I love this game.
Sunday, 17 June 2007
Fucking hell, all kinds of crap came out tonight.
Things that are so massive that I can't possibly reveal them because they might destroy people's lives.
I will say that I found out that the two new blokes - who are on a one-month contract while we're short-staffed - are being paid significantly more than us and this has pissed me off significantly. There's also a rumour going around that they're not on a short-term lease at all; rather, they're the start of a proposed contractual buy-out of our security. To be honest, if that's true, and they keep me and the boys on staff, it's no bad thing, as our money will go up some forty per cent. But if it's anything else... fuck 'em.
Bilbo has a disciplinary tomorrow. Not sure if he's going to actually get the boot or not, but I doubt it.
Meantime, Potter, who is turning out to be a total fucking fruitcake - yesterday, Jabba caught him banging his head against a sign and saying, "I must do better" over and over (what!?) - came walking down to the main gates about eleven pm tonight. Jabba, Bilbo and myself were there.
"You alright mate?" I said, as he looked a bit off.
"Nah," he replied, "I've gone numb down my left-hand side. It's something to do with my migraines."
Hell-o.
"You sure you didn't just lean against a wall too long?" I ask.
"No, I get it all the time," he says.
"Why don't you take the rest of the night off mate?" Jabba suggests.
"No, I'm alright."
"No, really. Don't worry about it..."
And then suddenly little old, wet-behind-the-ears, ten-stone Potter steps right up to Jabba, one hand, in some kind of 'beak' formation, repeatedly pointing in his face and says, "NO. I SAID I'M ALRIGHT."
I looked in Jabba's eyes and I could tell that (a) this was the last straw and (b) he was probably going to slap the fucker, and justifiably so. But because Jabba is Jabba, he did the right thing and immediately sodded off for a cigarette break. As soon as he was gone, I turned to Potter and said:
"Don't ever fucking talk like that to him again. He was only trying to help you out."
And then he reacted the same way to me, and started with this, "OK, OK..." with his hands up and shit.
"No," I said, "Don't talk to me like that, either. You do not treat the people you work with like that."
And then I bollocked him some more, and left him by himself for ten minutes or so. Eventually he came over and apologised, so I bollocked him that I wasn't the person he should be apologising too, and sent him off after Jabba. The shitty part is that Jabba has been looking after the little twat ever since he's been here and as I said above I knew this was the end of all that. He did apologise, and Jabba accepted it, but he later told me that it's now very much a case of 'fuck him', and rightly fucking so. What a prick. I keep trying to find just a glimmer of a redeeming quality but it doesn't fucking exist. Hitler was an animal lover; this guy is just the kind of wanker who couldn't be any less suited to his choice of career. With social skills like that, I give it two weeks before some punter beats the crap out of him. And I won't lose a second's sleep over it.
Later, we had to kick out some prick - who I'm almost certain is a local - and he started up with all this, "Look at all you old bastards on steroids. I'm going to go away and shave my head and then I'll come back and sort you all out."
What!?
Otherwise, on my night off last night I ended up down the Brass Monkey with some friends and my missus, and lo and fucking behold I only ended up getting involved in breaking up two bloody fights that kicked off right behind where I was sitting. The door staff? Nowhere to be seen. The manager thanked me (and my mate, who also got stuck in) but did we get a free drink? Did we fuck. Meantime, my missus bollocked me for the rest of the night. "You aren't bloody working!" she said, and she was right - I wasn't - but believe me, you can't switch the fucker off. I walk into any room now and I'm immediately checking out the people inside to see who might kick off and who looks like they can handle themselves. And while I won't cross a crowded room to get involved in a knife-fight between two pikeys, I will get involved when somebody brings the fight to me. But still, a bottle of Magners wouldn't have killed them.
posted by Sheamus @ 4:45 am
