Waiting! What a wonderful and noble profession. If it wasn’t for waiters it would just be nicely dressed people sitting in fancy rooms looking at menus and chefs sitting in kitchens drinking beer, smoking pot and doing the Daily Mirror crossword. Oh yes, us waiters are the bridge from the people who want food to the people who make the food and since the first restaurants came into existence in the Islamic world waaaaay back in the year dot there have always been waiters. It’s an august and worthy career and fills those of us who wait with something more than pride or honour.

We have served at the court’s of kings & queens and brought presidents and prime ministers everything from coffee and croissants to chateaubriand avec flagons of Chateau Mouton Rothschild. We are the ghosts in the background, the people in the shadows lurking behind curtains barely breathing lest we disturb your consumption of steak a la fucking chips. We are the true heroes of the dining room, the behemoths of the restaurant world in many respects we are the unsung. Nobody is rushing to make TV programmes about us. There are no three page spreads in the Sunday papers entitled “At Home with Manuel”, any Manuel. There are no Gordon Ramsay sized waiter celebrities. And that’s fine with me. I tasted celebrity once, it tasted like shit.

Like a 1950’s housewife we put up and we shut up, we take your cheap jibes and clickety fingers. We suffer on in silence, unless we have blogs through which we make out feelings clear and clutter the world wide web up with “he didn’t tip me and I was great” type missives. But most waiters don’t blog so they have to take their pain home with them and let it fester, some drown this pent up aggression and hurt with cheap red wine and takeaway food. But this is the road to alcoholism and bad skin.

But like a 1970’s housewife we waiters are fighting back. We are burning our bras (for bras please read aprons) and shouting from atop the cutlery station “fuck you mister wandering hands and fuck you mr work the ass of me all night for no tip”. No more will we suffer in silence. No more will we put up with your childish tantrums over the firmness of your asparagus. No more will we massage you ego as you try and impress the child you call your girlfriend. No more will we metaphorically suck the sweat from your ball sack for a crumbled five pound note. No more will we contenance is silence you ridiculous demands for mash potato with risotto or for a very well done steak with no charring. NO MORE, you hear us?

And how shall the revolution be fought?

It shall be fought through mis-spelt and sweary attacks on your bill, that’s how!

From metro.co.uk

“A couple were left in shock after Mexican restaurant Cactus Joe’s signed off their meal bill with the misspelt: ‘Thank you littell f***er’

As the couple dabbed their mouths at the end of a meal and checked their receipt, they were astonished to see their two-year-old daughter described with the four-letter word. Craig and Kimberley Cartin had visited the restaurant in Halifax on its opening weekend but were frustrated by slow service and poor food, which caused hungry two-year-old Molly to complain.” Read on

Please check your bill before you leave the restaurant as insults cannot be withdrawn after that. The first blow has been struck dear readers, victory is only one incorrectly spelt insult away! Huzzah!