Part the First

Okay. Keith from the shop keeps going on about this "blogging" thing. So in the spirit of adventure here I am and here's my "blog". I'm going to endeavour to keep a chronicle of the stuff that happens around and about me. When I can get Keith off the work computer (he's stacking shelves now, so I'm safe).

The Bottle Shop buy for today: Blaissac Bordeaux 2000. Heady complexity and tons of fruit. £4.75
22.9.03 18:02


Stop. Rewind.

I've done this all wrong. Let me introduce myself first. Anything else is impolite.

People call me Late because I always am. I was even born late, much to my mother's disapproval. Both my parents believe strongly in punctuality. Needless to say I am a constant disappointment to them.

My real name I will not reveal. Suffice it to say that my surname is Bland, and that's the good part. I am named after my father, who in turn was named after his father, and so on with impeccable sadism over six generations of Blands. Should I ever have a son, I am going to call him John. Or Paul. Or George. Even Ringo is better than the traditional Bland name.

I got the nickname "Late" at boarding school. The head of house used to bellow "Late, Bland!" every time I tried to sneak into assembly ten minutes after the rest of the school. The moniker stuck, and suits me so well that now only my parents call me by my real name. And I don't go home much.

I am the assistant manager of an independent wine-merchant in the capital. We'll call it The Bottle Shop. This weblog is not for advertising purposes, so I won't tell you where in suburbia it is. I will give you tips on good wines for under a fiver every now and then. But just pop down to Oddbins - they generally stock everything we do.

I live in the flat above the shop. Despite this, I am persistently late for work. Fortunately, The Bottle Shop is owned by Marxist Jim. He has such an abrasive personality that his staff-turnover is phenomenally high. So when he finds employees that can deal with his sarcasm, venom and rages he tends to hold on to them. I've worked there for three years.

Keith is the other full-time employee. Keith is a geek. A nerd. A loser. I also suspect that he may be a genius. I have a lot of time for Keith.

The shop is on an arcade. The sort where greasy chip wrappers (from "Rock 'n' Sole", the local chippie) blow sadly down the empty street and the local youth hang about drinking White Lightning. Next door to The Bottle Shop is a little hairdressers' called "Curl Up And Dry". They have a thing for punning names around here. Nobody ever seems to go in there. It's run by Carol and Stan, a married couple who grow more alike as time goes on. They share the same bleached, spiky hair and look of quiet despair.

On the other side of the shop is Giannone's cafe. Run by a family of Italians. I have my suspicions that Giannone pere was a POW in the war, but I've never plucked up the courage to ask. The youngest son, Enzo, wants to be a pop star. God knows he's got the looks. Sadly, no actual singing talent to speak of. Still, that didn't stop Milli Vanilli. Enzo and I go clubbing in town sometimes. He always pulls some beautiful girl while I watch enviously from the sidelines and sip my John Smiths.

Next to the cafe is an estate agents. It's only a small branch of one of the larger companies. My friend in there is Phil. He wants to get out and work in one of the plush offices in the West End. But I get the feeling that Phil is not very good at his job. As if to compensate, Phil wears braces to work. In his mind, he is in "Wall Street" with Michael Douglas. He infuriates me by coming in to the shop and buying Jacob's Creek, which in my book is a crime that should be punishable by hanging.

That's the arcade. Strange that it should be called that - the word "arcade" conjures images of fun and enjoyment, bright lights, strange and exciting noise. But this is where my life is played out. For your entertainment and pleasure.

Enough. Introductions over.

The Bottle Shop buy for today: d'Arenberg Red Ochre 2000 (Australia). Juicy red fruit with spicy overtones. £4.99
23.9.03 17:25


The illustrious clientele

It was a busy night at The Bottle Shop. Tuesday nights often are. Maybe because the folk round here need to blot out the fact that there are still three days to go until the weekend. Like most places we have our regulars, most of whom showed up yesterday. We rarely get casual trade. Scared off by Marxist Jim's bile, people tend to go to the Threshers by the station. I suspect that's just how Marxist Jim likes it.

Phil dropped in and bought a bottle of Jacob’s Creek. I tried to tempt him with a Wolf Blass Barrel Fermented Chardonnay, but he was having none of it. Phil’s fiancee insists on a bottle of Jacob’s Creek every night. Presumably to go with her Marks & Spencer ready-made meals and rocket salad. Her name is Michelle, but insists everyone pronounce it “Mee-chelle”. She believes that Ikea is the height of sophistication. Phil has shown me their wedding list, and it is a festival of KARLSKRONA loungers, GRÖNÖ table lamps and FRAMÅT wall accessories. Whenever I mention the wedding, Phil looks vaguely terrified.

Next in was Seedy Carl. This is how everyone on the arcade refers to him, often to his face. A small weasel of a man, all tics and bloodshot eyes. He wears the same grease-spotted suit every day. I hope he changes his shirt, but all the evidence points to the contrary. Seedy Carl has the same routine every night. He comes in, avoiding eye contact, and proceeds to look at all the bottles in the New World section. He takes down those bottles he can reach and reads the label intently. If Keith has left the stepladder out, Seedy Carl will climb up so he can reach the bottles on the higher shelves. Throughout this rigmarole he makes little high-pitched “hmm-hmm” noises. The process can sometimes take upwards of an hour. Once he has finished, he buys a single can of Tennants and a Snickers bar and leaves. It’s mesmerizing. As an experiment a while back, Keith switched the “New World” and “France” signs. Seedy Carl started his ritual, but got agitated and left almost immediately without buying either beer or bar. I suffered guilt pangs about that for days.

While Seedy Carl was still doing his thing, our Professional Couple popped in. Ian and Adrienne. They are precisely what Mee-chelle aspires to be. And as such they seem totally out of place round here. Ian tells me that the area is “up and coming”. I think he was conned by a canny estate agent. Which is precisely what Phil aspires to be. I get the feeling that Ian and Adrienne secretly hate one another. They always argue over which wine to buy. Last night it was a fight over whether they get the 1999 Chateau Maris (a sensational, full-bodied French red) or the 1996 Conde de Valdemar Reserva (a lovely toasty Rioja, full of rich berry and vanilla flavour). The argument escalated to include Adrienne’s parents, the state of their new sofa and the fact that Ian hadn’t bothered to turn the heating off last night. Eventually they bought the Rioja, which was Adrienne’s choice. They always end up getting Adrienne’s choice. I could still hear them rowing as they walked down the road.

Later, a group of the local youth came in. They all seem to be called Steve. Or Stevie. Or Ste. Or Steve-O. They are careful to make sure that Marxist Jim is safely ensconced in the snug of The White Swan before they come in. They once made the mistake of trying their luck when he was behind the counter. One of the Steves asked for a bottle of sparkling perry and Marxist Jim threw a bottle of Argentinian Merlot at his head. Since that day they wait until after nine o’clock to come in and pester me for White Lightning and Lambert & Butler. Marxist Jim is into his third pint of Guinness by that point, and isn’t going anywhere.

Enzo swung by just before we closed up shop to show me his new trainers. I think he must have a second job as a loan shark, because there is no way he can afford all that designer gear on the wages he gets from the cafe. He picked up a case of Italian red that Giannone pere drinks to stave off homesickness. We give him a special discount because he gets through so much of it. Enzo has never been to Italy. None of the Giannones have ever gone back to the homeland. Keith speculates that maybe the family is on the run from the Sicilian Mafia.

So that was Tuesday night in The Bottle Shop. A hive of activity. A warm glow which attracts our regular misfits, especially now the nights are drawing in.

The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Las Campanas Crianza 1998 (Spain). A juicy, mellow, easy-drinking red. £4.99
24.9.03 14:17


Smoke gets in your eyes

Marxist Jim has just left for the day. Earlier than usual, but his ex-wife (known as The Harridan) has been harrassing him for child support again. In that situation, he either breaks things or heads off to the Swan to sink a Guinness or ten. Happily, he chose the latter course of action.

The shop is full of smoke. Marxist Jim chainsmokes unfiltered Gitanes all day, and our tired little fan does nothing to disperse the ensuing fug. He sparks up a cigarette, draws in greedily, smokes it down almost to his fingers, stubs it out, sparks up another. He's a perpetual motion machine.

As for me, I can't smoke. When I was 13 all the boys at school smoked or made out that they did. I used to carry round a packet of Benson & Hedges and at break times I'd light one up and pretend to smoke it. Then once when I was back at home for the holidays my father found a packet in amongst my things. As punishment I had to smoke them all, one after the other. Even when I was violently sick after the seventh cigarette, he still made me finish the packet. I haven't smoked since, except in the passive sense. I never did ask what my father was doing looking through my things in the first place.
24.9.03 17:38


One-woman Chronicle

My mother loathes the fact that I'm here in the metropolis, doing a job of which she disapproves in an area she dislikes with people whom she openly despises. She believes that I would be much better off "at home" in the village, and is determined that I will return. To this end, she sporadically attempts to entice me back with details of the exciting things that are happening in the parish. Little does my mother know that, while she is recounting the local intrigues, I am silently giving thanks to God, Allah, Buddha and the Lord Krishna that I've managed to escape the suffocating black hole that was my home town.

This week, I've learned that the local boutique (The Village Trader) was ram-raided. The perpetrators got away with the whole collection of authentic Mexican silver jewellery, some faux-sheepskin throws, five sets of Alessi tableware and all the aromatherapy oils. "But," as my mother says, "we know who did it. There was a gypsy lurking near Cafe Rouge last week with a suspicious air". He was obviously keen to redecorate his caravan. My mother said the word "gypsy" in the same tone she uses when she has to say "paedophile" or "Labour government".

Also making a stir in the parish are my parents' neighbours Christine and Kenneth Clancy, who are having imposing wrought iron electric gates built at the entrance of their property. Christine and Kenneth are a perfectly nice couple who struck it rich through a winning combination of canny investment and luck back in the early 90s. They moved next door to my parents and proceeded to extend the house in all directions. My mother objects to being able to see their new conservatory from her garden and has been waging a one-sided war of attrition for the last year. She strung up a washing line and hung my father's old underpants in a line to obscure the view of the Clancy's property. She left the underpants out all winter until they froze solid and resembled strange ice sculptures or pieces of salt cod. Despite this, Christine Clancy is unfailingly nice to my mother and invites her to her coffee mornings. This only seems to enrage my mother even further. "She's had her living room redecorated again," spat my mother, "and this time she's had the carpet taken up and the floorboards stripped". I think she believes that not having carpets smacks of a degenerate lifestyle. I'm glad she's never seen the inside of my flat. I don't even have a proper bed, let alone a carpet.

In other news, my father's golf handicap is improving, the War Memorial is being renovated and the local pub The Blue Cap has been taken over and is being painted pink to make it more "family friendly".

I got off the phone, breathed the Gitane-tainted air of the shop. When I crack open a bottle tonight, I'm going to make a little toast to lucky escapes. Cheers.
25.9.03 17:09


Situation Vacant

Christ Almighty.

Keith is away today. He's gone up to Llangollen to see the Doctor Who museum and has threatened to bring back a Dalek for the shop. I said we could turn it upside down and use it to hold the bin-ends. Marxist Jim said something unprintable.

So we have had Nathan all day. Nathan believes that he is black, despite all evidence to the contrary. He dresses head to foot in Nike and walks with an exaggerated lope that makes him look as if someone has replaced his knees with porridge. He ends every sentence with "y'kno wha I mean?". He has atti-tude. Nathan usually only does the weekend shift, which means he never comes into contact with Marxist Jim, who spends his Saturdays having a screaming match with his daughter Hayley and his Sundays in the snug of the Swan.

But today Nathan and Marxist Jim shared airspace. It wasn't pretty.

Marxist Jim is proud of The Bottle Shop. He insists on it being kept neat and presentable. Usually Keith deals with that side of things, being the anally-retentive type, while I deal with the customer relations aspect. Unfortunately, Keith is in North Wales and Nathan doesn't share his fastidious approach to the job. So when Marxist Jim started screaming around half past four about what a fucking pigsty the shop was I quietly set about tidying up a bit. Nathan told him to "Chill out".

These are not words you speak to Marxist Jim. Everything went horribly quiet. I swear to God, even the traffic outside stopped. Then, very calmly, Marxist Jim kicked over the Kettle Chips display. And said "Tidy it up". Nathan just stood there, mouth agape. I could see his Orbit chewing gum. Then Marxist Jim swept all the chocolate bars onto the floor. "Tidy it up". He picked a bottle of wine from the Italy section (a Prima Gusto 2002, lovely apple overtones and lively acidity) and dropped it. "Tidy it up", he said, standing in a widening pool of Pinot Grigio.

"You're a fucking headcase!" said Nathan as he sprinted out of the door.

So now we are looking for someone to fill Nathan's shifts. Otherwise it'll be me doing it. Never a dull moment on the arcade.

The Bottle Shop buy for today: Tamerici Sauvignon Bianco 2002 (Italy). Bright, flinty with a light fruit burst. £4.99
25.9.03 18:14


One man down

It's been a quiet day here on the arcade. Keith is back from the Doctor Who exhibition. We are now sporting the badges he bought us. I have one of a Cyberman. Marxist Jim’s says “Exterminate”. Which seems appropriate. Keith is hyperventilating over the news that the BBC is going to make a new series of Doctor Who in 2005. He hasn’t been this excited since Gillian Anderson was on the front cover of the Radio Times with her mouth slightly open.

Enzo dropped by this morning to collect his winnings. After Marxist Jim sacked the fourth shop assistant, Keith, Phil, Enzo and I started running a book on how long each new employee would last. Nathan surprised us all by lasting over two months – I’d thought that he’d only last a fortnight. I think the fact that he was only in at weekends definitely worked in Nathan’s favour. Enzo had bet that he’d be out after six weeks. Enzo always seems to win. Perhaps that’s how he affords all his designer gear.

Anyway, following yesterday’s contretemps, Marxist Jim has put a sign up in the window:

WANTED
Shop Assistant – Full/Part Time
Must have Previous Experience,
Good Working Knowledge of Wines
and Ability To Withstand Constant Abuse.
Enquire within.

I added the “constant abuse” part. I like to let people know what they are letting themselves in for.

I think maybe people reading this might be getting the wrong impression of Marxist Jim. You could say that underneath that carapace of vindictiveness and animal aggression there lurks the gentle soul of a poet. You could say that, but you’d be wrong. Strip away the anger, rancor and outrageous rudeness and you’re still left with a mean old sod. But let me be clear – I genuinely like the huge, sadistic bastard. He never tries to be anything other than what he is, which is a rare quality. And he considers me to be his friend. Which is a comforting thought (comforting in that I therefore know it is highly unlikely that he will beat me to a pulp in the foreseeable future).

The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Virginie Viognier, Vin de Pays d’Oc 2001 (France). Sunbursts of apricot, honey and peach – drink it while the sun’s still out. £4.99
26.9.03 15:18


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