Piss, Polish paedos and spit.
Sunday 22 April 2007
(This, I hope, will be the last time I write about paedos for a while. It's been a rough week. One that in the future will become known as The Paedophile Trilogy. Starring Jonathan King as 'The Ringer'.)
You can sum up tonight with the information that I had to write not one, but two incident reports. Yes, two. This brings my total now to about seven. I even have another one to do tomorrow before I go back to work. Fucking A!
First, doing a routine fire exit check, I open one door behind the main stage and see a bloke urinating up a wall.
"Oi!", I say.
"I'm with the cabaret, mate," he says, as if that's alright.
"You know better than this," I reply.
"They let us, mate," he says. And he's right - they do. They being the entertainment team. This is the third time I've stumbled upon a member of the cabaret having a piss up the back wall. It's also the last time. Incident Report #1.
More paedo blues. Get this: a lady comes up to me and says a man has just walked over, sat on their table, and taken a photo of her two-year old daughter. Obviously, she's not impressed, so I take him outside to 'have a word'. His wife turns up moments later. The man turns out to be Polish. "Oh," the wife says, "In his country, that's normal." I tell him that over here it's very much fucking not. I make them show me the picture on the camera and delete it. I tell him that he better fucking well not do it again. They assure me he won't.
I go back into the bar to speak to the mother but she's not impressed. She storms out to speak to him. Her husband comes along, too. Words are exchanged. It gets a bit arsey but doesn't really go nowhere so I leave it with Jabba.
About quarter of an hour later the Pole's wife spits in the face of the mother. According to Jabba, it's proper spit, too. "Gob," as he calls it, then does the kind of impression that Bob Carolgees would be thrilled with. The mother gets hysterical and ends up a crying wreck, alone, in the middle of the main bar. Jabba takes her off to calm her down. Meantime, the Pole and his missus are barred but the latter keeps coming back, to 'explain herself', but even this gets out of hand and she ends up threatening to camp outside the mother's caravan until she gets to see her.
Incident Report #2.
Worse happened outside my watch. Some utter tosser beat his wife black and blue outside their caravan. She, half-naked, turned up at the security lodge, battered near-senseless and obviously a wreck. The police are called and go down to arrest the man, and he's only fucking gone back to bed. Last I heard he was handcuffed and headed for a fun time at the cells.
The place was absolutely heaving tonight. At least a thousand people in the two main bars, and worse, from about midnight to 2pm about a hundred on the dance floor. Working the dance floor - or, really, the DJ booth - is a job I don't mind but tonight it was a cunt. A hundred people are quite hard to keep a close watch on as it is but when the wankers insist on breaking all regulations and drinking/smoking/lifting/wanking endlessly, despite warnings, it was all I could do to stop myself ripping the fire extinguisher off of the wall and hosing the fuckers with foam. People aren't allowed to smoke down there as it's a major fire hazard that near to the main stage but they think they're so fucking funny by walking around with an unlit cigarette or just hilarious when they flick their lighter on for a moment to pretend they're going to smoke, and then do not. Ha ha! Get them. Fuckwits.
Shrek looks like he might be out; I didn't work last night, but at a point where two groups of lads began fighting, despite estimates of between six and eight calls for help on the radio he preferred to hide in the other bar. This is bad enough, but then it turned out earlier tonight he'd boasted to Bilbo's missus - for some fucking unfathomable reason - that he'd had to go in their and separate the throng all by himself. I mean, how fucking stupid!?
On a separate note, I went to see Winnebago Deal at The Crypt last Thursday. They were excellent, but the support - some last-minute local effort who opened up with what they called 'freestyle grindcore' - were without a doubt the biggest pile of shit excuse of a band I've ever had the misery to witness. Utter, utter shit. I didn't get a name. Thank God.
Regarding The Crypt, I've mentioned it to many of my friends in the North, but it's hard to do such a place justice. So I took a photo.
This is a picture of one of the cubicles in the men's toilet.
That's all you need to know.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:45 am
