disappointment back to the kitchen. The most popular complaints of the day were “This is under cooked”, “This is over cooked”, and “This is cold”. But the complaint of the day, and all out prize winner was “This is taking too long”, and it was this particular complaint that sent Bert over the edge.

A man, sitting alone, ordered beef medallions in a port and red wine jus, with leek and baby potatoes, but he apparently did not want to wait for his meal to be cooked and Bert thought that this was an excellent idea. To that end, he grabbed the nearest frying pan and onto it, slapped a large raw steak, surrounded it with a mix of raw leeks and potatoes, and then doused the lot with a generous splash of port and red wine. He carried it to the table himself, and presented the still bleeding meal to the offending customer.

Customer- What the hell is this?

Bert- Is there a problem, sir?

Customer- I should think so. It...It’s, well it's raw!

Bert- Oohh, you'd like it cooked? Well that takes fucking time!!

Bert left not long after that. Completely his own choice.

I got home after eleven to find a spider the size of my fist, waiting for me on the couch. Cheeky git was actually sitting in my spot. I had two options. I could either, relinquish the living room and hope to God he didn't follow me or, I could strap on a pair and deal with the situation like a grown up.

In bed by half eleven. Didn't want to watch TV anyway.