Bit of a Rant Here...

Today I was supposed to turn on the tv at the pub and show some rugby game. T. double-checked with me that I knew how to turn it on and pull down the screen (they have one of those tv-projector things that, you know, projects onto a screen) before he and C. left to go look at houses (they want to buy one).
In twos and threes all afternoon a dozen blokes wandered into the pub and asked if I was going to have the rugby game on. I said yes, of course. They ordered lagers and waited outside in the sunny courtyard for 3 (when the game started).
At 2:45 I shut the blinds and turned onto the telly. It was a rugby game. Three dudes entered and sat down.
"This isn't the right rugby game."
"oh?"
"yeah, this is the BBC, the one we want is on SkyBox." (something like satellite tv I guess, gets you more sports channels)
"Shoot, T. must have forgotten to turn it on."
"Well, you can turn it on."
"Um, no, sorry, I can't. The box is upstairs in T. and C.'s apartment and they're out."
"No, just turn it on."
"I can't, lemme see if O. (T. and C.'s son) is up there."

I went and pressed the buzzer that buzzes upstairs if one of us down in the bar needs T. or C.
No response.

"Oh, O? He's out, passed him on my way in. Just turn on the SkyBox."
"I CAN'T."
"Oh, does T. have a mobile? Call him."
"I don't have his number."
"How about the other barmaid, you know, the northern one from Leeds." Says the bloke who is Northern himself.
Emily says out loud: "J? I don't have her number." Inside: "Jesus, she's been working here for less time than I have, just because she's from your 'hood' doesn't translate to more adroitness with electronics."

So, I call S. who confirms my inability to do anything about the situation. Meanwhile, the three guys who have stayed through all of this (by this time the match has started) ask for the remote and are laboriously flipping through every single channel. I want to scream "Just because you have been fueling your alcoholism at this pub for longer than I have worked here does not mean that you know how to work the pub television!"

AAAHHHHHHH!!!

Another obnoxious customer interaction:

This cold, prim woman and her equally frigid partner ordered a large plate of stilton, cheddar, pickle, salad, and bread. Traditionally, this combination is called a "ploughman's lunch" or, in vernacular, a "ploughman's." C. happens to serve it with pita bread, I dunno why. They also don't call it "ploughman's" on the menu, again, I don't know why.
So, I serve them their meal and about 10 minutes later the woman approaches the bar and says:
"Hi, I'm sorry but the bread is pita bread. With ploughman's is usually regular bread."
At this point I have no idea what she wants, so I answer something innocuous that invites her to say more, or end her complaint there, something along the lines of "Oh really? hmm..."
She goes on to tell me that LAST week it was served with ciabatta. I offer to exchange it, and bring her some regular bread instead. She ignores my offer and repeats everything that she just said. She has still not asked for something, or given me a problem that I can fix. She hasn't even complained. All she has done was point out that a Traditional English Ploughman's Lunch Does Not Come With Pita Bread, in a nasty complain-y, pissy voice.
Was it pure xenophobia, telling the foreigner that it was Wrong, and instructing me in sacred English lore? (I am pretty sure now that she thought that I had made the food.)
Or...
I dunno. I am going to dismiss her as a jerk who won't tell me something constructive.

Which leads me to similar incidents that happened when I worked at the Nick. Customers coming up and saying things like "why don't you play any old/artsy fartsy movies here? why can't you serve cappuccinos as well as coffee? Where are the hot dogs and bonbons that they have at the other theaters?" and other such trivial nonsense that, well may not be that trivial, I as a drone can't do anything about. Don't rip MY ear off because we've stopped playing a movie that you couldn't see until now, or we don't serve a dish the way that They have for centuries.

Post post-postianism and it's affects on middle-class females ages 22 to 24

dyed my hair red. was an accident, i was aiming for warm brown. so, i now have very red hair and c. laughs and calls me "ginger." red hair is not considered to be something that you want here in the uk.
pub is going well, money is being made, i have learned how to pull the perfect pint of real ale (there isn't much skill to pulling lager).
did you notice that i called it "real ale?" yup, there's a difference between ale and "real ale." it's different the way a square and a rectangle are different. an ale is, you know, an ale and a "real ale" is a beer that has been brewed and fermented in something, then put into the cask that you pull it from and allowed to ferment again. otherwise, it's brewed in some other vessel and decanted into a keg, and then re-carbonated. this is what ususally happens in the us. and it is much fizzier than "real ale" and so pulling cask-conditioned (or "real") ale is different than keg ales.
do you feel smarter now? you should.
or at least put it into the back of your head for some night when you are playing pub trivia and they ask you why beer in england is flat.

hummmmm...
it's getting warmer but is warm and cloudy and swampy. and makes emily go "yeechhhhh."
baby is walking and mumbling and we are getting along swimmingly.

yup... that's all for now folks.

over and out.

Bogeys

Last night some dude tried to wipe a booger out of my nose for me.
S. and I had finished work early and decided to celebrate with drinks at a pub. There, I noticed a ruckus over S.'s left shoulder. It was some dude who saw the bit of my septum piercing retainer peeping out and assumed that it was a booger. He then came at my face with a cocktail napkin, swaying drunkenly and saying "waitaminnit, hol' still. I'll geddit" while I bawled "it's a piercing IT'S A PIERCING" futilely.
His friend was embarrassed and bought me a drink to make up for it.
The whole thing was pretty damn funny.

Act I, Scene 1

Act I, Scene 1.

A pub.
Emily is behind the bar, making Simon's drink. Simon, a regular, is leaning against the bar, waiting for his drink. S., a Dutch girl who works in the Pub's kitchen, enters stage left, carrying a bag of trash.


Emily: Man it's cold

Simon (to S. though he is responding to Emily's remark): Uh-huh. Perfect weather for snuggling with a Dutch girl. S, isn't there someone who is Dutch around here? {insert naughty/lecherous grin here}

S. (helpfully): A Dutch girl? I'll go and find her. (Exit stage right)


*End Scene*

Never Mind the Bollocks

When people mention the song "God Save the Queen" what pops into my head isn't the original regina-loving ditty, rather it's the Sex Pistols song "God Save the Queen." Which goes something like "God save the queen, and her fascist regime!" and then the rest of the day I sing "nooooo-oo-o-o-o-o-o-o fuu-u-u-u-uture, noooo-o-o-o-o fuuu-u-u-u-ture..." and wonder where it came from.
It took me awhile to notice that I immediately thought of the Sex Pistols instead of the original song.
I should make a movie of my life as seen from my head. It would have a fucking awesome soundtrack.