Monday 15^th August, 2011

Woke up in the middle of a sneeze and three more followed. Took that to mean I was getting a cold, which could lead to the flu, which could lead to pneumonia, which could lead to death! So I called in sick, can't be too careful. Bert answered the phone on the second ring with one of his more colourful salutations;

 -Hello, this is Greenpeas. We nuke it, you puke it!

-I can't come in.

-Why so?

-I'm sick.

-Drinks later?

-OK.

As the day progressed, I realised I was behaving more and more like a sick person. Four sneezes does not constitute an illness and yet somehow I found myself wrapped in a duvet, with a cup of tea in one hand, dry toast in the other, and a cold wet flannel by my side. Even if I were sick, I fail to see how any of these supposed remedies would in any way aid my recovery, as the wet tea cancels out the dry toast, and the warm duvet totally negates the cold flannel. And then it hit me, I had been taking part in this charade for years. The countless colds and bouts of tonsillitis I'd spent shoving dry toast down a completely raw throat, drinking fizz-less fizzy drinks, and being simultaneously hot and cold and not knowing why, and yet I never questioned it. I contemplated this most shocking revelation as I stirred the chicken soup I made earlier.

After a lengthy shower I began to feel like myself again, despite the fact that only a mere hour before, I was very nearly on the brink of almost getting the sniffles, probably. Getting ready to meet Bert, I realised half my wardrobe was in the dryer, and woe betide the girl who did not air her clothes. In Ireland, if your mother is to be believed, excess moisture is the quickest route to death. I settled on an old pair of jeans about two sizes too big, held up by a fashionable black leather belt, complete with over-sized Levis buckle, and left the apartment looking like I wandered out of the 90's.

Bert was sitting at the bar when I arrived. He didn't immediately see me as he was deep in conversation with three American tourists. I perched on a stool out of sight, but within earshot, and so still privy to the fresh slew of bullshit he dispenses in Irish pubs across the country. I noticed his accent was particularly strong, a gimmick he adopts from time to time. He is also prone to saying “bejaysus” and singing rebel songs when his stories aren't having the desired effect. The three women were enthralled as he recounted the events of that fateful and fictional day many years ago, when he and Arthur, toiling away in the heart of Dingle, produced the first pint of Guinness e'er to pass the lips of an Irish man, (his words).

I decided it was time to put an end to his little game, or “Prank the Yank” as he calls it. Having never cared for the label “racist”, he has created many different versions of “Prank the Yank”, and though the titles vary, they are no less colourful. “Outwit the Brit”, “Out-speak the Greek”, “Out-think the Chink”, and the slightly less clever “Fuck the French”, to name but a few.

I fell into bed five hours later, and spent a full twenty minutes wrestling with the Levis anvil at my waist, before getting it half off and quitting. I sent the cursory drunken texts, waited for the room to stop spinning, and wondered why my mouth tasted of hot-dog.

Sunday 14^th August, 2011

Fucking noisy birds! If they're not screaming next door, they're outside my bloody window! Went to the shop and bought marbles and spent an hour on the balcony perfecting my aim. Only managed to hit one but hopefully word will spread. I wish my Ike and Tina problem could be so easily remedied, but sadly I don't have the marbles.

I left for work half an hour early, with a Thermos this time. Sitting at the back of Bus Eireanns finest I overheard a conversation between two women, one holding a baby, the other admiring. Agnes and Betty, let’s call them.

 Agnes: Aw isn't she precious. What did ya call her?

Betty: Why-vonney.

Agnes: Ah sure that's lovely. How d'ya spell dat?

Betty: Y-V-O-N-N-E.

Black coffee through the nose is a painful thing.

I arrived at work to find the boss in the kitchen waiting for me, and Bert with an almost worried look on his face. He looks odd with no arch in his eyebrow. Boss screamed for almost fifteen minutes. She was ten minutes into the rant before I heard the word Viagra and the penny dropped. I listened carefully for the word fired but I don't think it came. Gradually the arch returned and Bert was himself again. He thinks we should wait a day or two before trying anything else. I said a week or two might be better, at which point the arch dropped again. I found a banana peel on the floor an hour later.

Too soon Bert. Too soon.

Called into the boss's office before home time, where I was informed; Newbie will be back at work tomorrow and we are to “leave him alone”. Bert decides to take this literally and suggests we lock him in the cold-room. I ask Bert to please not get me fired. He promises nothing.

I got home to find Tina sitting by my front door. She's making her domestic situation very difficult to ignore. Maybe she's here to tell me she tripped over the drum kit. I made us some coffee and we sat down to discuss her dilemma. She had two black eyes so I was trying very hard to look her in the forehead. I rather stupidly asked her what the problem was, and that’s when she said it; “I think my boyfriend is cheating on me.” In light of that ridiculous revelation I then had to figure out the most important question of all. Does Ike hit her because she's stupid, or is she stupid because Ike hits her? No polite way to ask that, so instead I asked the usual questions and offered the usual platitudes. In an attempt to assess the true level of her stupidity and in turn find a possible remedy for the situation, I told her that cheating was illegal and perhaps she should go to the police. She looked surprised but not disbelieving.

I'm beginning to see Ike's side of it.

I told her not to worry, it'll all look better in the morning, provided the swelling goes down. She returned to her little patch of wife beating heaven and I retired to bed with a clear conscience. After all there was nothing more I could do. It's not like she had anywhere else to go. Hmmm...I think I'll turn the spare room into a hat museum.

Saturday 13^th August, 2011

Bert called. Newbie's in hospital and junior is apparently still going strong. Bert reckons we should not panic, but rather view this as an opportunity to learn. Now we know, giving him seven Viagra was probably six Viagra too many. Bert's making him a hospital mix.

1.      I am a rock, by Simon and Garfunkel

2.      You raise me, up by Westlife.

3.      Beat it, by Michael Jackson.

4.      I touch myself, by Divinyls.

5.      Rocket, by Def Leppard.

6.      Can’t touch this, by MC Hammer.

7.      I'm so excited, by the Pointer Sisters.

8.      I'm still standing, by Elton John.

I arrived at St. James hospital to find Bert stealing the “wet floor” sign from the lobby. I really must find time to explain consequences to him. Accidentally called Dave “Newbie” in front of his distraught mother…I think she's starting to suspect something. I sat beside his bed for half an hour trying not to look at the carefully placed pillow on his lap, while Bert tried to work the words; hard on, tool, nuts, phallus and member, into every sentence. Conversation went something like this:

Dave's mam: I don't understand how this happened.

Bert: I know. This must be very hard on you. It's hard on all of us. But it's been the hardest on little Davy here.

Dave's mam: Of course and sure aren't ye both so good to visit him.

Bert: Ah it's no phallus.

Dave's mam: Excuse me?

Bert: I said it's no hassle.

Dave's mam: Well we both appreciate it. And I'm sure he'll be back at work on Monday.

Bert: Only if he feels up to it. We wouldn't want him stretching himself too thin. D'ya hear me Dave? Don't go nuts. Use whatever tools are at your disposal and you'll be back at work in no time, a full member of staff.

Dave's mam: Thank you. You're very good.

Bert: Penis.

Dave's mam: Pardon?

Bert: What?

Bert left for work and as penis euphemisms were exhausted I went home.

Over a light dinner, I edited the business plan I'd been working on for more than two years. It had been my plan from day one to run my own restaurant, and the document that lay before me was my ticket out. Unfortunately, with my business acumen such as it is (non-existent), I don't foresee entrepreneurial prosperity in my future. This is a serious problem as Bert's antics are growing increasingly outrageous and I have a sneaking suspicion that unemployment may be on the cards.

Retire to bed at a very early hour but sleep is impossible. Ike is playing the drums again. I can't help but notice every time he plays, Tina looks a little worse for wear. I knock on their door and suggest he play the drums elsewhere. The look of confusion on his face says it all. 
Goodbye Tina, you were a great, albeit noisy neighbour and I'll miss you.

Friday 12^th August, 2011

I was woken up at some obscene hour by loud banging next door. My neighbour is either learning to play the drums or beating the hell out of his girlfriend. I'm not sure which would piss me off more, but either way, one of them had better quieten down. Awoken again an hour later by more of the same; this is either the drum solo to rival all others, or that girl is taking a serious hammering. Twenty minutes later and there is a decidedly different sort of banging coming from next door. Aw...Ike and Tina made up.

Late for work again! Definitely no time to stop for coffee, but I can't resist the urge to check my black coffee/white coffee theory. I order; tall skinny latte with an extra shot of skimmed milk. If history has taught us anything, it is this one simple rule: the whiter the better. Ordered, served and out the door within five minutes. Finally...racism I can get on board with. Seriously late now and the boss is not amused. Amid a lengthy lecture on the importance of time keeping and general job keeping, I notice Newbie is taking in the show from behind a stack of milk crates. Half-wit doesn't realise I can see him. Bloody crates are holier than the pope.

Brief sidebar with Bert        Plan: kill Newbie.       

Longer sidebar                      Revised plan: annoy Newbie.

Better.

Bert and I spent the better part of the morning devising a plan, discussing its various merits, and predicting the possible outcome that might result upon completion of the plan. Unemployment for example and in one of Bert's more extreme plans....death. We eventually reached a compromise and Bert left to “see a man about a dog”. Ten minutes before lunch service and the plan was set in motion. Dave joined us for coffee. Black coffee for me (no waiting), coffee with cream for Bert, and a generous mix of coffee and finely ground Viagra for Newbie.

I really shouldn't give him such a “hard” time. I mean he's not that much of a “dick”. He is after all a “member” of staff. Damn, out of penis euphemisms.

Plan went down beautifully. It was almost too easy...like a paedo in a playground, fish in a barrel, piss up in a brewery. Newbie Junior caused mayhem. The boss burst into the kitchen in a blind panic, but Bert advised her to see the silver lining; more productive now Newbie can carry an extra plate. Eyes are bloodshot from crying. Bert convinced him that drinking water would help lower the sails, and after forcing six pints of water down his neck we waited once more. Wasn't long...Newbie walked out of the bathroom looking like he was pitching a tent but got caught in the rain.

It was a particularly busy service and several of the wait staff complained about being a man down, to which Bert pointed out that if anything they were a man up. Newbie was sent home in what must have been the longest and most awkward taxi ride in history, a trip made considerably more awkward by his choice of the front seat.

Thursday 11^th August, 2011

Late for work again. Greenpeas, my own patch of hell and place of work, is a small portioned, overpriced “Yaw” talking snob fest in the heart of Dublin. I recommend it to those of meagre appetite and ample means. A place to see and to be seen. Unless you're the staff, or as the customers affectionately call us “the help”. Having worked there for over two years, I have come to think of my fellow staff members as family, which is to say, I see them only when I have to, and pretend to like them when I do. The only exception is the head chef Bert. At fifty six, he has a shock of dark brown hair only recently greying at the temples, and large pale blue eyes. His sombre countenance often belies his true nature, and the subtle but permanent arch in his eyebrow is his only tell. He is an evil genius.

Despite being more than ten minutes late, I stopped for coffee. Brambles and Vines, bragging “the best cup of coffee this side of The Liffey” has recently opened on my doorstep, although considering they reside on the North side I'm not sure how much of a boast this is. In true Irish fashion, the service was leisurely, and though their lips moved at breakneck speed, all other movements were imperceptible. I stood in line for twenty minutes for coffee, black coffee. Possible racist establishment? I'll ask for white next time.

I took the 130 bus to work and was forced to stand for the entire journey as some git with a dog and a cane got on before me and took the last two seats. I made a not so subtle attempt at luring the dog away with the remains of my breakfast. The owner was understandably oblivious, the mutt was having none of it, and the other passengers didn't look too impressed either. No sense of humour.

It didn't get much funnier as the day went on, as I arrived at work thirty five minutes late. Nor did the mood improve an hour later when I sent the new guy (Dave) to the shops for “a long wait” and he was gone for two hours during lunch service. The final nail in the coffin came just before dinner service, when Newbie was sent to get 12lb's of mince. Though his return was prompt, his stupidity is now unquestionable. I sensed he did not fully understand the purpose of the restaurant as he arrived back carrying 12lb’s of Mints. Dave is no longer allowed to leave the restaurant during work hours. Very disappointing! Bert had planned an elbow grease expedition for him for tomorrow. We've decided to come up some with indoor games for him instead. Let it not be said that Bert and I are quitters. We will teach Newbie the ways of the kitchen, even if it kills him. I mean us, even if it kills us.

My sorry tale begins in Ireland’s fair capital, in the height of "summer". The month was July. The year...2011. The mood? Sombre. Thousands of years of rain may have dampened our brogues, our spirits and our Aran sweaters but it has not dampened our resolve. We seem determined to be staggered by this continuing precipitation...Can you believe this rain??

Nor has the recession improved conditions. Despite countless governmental cock ups Ireland cannot believe its bank balance. Due to a complete lack of foresight the Irish are now broke and wet. To stave off the wet weather and save money, some communities are umbrella pooling and others are renting out their hot presses to the damp and down on their luck. 

I am one of the more fortunate. I do not have to umbrella pool, or sublet my hot press. I do however have to country share with every other miserable git on this god forsaken island.                             And make no mistake...he has forsaken us.