Internal.
Sunday 24 June 2007
I got home so fucking late tonight, the sun was bloody well coming up as I walked up to my front door. But is Tony Blair on the phone, promising cigars? Is he fuck.
It's getting interesting now. I did wonder if a full house of security staff might lead to its own problems and I think it might. Tonight we reached the 'doorstaff bickering' stage, with most of the negativity being pointed at Bilbo who, to be fair, told enough outright lies tonight to make Jeffrey Archer feel like an amateur. I mean, he was telling me one thing, and then five minutes later two or three other DS would say the exact opposite happened. Quite, quite mad. I'm not sure what's going on in his head; the LAST thing you want when you're in our position is your own team (a) not trusting you and (b) thinking you're a lying cunt.
I told #1 that I want it to be officially announced that Jabba and myself are in charge of the doors (together, we cover all seven days of the week) and he agreed. This was my idea. Jabba didn't warm to the news; the problem with the guy is that he's got the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met in my life but despite being a fuck-off giant of a bloke has self-confidence issues in some areas. I told him to get over it; this is a good thing for him. People already look up to him, in more ways than just his height. I'm gonna try and sort us out some extra cash as well, although that's a bit like trying to get blood out of Dracula's cock, except not quite as exciting.
As we're unofficially in charge anyway, I can't see this being a problem with the other DS. Only Edmonson might have a bit of a private sulk over it, although mentally he's long ago lost interest. He's a good guy but I think he can't be long for this (DS) world.
Highlights tonight included an ambulance being called out for a 'very sick' 13-year old boy who turned out to be smashed out of his head on booze and also appeared to have smoked a joint. His family seemed very well-to-do as well. You've gotta love this place.
Trouble-wise, it was fairly quiet until the close. We have a fuck-off party of 83 - yes, eighty-three - boxers, kickboxers, and one twat who actually announced himself as 'in the protection business', and that his typical M.O. is to "nail people to the bar and set fire to them." Riggghhhhtttt. Second door on the left, Mr Archer.
Perhaps not to anyone's surprise, we then went on to have trouble with the hardcore pisshead owners, who again had to be separated. If some major incident doesn't happen before the end of the season - assuming, you know, I last the course - I'll eat my fucking CATs.
posted by Sheamus @ 4:30 am
