Above all else Black Friday is a day for amateurs, the sort of people who only go out once, maybe twice, a year. It’s a day when drinks are mixed at an alarming rate and grape and grain become entwined in a frightening stomach churning cocktail. It’s a cocktail that’s destined to return within a few hours. Idiots. But who am I to question them? Bacardi Breezer sir with a dark rum and 7up, why of course. I am just a conduit through which bad things happen and bridge if you will from sane to mental insanity.

It was with all this in mind that I faced the one very amusing moment of the day. It was the last sitting of the night and all the waiters and chums of waiters were cranky and not in the mood for suffering fools or in any way be nice to paying guests. Our souls were dark and our bellies were empty. Seriously, I was coming on 12 hours at this point with nothing but a eleven minute break and a supermarket Snickers by way of sustenance and was quite in the mood for telling someone to stuff their turkey up their fa la la la la la. If you know what I mean.

Anyhoo my last table of the evening was a lively bunch of young people, by young people I mean sub 25. Actually I should have carded half of them but was well past caring about who was of legal age for the consumption of hard liquor. They could have been shooting up through their eyelids for all I cared just as long as they didn’t ask me for anything before they drifted off into their “happy place”. They were shop staff from one of the high street chemists, not the big one but the one just under it. They were also quite hairy and this hair was everywhere, in all directions. Honestly I saw one chap, it could have been a lady but I’m plumping for chap, that pretty much ate his turkey through his hair. It was a charming hair/turkey/gravy mess of a scenario. I moved the cranberry beside him in hope of adding to the mess but the fucker never went for it.

These kids, whilst charming and jolly amusing were too cool to eat and most of them fidgeted with their soup and poked at their turkey with all the enthusiasm of eh well teenagers. These kids were soooo cool that one young woman opted not to wear anything over her pants, there she sat in what could only be described as her underpants pushing turkey round her plate whilst texting her non-work chums. It’s not like this in January let me tell you. But I digress. I was busy with the serving and the schlepping of turkey and salmon and wonderfully charred steaks when I happened upon a young woman whilst carrying three plates of turkey.

“Madam, are you having turkey this evening?”, I asked with a weariness that more than suggested my lack of care about what she had ordered.

“Turkey? Aye I’m having the turkey mate”, replied the woman.

“Well could you move yer dildo then?’, I replied casually as if customers are forever leaving their jelly dildos on the dinner table.

Obviously she did and the table erupted in  mass laughter. She did move her dildo and I got on with what I was doing.

Twenty years of waiterly service, through the troubles and everything, and I can honestly say I have never had to ask a guest to move their dildo before so I could set their food down. It’s an odd age we live in.

Have a jolly few days. See you on the other side and remember keep yer dildo off the Christmas dinner table, granny wont approve.

Tamara,
Sligo

It’s not all about the accident Tamara. These days, a fractured penis is as treatable as a common cold: a splint and a couple of Nurofen, and bish-bash-bosh, Bob’s your uncle.

No, it was a different game back then, and I’m not sure I recognise what the industry has become. There used to exist a parity between story-line and intercourse. In fact, I wrote, starred in, and directed ‘Close Encounters of the Sex Kind’, still the only adult movie ever made in which nobody has sex (I was successfully sued for flagrant false advertising in a class-action suit that cost me 13.6 million Canadian dollars).

…

For the last time, keep your God damned cat out of my tree. Or so help me, I’ll drag it down and put manners on it myself. Do you even have a license for that thing?

Cormac,
Tralee

License? For a puma? In Ireland? Are you kidding?

Best of luck getting him out of the tree. If I can’t stop him killing the local livestock, and I’m his owner, I really fear for your chances of dragging him out of a tree by his tail. Bring lots of bandages, is all I’d say.

…

My Dad says you have a chip on your shoulder because you didn’t win the part of Christy Brown in My Left Foot. Were you even in the running?

Geoff,
London

In the running? Let’s just say I was made assurances Geoff, and on the strength of those assurances did a lot of preparation for the part. For example, I learnt to paint, visited with the Brown family on numerous occasions, and spent a full year moving nothing but my right foot (I misread the script).

Day Lewis only pipped me because budgets were tight and he brought his own wheelchair.

…

I’m still waiting on those insurance details. I trusted you to send them on, because you said it was an emergency and you had to dash. That van is my family’s livelihood. People are depending on me,

Jill,
Cabra

Hi Jill, I’m going to let my lawyer Frank field this one:

Hi Jill, Frank here. It is illegal to leave the scene of an accident before the police arrive. Both you and my client have broken this law, and therefore neither one of you can legally make a claim against the other. Have a nice day.

Yeah, have a nice day Jill.

…

I don’t care what the paternity test says, he is your child. Why won’t you accept him?

Patricia,
Athenry

We’ve been through this Patricia. When the paternity test proved he wasn’t mine, I was relieved. Afterwards, when the maternity test proved he wasn’t even yours, I was more confused than anything. But when the doctor confirmed that you and I are biological twins? That was the last straw. The physical relationship is over. Happy birthday sis.

…

Is it true you invented the mobile phone?

Donna,
Glasnevin

No Donna, I invented the ‘Immobile Phone’, a communication device fashioned from a wrought iron, Blacksmith’s anvil. It never caught on, even among blacksmiths. Only one hundred were ever made, all of which were eventually melted down to make smaller, better anvils with no call-making features.

…

Your son Chad recently paid emotional tribute to his mother during his acceptance speech at the 2009 Surfing World Championship. Afterwards, holding the trophy aloft, he said, “See this Dad? Up yours, old man. Up yours.” What gives?

Joel,
Fermanagh

I believe he was referring to how I never believed in him, Joel. I thought he would amount to jack-squat, and told him so at every available opportunity throughout his life. Boy did he prove me wrong, not only with the surfing, but his PHD in Advanced Thermonuclear Physics and subsequent Nobel prize nomination.

I still have a feeling that he’ll screw it all up though, and amount to nothing. So I’ll continue to keep him at arm’s length until I see some real results. It’s unfortunate that he’s fallen ill of late, but I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to patch things up once he gets back on his feet and out of the hospice.

There are two types of people when it comes to getting dressed for the big night out, those that do, and those that don’t. Some people put the effort in and some people don’t. Now I’m not saying that those who put the effort in are always the best dressed far from it. Some people can look great wrapped in a bin bag, some look like sweetie wrappers when they have spent hundreds of pounds on getting the right outfit. I have to declare that I have to put a suit load of effort into looking good. I change 5 times and inevitably end up with what I started with. It’s the large tum tum you see. I’m never sure if I should try and conceal it or be proud of it. Saying that concealing it would be quite some feat. I would need some sort of magic shirt with cloaking capabilities. Anyway here is my sartorial advice for the big night out for what it’s worth…

Firstly it’s your night out and you should want to feel relaxed and comfortable. The little Jimmy Choo shoes may look fabulous in the box but if your trotters are going to be mashed up and sore all night is it really worth it? Is it? At the same time it is great to get dressed up for a night out. But do it for yourself not for Brain/Jill in marketing in the vein hope that they see you looking a million dollars (not Canadian dollars I should add) and fall in love with you. Wear what makes you happy, with some obvious provisos. That said you are out in public, you are in a restaurant and we have some standards that must be met. So to that end all outfits made with velour are banned as are anything with a Nike/Adidas/Reebok logo. This isn’t gym time.

Please, please, please go easy on the ol fake tan. I had a table of 10 ladies in my section last year and each one of them had fake tanned it to the max. It wasn’t pretty. The women that opted for the heat lamp approach actually glowed not in a nice healthy way but in a radiation alert sort of way. It was like they had popped their heads into a nuclear reactor before coming out. The rest of the ladies resembled the famous Terracotta Army of the First Qin Emperor. They glowed too but it was a very patchy glow. This applies equally to both sexes as I notice some chaps are at it now too.

Now we all now you are only a young as you feel. And you may feel 18 when you are in fact 53, and that’s fantastic. Saying that when I was 18 I was full of hormones, spots and teenage angst so I would really rather feel 35 than 18, well maybe not 35, 23 was good I liked being 23. But whilst you may feel 18 we all know you are 53. You cant pull off the mini skirt/cropped top look any more (sir), honest you cant. I don’t say this to be cruel, I really don’t. But please try and dress, if not your actual age, at least something from the same decade. This goes for the chaps too. Putting a gallon of your son’s gel in your hair doesn’t make you look any younger. In fact it makes you look exactly what you are, middle aged and desperate. And don’t borrow his clothes either. He will hate you and more importantly you will hate yourself in the morning.

Wearing a t-shirt that says “Rebel” on it or some other shite slogan such as “Punk” or “Crazy” when you are in fact an accountant who has never done anything remotely rebellious save for stay out late one night when you were in university doesn’t make you a rebel, a punk or crazy. It makes you look sad, and that’s sad in a “I want to weep for” you sort of way. Please don’t do it. If you want to look casual for the night just don’t wear a tie with your nice M and S shirt. You will feel better for it and more relaxed. Don’t wear whacky clothes. The ironic Hawaiian shirt in winter doesn’t impress anyone. Santa hats are okay if you must jazz things up. But those hats with mistletoe hanging off them are sad and will make you look like a letch.

So there you are feeling fantastic, looking like something from Kay’s Catalogue and you spot someone with the same outfit on. Don’t for the love of Jesus get all upset and start crying and bitchy about it. It’s no way for a man to act. Seriously though unless you had your outfit hand made by the orphaned children of a Parisian dress maker the chances are some one else will have been to Primark and picked the same outfit. Take comfort in the fact that you look better in it than they do. Try and avoid being in the toilets at the same time as them though. You know some people can be very cruel.

Then there is the office “weirdo”, the kid that likes Radiohead and doesn’t drink and always has his head in a book. He wants to look different. He wants his outfit to have people talking about him. He will say “It’s just clothes man. It doesn’t mean anything. You are all so self involved.” and other such claptrap. But really he means, “I’m not one of you. I’m different. I like French movies.” So he wears a blazer with badges on the lapel his mothers blouse, and skinny jeans and white converse shoes. And he probably spent an hour perfecting his hairs just out of bed look. He looks great, he feels great, then he spots 47 year old Gerry in accounting with the same outfit on and he sulks for the rest of the night and pulls a battered copy of an old Chomsky book and starts to read at the table. (In the hope that people notice him being weird again.) If there are one of these types at your table make him wear a party hat. There is nothing funnier than a emo kid in a party hat.

Slutty isn’t sexy. God knows I’ve tried it, what with the backless cowboy chaps and other things. The only breasts I want to see on my tables are turkey breasts and even they are covered (in cranberry jus). Put them away, save that treat for later. I don’t need to see your muffin top, your side boob, or anything else for that matter. Just cause Lindsey, Britney and Paris do it doesn’t mean you have to, put your keks on! As for the lads, if I can count the hairs on your balls your jeans are too tight and you aren’t impressing anyone. And from where I am standing it looks like you have a tennis ball down there Mr Inadequate.

It’s winter, it’s gonna be cold, chances are it’s gonna rain. Bring a coat. Wow I sound like everyone’s mother now. But seriously you and the entire population of Belfast/wherever are going to try and get a taxi home at the same time. You are going to be outside suffering the December weather for quite a while. Bring a coat, and maybe a scarf. You’ll thank me for it.

I hope you all have a great night out. I hope you all enjoy the food and get great service (or the service you deserve) from your waiter. I hope none of you cry or go mental. I hope you look and feel fantastic. I hope the office groper leaves you alone. I hope you make it home safely, and with the one you want or back to the one you love. But mostly I hope you tip like millionaires……

]]> http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/12/15/sartorial-advice-for-the-office-christmas-party/feed/ 5 http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/12/09/dear-flann-readers-mailbag-5/ http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/12/09/dear-flann-readers-mailbag-5/#comments Wed, 09 Dec 2009 23:34:12 +0000 Flann O'Coonassa http://www.coddlepot.com/?p=2063 Did you really invent the Rubik’s cube?

Lucy,
Portsmouth

Yes and no Lucy. I invented the ‘Flann Spike’ in the early 70s, a mechanical puzzle that tasked players with colour-coordinating moving squares upon a razor-sharp metal spike. What I hadn’t considered, was the puzzle’s suitability as a weapon.

News reports of the time commonly featured quotes such as “…autopsies revealed the man had been Flann Spiked in the abdomen…”, or “…detectives speculate the victim was either gored by a herd of African elephants, or felled by a single blow from a smallish Flann Spike.”

From the embers of my failed puzzle, some jerk called Erno Rubik swooped in, refined the design into a cube and never credited me. A year later he himself was Flann Spiked in a darkened alley, and ironically, only survived by hurling a Rubik’s Cube at his assailant, who was never identified or caught. As an aside, a Rubik’s Cube fired into the temple of a man my exact size and weight (for example), can knock him clean out.

…

I saw what you were doing to that horse last Friday night. What the hell is wrong with you?

Jennifer,
Roscommon

That was actually a donkey Jennifer, though I can see how you’d make that mistake. A donkey is smaller than a horse, with rounder ears.

…

You sick fuck. I nearly crashed my car when I saw what you were doing to that mule on Friday.

Tony,
Roscommon

That was actually a donkey Tony, though I can see how you’d make that mistake. A mule is the sterile offspring of a donkey and a horse. Generally, it is smaller than a horse but larger than a donkey. The ears will be rounded, but not so round as a donkey’s.

…

Please, for once and for all, clear up this urban legend about your fight with Bruce Lee? It’s bullshit, right?

Jim,
Tramore

Far from it Jim. Bruce and I had wildly differing philosophies on fighting, and things came to a head in 1969 outside a Greenwich Village café. I’ve always believed in the element of surprise, so I marched straight up to Lee and punched his wife in the face. This seemed to infuriate Bruce, and his sensitive wife. Magnanimously, I extended my hand and offered a draw, but Bruce insisted on continuing the bout.

I told him it was his funeral, and launched into a jumping, spinning, reversal roundhouse kick. As luck would have it, I pulled my groin in mid-air and landed in a wheelie bin. Needless to say Bruce rained punches into the bin until I was a bloody pulp. He then antagonised an alley cat before throwing it in on top of me and closing the lid, which I felt was excessive.

Bruce and I became firm friends after our duel, and laughed about it for years afterwards. Not his wife though. She never saw the funny side. Some people are just born sour.

…

I swear, I’d pull the mickey off you.

Sandra,
Fermanagh

Don’t you threaten me Sandra, unless I’ve misread the situation and you’re actually coming onto me, in which case work away.

…

You famously threw a half-eaten Curly Wurly at Prince Charles backstage at a Royal Variety show. Why?

Derek,
Amsterdam

To prove a point Derek. Today a Curly Wurly, tomorrow a hatchet. I sought to expose deficiencies in his security detail, and I believe I succeeded. It’s the exact same reason I stitched Nelson Mandela a loaf in 1998, set fire to Des Lynam in 1996, and fired Bett Middler through a plate glass window in 1992. And how did they all thank me? With lawsuits. There’s your modern gratitude.

Mentalist or Crier, you decide!

Following on from last week’s warnings of the apocalyptic doom that is the office christmas party I offer you today further advice in how to survive the office christmas party. Let’s start with the CHRISTMAS MENTALIST.

The mentalist is the person most likely to put you in hospital. Whilst annoying, the Christmas Crier wont stab you in the eye with a dessert fork or subject you to a spit filled tirade of abuse. The mentalist needs to be avoided at all costs. Spotting the mentalist is the key to your survival. As you sit at your table waiting for the waiter to bring you your Campari and Soda take a moment to look around the table. Don’t stop to admire the lovely dresses and new ties look for the person with the 1000 yard stare. They wont look obvious at at first but look beyond the party hat. The Christmas Mentalist wont be talking to anyone but will probably be jittery, will spend about five minutes polishing their cutlery, and wont have taken their coat off despite having been in the restaurant for 45 minutes. That’s your guy. Stay away from them. Make no eye contact. Do not buy them a drink, it’s like feeding a gremlin after midnight, don’t do it. Don’t engage them in conversation, but should you find yourself in a situation were you have to talk to them keep it brief and general. Don’t bring up any issues that are likely to set them off, for example promotions that they missed, in fact stay off all work related stuff. Stick to topics such as the weather, who will get the Christmas number one, and if they like “It’s a Wonderful Life”. The Mentalist is at their most threatening when they are on the move, much like hippos. Know where the mentalist is at all times and be somewhere else. And when the mentalist finally flips and the red crazy mist descends it’s always good to have someone between you and the crazy person chucking the knives, preferably a new person so you don’t feel too bad when they get split like a Twix bar. Avoid the mentalist at all costs. But you might want to bring some band aids with you just in case.

The CHRISTMAS CRIER can ruin your night, ruin it not with dessert forks or threats of physical violence but with tears and napkins and cry’s of “No one loves me.” Oh it’s bad so very very bad, and sad. But how do you spot the Christmas Crier? Who’s the one that you are going to spend the night in the toilet with? Identifying the Christmas Crier is so much easier than the Christmas Mentalist. They will have a track record of crying in public, most likely at your last staff outing and around any holidays of significance. You need to know these things before you sit down. Because once you sit beside the Christmas Crier you are stuck with them for the rest of the night. They will glue themselves to you like a limpet. Escape is futile and when they inevitably do break down you will be expected to go to the toilet with them and sit there for hours and rub their back and tell them everything is okay. The Christmas Crier is going to cry, you can’t stop it. But you can delay it. Keep their alcohol consumption to the minimum, dilute their wine/vodka with water. Encourage them to drink lots of water. Avoid all conversations about relationships, family, pets, weight issues, and what’s happening in the soaps. If anyone around you and the cry baby starts a conversation regarding these issues you need to jump in fast and change track quickly. Stick to dull matters such as cars, wallpaper, mobile phones and Adam Sandler movies. If you have avoided the Christmas Crier well done, now stay away. But if you have the Christmas Crier in their pre-Crying state you need to get rid of them and quick because like I already said they are going to lose it at some point. The best way is to attach and run. Move with the Christmas Crier to a another group of co-workers, start a conversation about relationships (that’s the attach) and then make your excuses and run, run Forest run, and don’t look back……

The CHRISTMAS HUMPER & THE CHRISTMAS DRUNK are quite often one in the same person. And like the Christmas Crier they will have form for both crimes. Think, who got drunk at the charity lunch quiz? Who smells of drink at 9 in the morning every morning? What happens when you get two drunks together? You get drunks humping. Look round the room for the guys and gals with their arm around the person beside them within five minutes of arrival. When the boss orders wine they will be the person that calls the waiter over and doubles it. They also arrived there an hour before everyone else. With their inhibitions lowered and senses dulled thanks to tequila and rum the Christmas Drunk starts putting the moves on. They start high but after ten rejections they will hump the bus boy or even you. You need to be strong and firm. There’s no point in telling them you are in a relationship already that’s nothing more than details/challenge to the horny drunk. Tell them that you would rather sleep with a rabid dog with herpes than put your tongue in their mouth. Do it loud, do it in front of everybody, and don’t worry about their feelings, the person you work with is essentially dead and has been replaced with and walking horn. That warning is enough to put them off. They are drunk so expect some sort of nasty reply. You will most likely be called frigid/gay/straight/impotent. Still better to be called names than get chlamydia or herpes from the office skank (either male or female). Oh and watch for them turning into the Christmas Crier or Christmas Mentalist after. If all else fails make sure you bring condoms.

Secret Santa is a pile of cheap nasty poo. Don’t get excited, keep your expectations low and you wont be disappointed. The Office Sycophant can be a problem. They normally don’t get drunk and tend to remember everything that happens. They remember and will use it against you for another year. You can just try and avoid them but that isn’t really a viable option as they are like cockroaches and just keep showing up. The best way to deal with them is to get them drunk, take photographs and then relax. Chances are they will turn into a mentalist or crier.
You have worked hard all year and are entitled to your night out as much as the rest of the space cadets and freaks that you work with. Don’t let the bastards ruin your night. If all else fails get hammered, shag the office junior and then smash the place up……..

It’s what I used to do…..

Next Week: How to help the waiter help you enjoy your Christmas night out. (You will need to take notes)

Whilst it maybe 23 days to Christmas it’s now officially Christmas party season, can you feel it people can ya, can ya, eh eh? There is nothing better than having to go out on an all day bender with people you would normally cross the road to get away from. People you cant fucking stand because they are dull or they smell or because they grind on your tits for most of the year. Then you are expected to eat turkey and cranberry sauce with them. Not a fucking chance matey. Oh I see you, with your fake smiles, and air kissing, and the “oh you look fabulous” crap but moments later it’s back to your clique and it’s all whispering and dirty looks. You stink up my restaurant with your hypocrisy and cheap perfume/cologne.

Worse than the back biting and hate filled smiles are the sycophants and brown nosers. Manuel sees you too. They sit near the boss, normally facing them. They don’t start eating until the boss starts eating. They order water if the boss orders water. They are non-committal on whether they are enjoying their meal until the boss says whether they are enjoying their sprout and chestnut risotto (which little man arse kisser ordered too despite originally ordering the turkey but switched because the boss was having the risotto.) If the boss ain’t happy the suck-up goes into over drive, shouting and ranting and blaming the waiter. They demand everything be done to correct the problem, normally completely unreasonable demands like have the chef come down and kiss the bosses ring by way of an apology. Meanwhile whilst little man arse kisser is waiting to see the restaurant manager I am usually getting the problem sorted out and putting an end to the drama. These people are real ball busters.

And then there is the Secret Santa carry on. Tony from HR buys you a cats calendar and you got Sheila from Marketing a novelty mug which reads, “I’m a bitch.” She laughs, you mean it. Oh the fucking horror of it all. Every year we end up with bags of unwanted “novelty” presents. Miniature tool kits, key rings, Bart Simpson socks, desk top skittles, Looney Tunes ties, miniature gum ball machines the list is as endless as it is painful. And they all get abandoned, either through drunken misadventure or because the recipient is offended with their Secret Santa tat. Saying that some people cling to their present like it was given to them by one of the 3 Wise men. There they are at closing time nursing their office golf set like it was their first born child despite being so drunk they don’t even know their own name. Sad beyond words.

Then there is the Christmas crier. Awh bless them. Before the Yule Log and coffee is served there will be somebody crying their eyes out. There is one in every office at every party on every shift. They get dragged to the toilets by their co-workers, who later on will say they knew it was going to happen. There they are the four of them in one cubicle in the toilets all crying together because Tony/Jane in Sales hasn’t noticed them or made a cruel joke. The first Christmas Crier last year was clocked within two hours of Christmas Service starting. I’m running a book this year, the first Christmas Crier, how many Christmas Criers, and the ratio of male to female Christmas Criers. I love the Christmas Crier, they make me feel like a normal well balanced individual by comparison. But they aren’t the worst offenders. The Christmas Crier is the close relative of the Christmas Mentalist.

I absolutely love the Christmas Mentalist, as long as there are a number of doormen between me and the crazy bastard that is. The Christmas Mentalist, as the name suggests, loses the plot in the worst way. It’s a combination of too much drink, which they cant handle, and a whole years resentment and hate bubbling under their Three Piece Suit. What makes the Christmas Mentalist such a fun character is that it’s always the last person anyone in the office would suspect to be a grade A basket case. But we can spot them. They have a blank stare, and wear two watches and have manic hair. Their co-workers don’t see the signs because they haven’t seen him all year despite being in the same office. And that’s normally the problem. We had one guy go absolutely stark raving bonkers a year or two ago. Tables and chairs were sent across the bar, followed by glasses, bottles, and the guy that brings the office mail. Oh yes he went daft. He was “escorted” out by three doormen who he decided to take on as well. He regretted that. He did it the year before at another restaurant. Crikey he must have a few issues.

Ah I love the mentalist, especially when they set the Christmas Crier off who then sets of little man arse kisser. Office Christmas Parties are the best. They are a real leveler. The supposedly more professional the group the more they ridiculous they act. For example I had a table of school teachers last year that I had to tell off for throwing wet napkins at each other and shouting at the top of their voices. And then there was the table of lawyers that drank so much alcohol that one of the group actually shit themselves. They threatened to sue us for chucking them out, a suit that never arrived I should add. How do these people face each other again back at work? Married people trying it on with the office junior, the boss in tears, the mentalist, the super drunk, how?

So if it’s 23 days to christmas then it’s 23 days for my lovely little restaurant getting bastardised by filthy office parties. Oh the horror, oh the humanity, if it wasn’t the most lucrative four weeks of the year I’d go out on the sick until it was over. So who are you, the mentalist, the crier, the lover, or the brown noser?

(Next week: how to survive your office Christmas party) First posted on WDF 2 years ago but fuck it, I’m tired and xmas parties are always the same…ta ta

I toddled off to University 100 miles from home at seventeen, and naturally, it was a very exciting time. There was so much to see, so … many to do. There was no one to tell me I couldn’t go out looking like that. There was no one to wonder if I’d had one can of Dutch Gold too many. There was nobody to doubt that Hula Hoops truly were a food group all on their own, if I shouldn’t be more conscientious about attending my lectures, if so-and-so with the baseball hat wasn’t the kind of young gentleman I should be giving my time to. Of course I went a wee bit bonkers! It was the turn of the millennium, I was full of energy, and could finally do my own underwear shopping in peace. Life was good, and the world was wide; Eminem was on the radio, Gatecrasher Chic was in,  and we were tearing each other to shreds in the great PS1 vs N64 wars.

The reason I’m telling you all this is because I want you to realise that I do know what it’s like to be young and emotionally frilly, to be loud and obnoxious because the world has finally been revealed to you. At the same time, because I’ve been through it myself, and come out the other side with a cynical eye and a cauliflower ear, I feel well within my rights to say …

God, “new” adults are utter knobathons.

I say “new” adults because I refer here to 17-20 year olds, just about able to vote and hang out in pubs, just getting to know themselves. I don’t want to say teenagers because I’m not on about those spotty come-downs who live in people’s box rooms. New adults, fresh out of the classroom, breaking free of the tyranny of a loving home, attracted like moths to bright lights, upon which they’ll keep banging their stupid personas until some sort of identity arranges itself around them. Those “new” adults.

I was at a gig recently. I don’t consider myself a fogey -  although as I write this I am wearing slippers and two hoodies – and I was right up the front, bopping away and waving my set in the air like I just didn’t care. But right beside me were a couple of ridiculously obvious “new” adults, all thrift shop lamé and Jedward hair. That was fine, as the Jedward hair wasn’t obstructing my view. But the pair of them were spasming so enthusiastically, leaning into the people around them, bouncing on people’s toes, and playing air guitar at one another instead of paying any attention to what was going on on stage, that you couldn’t not define them as a couple of arrogant fuckbuckets. Had they gone down the back, they could have continued wanking each other’s egos to their hearts’ content – they had no more interest in the music than they had in being, like, sheep to the System – but they wouldn’t. They seemed to believe that their being “new” adults entitled them to prance about the place showing off their Individuality and Recessionista Credentials so as to dumbfound with awesome awe the rest of us plebs. But the  rest of us plebs had gone to watch the band, not to watch two hatchlings simulating oral sex on each other’s shrivelled little genitals. After being shoved around one too many times from the female, who was attempting limbo dancing in an angry crowd, I spilt my drink down her back. She didn’t notice. It was all the PVC she was wearing.

It got me thinking – was I ever that fucking annoying? And the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I’m not still that fucking annoying. I like attention more than a drill sergeant, me. Was I merely pissy because the two electrocuted muppets in our midst were flahing my limelight?

Then I remembered how much I hate those smug, Individual (TM), entitled little cunts in the VO5 army ad, and realised that I was right all along.

Go and be a big deal somewhere else, young wans! Like the bottom of a Sarlacc pit or somewhere.

I am not having been bothered to watch the useless football match last week between Ireland and France in Paris, France, if you remember, because I was say already back then that France would definitely win and therefore there was no point in staying up so late to watch it.  Anyway, I am only catch the result a couple of days later, which confirm my espectation, and so I then whipped off all my letters of condolences to my Irish friends and tell them how sorry I was that I would not be meeting up with them in South Africa where Spain will be winning the World Cup.

In the end, however, I think that Irish football fans can console themself with the fact that they will have a much better World Cup competition to look forward to next summer, from the comfort of their own homes in lovely pissing Ireland, now that all the good teams are going. Rather than be bore shitless watching a bunch of nobodies from non-league teams hoofing the optimistic balls upfield, they will now have the creative flair and inventive panache of continental wizards to admire and watch in awe of. Unless they watch England, of course, which is like watching Ireland, escept with fewer English players.

Si, there is no doubt that football as a whole is the winner from Ireland’s absence in South Africa. We must be honest to ourself and one to the another also: the World Cup can very well survive without the likes of Paul Shane, Shane Given, and John O’Shane (why are all Irish players called Shane? Escept for David Duff and David Dunn, of course, who are both called Damian) . On the other hand, the competition would suffer from a severe loss of credibility and publicity damage if there was no Genius Zidane gracing its pitches with his presence, no Papa Lizarazu holding stadiums in wrapt attention, no Roland Barthez silencing the crowds with his bald head and spectacular wife, no Didier Duchamp estracting the piss from the opposition with his ready-made tackle. If it had been me in charge of FIFA instead of the morally upright and beyond suspicion Sepp Blatty, I would have try anything within my power that I could to ensure that it was France that was going through rather than Ireland, make no mistake, whether it was being seeding the play-offs to improve the draw for France, giving them the second leg at home, hiring incompetent match officials, or bringing Paul Shane on as substitute.  Anything, ANYTHING to make sure that I am not sharing my room in Johannesburg with John Delaney.

However, Herr Blatty is above any such shenanigans. Any man who have on his CV that he was once the chairman of the Zurich Brown Shirts must by definition be a right-standing pillard of society. He would know better than to try to fix football matches. That is why what make the sport so unpredictable and therefore why so many love to gamble about it. If it was possible to predict the scores in advance, then I would be a very rich man indeed. Which I am. Spiritually.

The real big story of the week, for everyone who was not distracted by the football, was the news that seven bulls manage to escape from the Scientology cult. I am not sure if any of my readers will have heard of Scientology. Basically, it is a fake religion, like the Moomins, the Hoovers Witnesses, and the Jews, which believe that we are all from outer space and our ancestors was crash-landed on Earth and as a result lose their memory after banging their head and so have forgotten their roots and lost any notion of right and wrong and good and bad. However, we can retrieve our proper true identity by giving all our money to Ron Hubbard, who was sent down by God to redeem us and who was crucify by the Romans so that we would be saved and no longer live in sin.

No wait. That cannot be right.

Anyway, if you do the research and find out the nonsense which Scientology is saying, you are force to wonder what sort of moron would believe in it, and you will not be surprise then when I tell you that it is film stars. Peoples like John Travolta, Olivia Newton John, Marlon Brando, Yul Brynner, Charlie Chaplin, Errol Flynn, Martin Sheen, Jodie Foster, Pete Postlethwaite, Emma Thompson, and Bruce Lee. They are all film stars. People like them.

Indeed, from the news resport it appears that the bulls who escape from the cult were actually being held on a film set where Tom Cruise, who is a well-known one, was due to arrive. When they find out that he was on his way, the bulls suddenly realize that, far from participating in an innocent re-enactment of Pamplona, they are were being groomed to take part in some kind of unnatural demonic cult-sponsored video that would no doubt end up on YouTube and which would undoubtedly involve ritual humiliation such as Cruise leaping up and down on them and shouting “You call yourselves bulls? I’ve studied bulls. I know the history of bulls. Have you studied bulls?!”

The blank, lifeless eyes of a bull bully

I think any of us, in the same situation, would have decide the way the bulls did, and try to make a break for it. Sadly, as the news story is tell us, they manage only to get as far as the beach, which is a nice place in itself for a picnic and day at the beach, but for the bulls it was mean that they were cornered. They had forgot to take their trunks and buffalo wings with them. Thunce they were rounded up and taken back to the ranch, where they have no doubt already been spit roasted with Cameron Diaz and all the extras, although I think Tom Cruise is a fruitarian. That may be just a rumour, however.

I am off now to watch the brilliant Real Madrid beat the rubbish F.C. Zurich. One look at the handsome genius Cristiano Ronaldo and they will be the Zurich Brown Shorts.

Is a joke!

Wasn’t it the English patient physicist and all round massive brain, Sir Isaac Newtown that said, “To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction”? I think it was. Cheers Isaac for stating the bleeding obvious. Our chefs at work have adopted a philosophy not too dissimilar to that of Mr Newton, “To every action there is always the chance you’ll get yer melt kicked in you fat bastard”. Pithy eh. In other words if you bring a plate back to the kitchen with some simple suggestions from the customer as to what methods or ingredients could be employed to enhance their Fillet Mignon there is every chance the chefs will respond with violence. It has always been such. Stab first, engage brain second. It is the chefs way. Chefs never let reasoned argument or calm voices get in the way of a good reaction. For chefs the big picture is just the centre fold splash of Liz (23) from Surrey in their Daily Sport. If there has to be a reaction, and Newton’s fixed it so there does every time, well chefs prefer it to be huge, grand, fucking mental. No one does over the top quite like a chef.

Or some waiters now that I come to think about it. It’s true I am one for the old react first, think second philosophy. I’ve walked out during shift, threatened violence in the form of stabbings, slappings and ball tamperings. I’ve thrown things and threatened to throw things and by things I mean everything from the silverware to the occasional chair. I’ve made threats that could get a chap sent to the big house for a year or two and I’ve use language in public that would make Bernard Manning blush, if he wasn’t already as dead as the big fat dead pig he is. And all that was just last week. Christ on a bike I love a good overreaction.

And what a week it has been for overreaction enthusiasts everywhere. The football on Wednesday night managed to wake a whole country up. The mass screams of injustice and calls for revolution haven’t been heard on the international stage with quite the ferocity since the nasty days of apartheid. The calls for mass protests, boycotts and the hanging, drawing and quartering of not just Terry Henry but all French people was fantastically over the top. I too got caught with the whole pitched forked rabble (online that is) and took out the headlamps of two Renault Clio’s and a Megane and pooed on the doorstep of my local croissants producing boulangerie. Well I would have but it was cold and raining an I really couldn’t be arsed. Ah but the reaction was as my dear departed granny would have said, “Fucking mental”. And it went on for days, the over reaction. It eventually culminated in Roy Keane’s death stare and press conference etiquette lesson. I heart Roy Keane, I really do but fuck sake fella chill out. You cant be getting on like a slapped arse just cause some chap’s phone went off whilst you were not answering questions about Ipswich! It could have been his mam asking him to pop round, FFS!

But my favourite overreaction from last week was from a waiter. Bless. He was so enraged that he had been stiffed out of his tip, an action that can garner quite a reaction let me tell you, he got the couple responsible arrested. HA! How’s that for huffing, puffing, pissing your pants and overreacting?!

Ha! That’s superb overreacting right there. Sure make snarky remarks about them behind their back. Make disparaging remarks about their choice of clothing and haircuts. Hell make up rumours about their sexual preferences if that makes you feel better but have them arrested? Crikey, that’s just a tad over the top. That said I hope the judge is a fan of overreacting and sends them down for thirty years. That would be awesomely over the top.

It’s been a fun over the top week and I love a good over reaction just as much as I love a good sweeping generalisation.

People, like chefs, are bastards.

Oh and if I don’t like your comments I’ll burn your house down….heh.

]]> http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/11/24/the-joy-of-a-wonderfully-executed-overreaction/feed/ 7 http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/11/18/tennis-a-ball-game-a-mind-game-a-sex-game/ http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/11/18/tennis-a-ball-game-a-mind-game-a-sex-game/#comments Wed, 18 Nov 2009 00:01:36 +0000 Manuel Estimulo http://www.coddlepot.com/?p=1864 Everyone in the Estímulo household this week am being debating the news that lithe, musculing Majorcan Raphael Nadal is to be back leading the Spanish team in the final of the David Cup tennis tournament final against somewhere call the Czech Republic next month in December.

The Musculing Mr. Nadal: Check Out His Sexpack!

On the one hand we are thinking that this might be a good thing because with Nadal in the team there is a good chance that Spain will win the Cup, especially because the Czech Republic will be without the world number one, Roget’s Federus, who is Swiss, and also the brilliant Serb Novac Jokervac, who will be doing his day job as invisible circus hoover.  His return to form is also mean that tennis as a hole is the winner.  This past year have seen Nadal mostly struggling with injuries all the way through; injuries to his wrist, his toes, his ankle, and his hair; the last of these is a chronic ailment.  He always has to play with a bandage on his hair.

On the other hand, we are thinking that it may be a bad thing because Nadal is indigenously a Catalan, and although he have done his best to be a traitor to his race, by supporting Real Madrid, playing for the Spain national team, and so on, there is always will be a gnagging doubt at the back of our minds that he is not a true Spaniard and that secretly he is thinking to himself in Catalan. Is bad enough that he is becoming a big gay icon. God forbid that we will have to feel him gratitude!

As I am speak, everything is being done to ensure that Spain win the Davis Cup. The match is being played in Barcelona, so that the atmosphere will be not just hostile but positively unsanitary.  Also it will be played on mud on an indoor court, in the Palau St. Jaume. This is what is known as a home advantage; if you go into the home of any Catalan, you will find the floor covered in mud. I am not having been to the Czech Republic, but I have good reason to believe that they will esperience a bit of a culture shop when their plane is land on the Ramblas.   I bet pretty much that they do not have mud indoors where they come from.  We will be one rubber up on them already, whatever that mean.

I shall not be watching the match myself, but I am sure it will absolutely unmissable. As you are know, golf is more really my game, but that is not to say that I cannot appreciate the suppleties of tennis: the backhanders, the angled blob snots, the sideboard, the volley, and the overhead snatch. They are all of them strangers to me.  What certainly will be of interest to the impartisan will be to see if tennis can pull its reputation out of the fire after all the kerfuffle that has gone on since the revelations that have appear in the new book by Andre Agassi (and also apparently on Ronan Keating’s new album). Agassi has claim in his book that he was use to take crystal meth before matches, which make all his hair fall out so that he had to wear wigs in order to attract the birds, which then made nests in it and put off his opponent.  This tactic was common back then among the tennis elite, especially also Peter Sampras, who had his own hair thing going on down his shirt, where there was hiding his coach, a Japanese sniper who think the war is not finish, spare racquets, and Steffi Graf, which is where Agassi met her.   Agassi also recount in his book that while people was distracted during the changeovers with watching more better looking players changing their shirts, he was getting handjobs off the line judges, which affected his vision but not theirs. And also Jimmy Connors is a cunt.

Agassi’s book is only really confirm for most of us that there is something unseemly about grown men running around in their shorts chasing after a ball, and also ladies opening their legs and showing their class. Tennis players are also, by the nature of their game and their lifestyle living in a cocoon, where all their spare time is taken up out on the practice courts or flying between tournaments or playing tennis on the Wii, or snorting drugs. None of this is natural. Whereas golf is a grownup game played wearing proper clothes with showing no flesh and not chasing a ball but walking sensibly behind it then hitting it into the distance and walking behind it again until finally hitting it into a hole. The sensible walking is when all the major business deals, arms transactions, offshore bank accounts, assassination contracts and so on are all negotiated, none of which you can do when the people you are playing with are at the other side of the net trying to whip 14 kinds of shit out of you and run you all over the court escept where they are, the left-handed bastrads. And what is more, you will never get golf players taking drugs while they are playing. No. They are always much higher up the chain.

With most of my readers being English and/or Irish (and some Scots-Welsh), I know that this tennis subject is of no interest to you at all. The last British man to win anything was a woman, Virginia Wade, and even then it was Wimberdon, which is played on a cricket pitch and is therefore fixed. Never mind, I will write next week about the football. Irish people will surely be interested in that next week, won’t they?!

Is a joke!