Back in the kitchen again like a fucking mook

As both Tom Moran and Stasz pointed, this movie is a woefully inept depiction of kitchen life, look, they are smiling, there's no stains on their whites, they don't have hairnets on and well...em...they're fucking smiling, it's like making a Titantic movie where the Titantic has fucking wings and turns into a grumpy santa and gives us free drugs whenever our life turns out to be a steaming pile of shite...

Fuck it, I'm such a fucking idiot, it's like you're you're trying to be nice and helpful like how you were brought up, but where does it get you. I'm back in the kitchen again like a fucking mook. In the pub I work in the landlady took over the kitchen and I stupidly/helpfully said...'I have kitchen experience', the four most dangerous words in the English language, up there with 'I like being shot' and 'Please bollick me relentlessly'. It's the usual shit, need the money, need the shifts, next thing you know, you're in an apron, holding a perforated stainless steel spoon making a face of resigned indignity and swearing under your breath (and occasionally over).

Problem is, I'm good at it, calm under pressure, work fast do everything right, I feel like Martin Blank, I don't like doing it but I'm good at it (p.s. unlike Martin Blank, I'm not riding Minnie Driver and I'm shite at hand-to-hand combat and looking cooky in a black suit and shades...as far as I know...come at me when I have a pen in my hand--which is most of the time--and we'll find out. )

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I had the worst Sunday shift ever, Sundays are the worst (=busiest) days. I got invited to a superhero party the night before, and as I'd never been to a superhero party before*, I decided to go. It was a good party all in all, but as I am getting old, every party I go to is filled with couples, but, and here's the kicker, because we're all late twenties/early thirties, they all act single till their bodybuiding Hungarian bodyfriend turns up and your like 'hey dude thanks for that strong Hungarian moonshine stuff, have you met this girl she's totally crazy...' and he's there 'yes she is my wife' or something. The only advantage with having couples all about the place like fucking rabbits is that there's normally booze leftover. Hence being late for work.

So I'm late for sunday service, the landlady's going nuts and I'm hungover and guts gurgling all day. The only highlight is working with Tom Moran, to whom I'm making funny faces and throwing faux gang signs that I've just made up (based on the greeting hand signs that young tractor drivers give back home). Apart from the staff, pubs are full of boring idiots that have no life, so any bizarre beaviour from the staff is like front page news on whatever newspaper they 'print' by scrawling it on skinned beermats. So they're all like, 'oh, I hear you were late!' and I'm thinking in my silent indignant way (see above) 'you fucking pricks, you're never late for anything, because you have no fucking jobs beyond making your beerbellies and rednoses grow and checking out your supernaturally weak arms in the mirror while talking about Monty Python, Terry Pratchett and fucking Pink Floyd. It took me a like a day to come up with this nonwitty comeback to their snide shit:

Barfly: Have you found a proper job yet?
Me: No, how do you afford it?
Barfly: Afford what?
Me: The bodyguards...
Barfly: The bodyguards?
Me: The bodyguards you must have to employ to prevent from getting beaten up by almost everyone you talk to for more than five minutes...
Barfly: Bodyguards? I don't have bodyguards...
Me: Good, I've got a five-minute break...

So I'm working for about four hours straight and all I can hear above the shouting and ovens is my gurgling guts, I'm dying for a shite, like, really badly, but, surprise! there's a fucking football match on, so the cubicle is always occupied. Here's the kicker, I have to keep going to the loo to see if the cubicle is occupied to have a dump, but it always is. So the landlady's sort of looking at me and thinking 'what? Is he slacking off going to the loo every half hour or so?' and I feel like going, 'look, I'm not getting to the fucking toilet, it's blocked up with fucking football idiots'. So it goes, until the end of service (cubicle still occupied) and she's bollicking me about something and I have to go 'Look! I'm really sorry, but I am actually shitting myself right now, as we speak, I am going to have go up to your loo right now'...and I boot it up to her house loo to crap and inspect the damage, thankfully, it was a quite minimal watery one, the kecks where wrapped in like three plastic bags and chucked in the bin, then I had to work commando for like an hour. It was a whole new strata of kitchen work sucking. That's how shit kicthen work is, when crapping yourself mid-bollicking is some sort of heroic rebellious act that you tell everyone about. The younger guys I work with were all, 'why would you tell some one that', and I'm thinking well, 'it was a funny story why wouldn't I tell it?', jeez, they just don't know some of the other stuff I've done, doing a wee gravy fart is the least of it.

*What , like you're surprised? do actual pimps and hoes go to 'pimps and hoes' parties? do actual perverts like The Rocky Horror Picture Show?