Thank goodness I'm leaving.

Yesterday at the pub, a scruffy looking chav came in, immediately headed for my boss who was eating a burger at the bar, and asked, "I'm not barred, am I?" That should've been a sign right there. 

My boss said no, not yet. I had never seen him before. He was short, portly, with curly blonde hair and worn, torn clothing. He asked for a Stella, my recorded reply was "Wedon'thaveStella, wehaveFostersKronenbourgSanMiguelandBaltica." He grimaced at the mention of Fosters and asked for a 'Kronie'. The bar was quite empty at the time, with only a few drinkers, plus Jacob the cook and his girlfriend. 

Chav came back in after 30 minutes, asked for another Kronenbourg and dumped his coins on the bar. As I finished pouring the drink, Jacob walked by, looked at the money and said in a low voice that "he hasn't got enough." I put the drink down, walked over to the money and counted it and told him that he was short 20p. He looked confused and I told him that a pint of Kronenbourg is £3 and you only have £2.80. He still looked confused so I said that I was sorry, but I can't serve you a Kronenbourg for £2.80. (I should mention that my boss was now downstairs in the cellar.)

Chav looked offended and said, "I'll go get your money." And walked over to another customer who was reading a paper and proceeded to cajole him in his sparkling lingua: "Oi mate! You got 20p I could borrow? I'll buy you a drink later on, promise." I yelled across the room for him to leave the gentleman alone, he was obviously busy reading a paper and wouldn't like to be disturbed. I should have walked over to them, but to tell you the truth, I was kinda scared of this guy and what he'd do. The guy reading the paper eventually gave him the 20p and chav walked over to me and said, "Here's your money, you stupid American, coming over here, trying to get me barred..." and threw the coin down. I said, "Are you done insulting me? If you're going to talk to me like that, you can keep your money and leave." And I walked to the other side of the bar.

And then he says, "You won't give me my beer for fucking 20p? You fucking Chinese cunt...I'm gonna smash your face!" I was absolutely livid by this time and can't remember much of what else he said, but I kept my cool and told him I wasn't serving him so he could take his fucking money and get out. By this time my boss had emerged from the cellar and heard the 'Chinese cunt' exchange. Chav looks at Boss and says, "This girl is insulting me and won't give me my beer." Boss just laughed and told him to get out. The African guy at the bar got up at this point and escorted him out personally. Jacob overheard him outside saying he was gonna break our windows. 

Speaking of which, apparently there was a fight the night before, and Zoe, my supervisor, kicked out some guy. Who then decided to take a sign from the outside and throw it back in through the front window. Luckily no one was hurt.

What a bag of dicks. What sort of surprised me was that no one stepped in to intervene until the very end, after he had threatened me. My boss said afterward that he wasn't too worried, and that he thought I could probably take him. ??? Really? 

I'm just happy that I leave in two weeks to start my new job in London. And we all know there are no chavs in London! My life will be perfect. 

England, A Land of Contrasts.

Sunday evening, the pub was a melting pot! In one corner, we had the Christians, fresh from church, playing darts and eating cheesy chips & beans (my fave!) Walking down the bar, there were a few Germans watching the footie on the TV, and then in front of the big screen was a group of Spaniards. Playing pool, we had a group of Russians (the males, of which, do not use any sort of deodorant, at all) and a man with 2 girls, who I could only assume were prostitutes. The jury's still out on the man though--we weren't sure if he was their pimp or their john. But they were all very nice and it was a calm, yet interesting night.

I think London, and England in general is the most diverse place I have ever been to in my life. So many different faces, races and creeds, I hear foreign tongues most places I go. It's unfortunate that there are some English "Bulldogs" who are part of this England for the English campaign, because having so many different people in one area is refreshing. One time, we had a footie game on from the Albanian channel. One of the regulars, a chavvy older guy, said "Turn that foreign sound off, and turn the jukebox back on! This is an English pub and England for the English! We speak English here!" He proceeded to put some incredibly rubbish techno-pop on. English, indeed.

Anyone for pee and a threesome?

So, last Saturday night, Mike and I went to see Much Ado About Nothing at the National Theatre in London. It was a Christmas gift from his 'rents, who also took us out to an expensive French dinner. The show was incredibly funny, with some amazing performances by the lead characters. I've always found Shakespeare a bit difficult to follow, and it's been awhile since I read any (umm...high school maybe?), but I loved it and had a wonderful funny time.

Fast forward to about 4:30am Sunday morning. I am awoken by Mike saying "Mark? Mark, is that you?" I turn over and there is someone else in our bed. It's a male, wearing all black, and in the streetlight, I can see that his face is painted...blue? The intruder harrumphs drunkenly and curls into a ball at Mike's feet. Mike shakes his shoulders and continually tells him he needs to get out of his room. I'm still coming around, and can only think about what happens if he pukes? Then I worry that he's very sick so I ask him his name. "Leeeon," he slurs, and then flops over in the other direction, right next to Mike. I turn the light on. Mike picks him up under his arms, kicks him out of the room, and directs him upstairs.

Mike looks over at his floor and notices wetness. He says, "I really hope that he just knocked over a glass of water..." But there are no glasses to be found. Upon closer inspection, we come to the grim conclusion: Mike's room has been used as a toilet. Leon had seemingly been aiming for the standing lamp, and his piss had gotten all over some books, mags, my CDs, some of my shoes, my Yarn Harlot book and a very dear copy of 1602 by Neil Gaiman. We spent the better part of an hour mopping up piss with toilet paper and then mopping up some more. We moved most of the icky things into the kitchen and Mike put up a hilarious sign saying "Do Not Touch. Stuff Has Been Pissed On. (Yes, I ended with a preposition.)" Then posted a very civil note on Mark's cupboard. Then it was off to bed.

In the morning, I heard Mark yelling for Leon to read this note. And Leon was shocked and apologetic. He was truly sorry, which was good. I didn't want to have to get all passive/aggressive on his ass. Later on after we got up, Leon apologized profusely to us, and promised to pay for anything that was damaged. I told him he was lucky that he aimed where he did. Mike has fancy music equipment strewn around his room--a swing in any other direction would have had dire consequences. Mark told us later that Leon said he's prone to sleepwalking while drunk, but this is the first time that he's missed the can so utterly completely.

If we were into threesomes and golden showers, it would've been perfect. But we're not. It does make for a very good story though, so I'm thankful for that.

I am a drunken retard.

See below.

I am finally in love with Morrissey.

I don't know how it took me so long...

I used to think that M and the Smiths were just some 80's band that were sorta influential and that most people liked in a New Order/Cure sort of way.

Stop me, oh oh oh stop me........And so I drank one, it became four, and when I fell on the floor I drank more....

I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE the Smiths.

Love them.

Fin.

I should add that I'm quite drunk right now. And that I'm not enough of a Smiths/M fan to add a clever drunken comment...

Edit 2/14: Wow, my first drunken post! I wonder what this means for my blogging. Maybe there's a badge for this.

Most Racistest Comment Ever.

Yesterday, while I was at work, a very drunk old(er) white male came in. He came in with one of the regulars, Nigel, and ordered a double vodka, no ice, no nothing. My alcoholic radar senses something's not quite right here, but I serve him. He slurs, "Wow, you have very good English!" I say thanks, confused. Jacob, the 17 year old cook whispers "He thinks you're from Japan."
Then white drunk male says, "When I was young, I used to be young and attractive and could get any girl I want..." I walk away.

He sits by Nigel, who by this time has told me to not serve Martin, the v. drunk man. Sure, no problem, I say.

Martin asks for another double vodka. I ignore him. He then says, "You know, I've always been afraid of dating an Oriental woman, because I'm afraid I'll end up chopped up in a wok."

I stop. Then say, "That's racist, and I'm not serving you." And went back to ignoring him and cleaning glasses.

He then starts blathering on about how he's not racist, he just doesn't know the culture and I don't even remember what else. I couldn't believe the diarrhea that was coming out of his mouth. I told him he needed to shut it before he made an even bigger fool out of himself.

My boyfriend said I should have told him "I wouldn't get much of a meal out of your very small penis."

There have been a few other times when old white men have used the word "Oriental" and applied stereotypes. I need more comebacks! Please help me!

My Keys.

I wonder what they say about me? Clockwise from top:

My 2 gig USB stick that is currently holding about 7 or 8 albums worth of music, since my computer is about to die any day now. Suitcase keys that never get used because of TSA restrictions. My front door key, one of two. Lego Darth Vader, given to me by my man. (When I am bored, I make him do the splits.) My man's house key, now slightly defunct due to high amounts of door slammage, thus rendering the lock useless. My man's bike lock key. (This has come in handy, surprisingly.) Lego logo accompanying Darth. My side gate key. My LCD light which was very useful at Glastonbury. My lil orange Sharpie--can't get enough of 'em! And finally, front door key, the other one.

My soon-to-be-purchased bike lock's key will also join this motley band in a week's time. I joined the local bicycle collective, and by joining I get to attend the bicycle maintenance course (4 days) and I also get 20% off everything in the shop. Stoked!

Since I started working:
Fights in pub:4
Fights not involving Chavs: 1
Gypsy sightings: 4

Don't change horses in midstream.

(Or, don't switch from English to Continental in the middle of a sock project.)

I decided to teach myself Continental knitting in an effort to speed up gift making. Little did I know it would slow me down.

I knit the first man sock English. I swatched it first, got the correct gauge, and knit away. While making the man sock, I also taught myself Continental, and finished making a pair of armwarmers. Feeling a bit chuffed with my new found knowledge, I decided to knit the second man sock continental. Right hand, left hand, it's all the same, no? They're connected to the same body, it should be fine.

Yesterday I finished the cuff, and lo and behold, it was obviously thinner and shorter than the first sock's cuff. It then dawned on my that my tension for Continental is a bit tighter than my English. Fuck me. All 68 beautiful rows, gone? I considered continuing with the 2nd sock in Continental and then frogging my first sock and knitting it Continental as well.
Then I realized how stupid that was, and that I should just frog the 2nd sock and knit it English. I just...I just need a glass of wine....or two...or a bottle.

I showed this to my boyf and he couldn't tell the difference. Typical. He even suggested making them as they are and then sending them to my dad. And give my mother the satisfaction of pointing out that my handknit socks don't match in size??? NEVER!

Addendum, January 7, 2008: I wrote that almost 2 months ago and was too lazy and insecure to post it. I ended up just saying "fuckit" and knitting the rest of it in English, with the smaller cuff. Noticeable to a knitter, but probably not to a dad. Of course I haven't sent it yet. Will do. Soon...ish .

They DO exist!

Gypsies! Today! In my pub! I had no idea who they were, but the boss said not to serve them again, and to get him if they wanted more. I didn't quite understand why, and so he explained:

Gypsies are one of the few groups of people that he's afraid of. (This is coming from a guy who's 6'7".) They are ruthless and will fight to the death. They haven't been spotted at the pub since last Boxing Day, when a gang of them showed up, were able to be served (all other places had turned them away), and then the whole caravan arrived. Apparently there were no problems, they were polite and appreciative of the hospitality. And then, at the end of the night, boss-man tallied up the till and found that most of the money was gone. He checked the CCTV and there was a gypsy, reaching over and grabbing cash out of the till, looking straight at the camera. Boss brought the tape in to the police, but the fuzz said that they couldn't tell who it was from the vid. You see, the coppers won't even touch the gyppos.

There was a sighting a few weeks ago, when gypsies showed up at someone's wedding and tore tha place up. I was quite intrigued by then, especially when a gypsy family of a mum, dad and two girls showed up and went straight to the bathroom. Boss said that they go in there and have a complete wash-up, changing clothes and everything. The dad was a rotund fella, the mum bleached blonde trash with tits hangin out and the two girls wearing fake fur coats, the kind that were popular in the 80's.

But then the boss asked them to leave quietly, and they did. He told me that if you give 'em an inch, they'll take a mile and the last thing he wanted was a gypsy hangout. Welcome to England.

Edit: This post was in no way meant to be racist or anything. As you can tell, I'm clearly ignorant on the subject, what with prior knowledge coming from the movie Snatch. They shall henceforth be regarded as an oppressed peoples. A subsector of travellers, distant cousins of hobos.

The Knitting Bartender

Days at the pub can get pretty slow, so I've decided to bring my knitting along to work. My boss is very cool and knows about my knitting addiction. He teases me all the time about it, but is perplexed and interested at the same time. He hasn't told me not to do it, so I'm assuming it's fine. Besides, some of the other bartenders are doing sudoku and crosswords--no difference, really.

Today I was working on my sock and one of the regulars said "What you makin?" I said it was a sock for a Christmas present. He said nicely, "Well, you could just buy some at the shops." I said politely that, well, it wasn't handmade, and my socks had a lot of thought put into them. He said, "Fair enough." A few minutes later, his old man friend came up to order a Guinness and said "What you makin?" I said socks for a Christmas present. They're supposed to be for my dad, but I'm not sure he'd wear them--they have orange in them and my dad's more of a blue/grey man:



He said, "Oh, but they're handmade. They'd be like a treasure to me. People don't do that anymore, you know. It's like writing a letter. My missus makes Christmas pudding starting in September each year and by Christmas it's a work of art--wouldn't you much rather have that that a Ferrero Rocher?" And he looked so much like Santa, and seemed so touched by the idea of someone knitting socks, that I instantly said My God, why have I been doubting the power of my knitting? I knit a navy blue sweater for my dad last year, and my mum said that when he tried it on he had tears in his eyes. (My gran used to knit lots o' stuff, you see.)

So I think the orange will be ok...whaddayareckon?