On Sunday the week before last, Scott and I go to Marks & Spencer, because we’ve been given £50 worth of vouchers each and we have to spend them in there somehow. Now most people might choose to buy food at M&S because apparently the food is really good there (I wouldn’t know), but I think it’s a waste spending my money on something that a) will be gone in 10 minutes and b) will increase my paranoia and self loathing after I’ve swallowed it anyway. So I go there and my aim is to get something that will last forever, an eternal item, with the added criterion that it will not make me fat.
So two hours later, in the Marks & Spencer menswear department and having tried on every baggy jumper, pair of oversized khaki shorts and ill-fitting chinos, I realize this is not a shop made for me, not with the smallest waist size they do being 32 – 30 fucking 2 – so I leave and decide to come back when I’m 55 and I’ve put on those additional two inches around my waist.
On Monday night last week, after the gym I meet Scott and Matty and Nicole and Mean and we go out for dinner. And we decide to go to this place called The Real Greek and when we get there, we’re told by the ridiculously-short-but-still-not-Greek maitre d’ that we’ll have to wait five minutes for a table, and we’re OK with that, we’re not unreasonable or anything. Fifteen-twenty minutes later we’re still waiting, so I’m nominated by the group to go up to him and ask what the fucking story is. Well, not so much nominated as volunteer because everyone else is too chicken to say anything and I like few things more than causing a fuss to staff in public places.
So I talk to that idiot and he’s trying to tell me that a group of people is about to leave, in two minutes perhaps, and I say well we heard that one twenty minutes ago. Then I point out an empty table with five chairs (even though a couple are taken up by the coats and bags of a group of single fat girls who are sitting nearby) and I say why can’t we sit there and he’s giving me some bullshit about us being more comfortable at the other table, so I realize I’m fighting a losing battle and walk back to my group to come up with an alternate plan.
And the plan is that we’ll wait but they can forget about the fucking tip.
Much later, when the bill comes, they have added the tip on themselves (15%) so I tell the grumpy Eastern European waitress to take that off (once again I’m the one to do this, but I’m not going to pretend I don’t get infinite pleasure out of it or anything) and as soon as we’ve paid she runs up to the maitre d’ and starts bitching about us, but by that time we’re already walking out the door, never to come back again.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m short or because I have a tiny willy or because of a general inferiority complex, but I like being a twat like that.