Another Saturday....

Intro, Part I, Part II, Part III, Part V, Part VI, Part VII

It must have been him.

That cocky fucker with that bunch of drunks.

They were sat down with drinks in hand before I could refuse them. That's what I get for leaving the new supervisor on the floor while I doss in the office. Better to just get them in and out quickly instead of them making a scene.

I should have made a scene and called Pearse Street, I should always trust my instincts. I may be naive in some respects, but I have good initial judgement. And my fucking Spidey sense is tingling with this table. In particular that one wanker who seems to have nominated himself as the alpha male.

I approach the table in what I instantly realise as a potential mistake, but alpha male tactics are at play here and he's on my turf. And customer or not, when he's in the state he's in, he'll play by my rules.

"Excuse me, I'm the manager on duty here tonight and I'm afraid that while we're glad to serve you a meal, we can't offer you any more alcohol."

"Why the fuck not?"

"First of all, you've had too much already. Second of all, please do not swear at me, or my staff."

"I haven't cursed at your staff."

"I'm anticipating."

"Are you know?"

He said that with a tone that told me I might be in for something I wouldn't see coming. Instead of locking horns with him, I thanked him wished him a pleasant meal and told every member of staff that if they served any more drink to that table they'd find bits of thier pets arriving in the post for weeks to come.

I have CCTV monitors in my office and a supervisor on the floor, so I went to the office and try to get the waiters rota finalised for next week. It only takes me a few minutes and I get distracted by a text message and proceed to finger bash my mobile for a good ten minutes.

A massive pounding on the office door from a panicked and tearful looking young waiter on his first day as he takes by the hand to the gents toilets.

Oh.

My.

God.

He's only gone and left a mess in the toilets. That's putting it lightly.

As it happens one of my waiters worked as a contract cleaner before, so he not only volunteered to clean it up, but rallied up a team of helpers. Saturday nights are never usually manic in here.

Saturday afternoons though are a different matter. People insist on dining out on the terrace and when it rains, it's my fault. When they ask for a table I warn them that the forecast is for rain, they look at me like I'm thicker than pig shit and then condescend to me: "We'll risk it", only to revert to the first scenario when it starts to piss down.

Then a waiter might spill a glass of water and splash someone's handbag slightly. Next thing I know I'm being sued for damages to a cheap Penneys bag they're trying to pass off as a Jimmy Choo. That's all after they demand a free meal to make up for the "upset". The last bitch who tried that was faced with the question: "Who pays for your lunch if you and your bag are caught in a rain shower?"

Fuck it, I'm so glad I'm out of here soon, and on to a life of easy sales repping. Can't fucking wait, in the mean time though I have to check how my team of three is getting on in the chamber of crap. They've already been in there for a half an hour.

Think about that. Three people for half an hour. Six hands working non stop to clean up after this one fuckbag. That's the same as one person working for one and a half hours.

It looked as if he literally aimed his arse at the walls and smiled with contempt as he emptied himself all over the toilet walls, floor and door. Why do people behave like that? What drives a person to think that that sort of carry on is not only acceptable, but funny? I'll bet he actually laughed to himself with pride that he had gotten one up on the manager who refused to serve him and his mates any more drink.

Your table is ready, Sir.

It was everywhere. On the door handles so that you literally couldn't get in or out without getting covered in it. It was on the sink, taps and soap dispenser. He had written what I can only assume were his initials on the hand dryer, the heat from which had turned it to an impressive crust.

Unbelievably, but actually quite impressively there were foot prints in shit all around the rest room, but they stopped right inside the door leading out side, like he had just taken off his shoes to prevent the tracks being lead back to him. The animal tracking skills of David Attenborough and the rainman qualities of Columbo would have been no match for this mystery had they been called in after I went on a Grand Theft Auto style spree from the top of the building with my own arse hung over the ledge. I still knew full well who did it though.

Joke's on him.

I got his face on CCTV, pictures of the toilet and his credit card details from when he paid his share of the bill. Who's smiling now?

The fuzz should be catching up with him by the time he gets home. I'd love to see the look on his face as they turn up to arrest him. That shit eating grin of his would literally be put to work.

Anyway.

Toilets cleaned and the rest of the day off and their choice of food and drink from the menu on me for the poor souls who bravely faced the incredibly incredible and I'm sitting at the bar still pondering the depths that some people will sink to in a drunken state just to prove some sort of point.

I need a coffee and at times like this I wonder why I quit smoking. Everything seems better now though. All customers are happy, staff are playing a blinder and nobody seems aware to what went on. The atmosphere is actually a very enjoyable one, what I need now is for nothing else to go wrong.
If anyone complains about the state the toilets were in an hour ago, I'll hold my hands up and tell them what happened and hope they understand, but if some jumped up little prickface comes at me because their coffee is a half inch of foam away from being a cappuccino, I'll be carted away by the boys in white as I cackle maniacally and smear my blood soaked hands on some cunts' imitation Louis Vuitton. Just let me have my coffee and get my Zen back, then I can deal with anything.

I spoke too soon. My blood boils in an instant as I get a tap on the shoulder followed by the ever promising:

"Are you the manager?"

What does this guy want?