Welcome to the madhouse

We’re still a man down. Why does nobody want the job? I thought there was supposed to be an unemployment problem. Word must have got around about Marxist Jim’s rather idiosyncratic management style. If we don’t find somebody soon then I may have to seriously consider employing one or all of the Steves. Christ, I hope it doesn’t come to that. They’d drink us out of White Lightning and 20-20 in a matter of minutes.

I’ve been run off my feet here in The Bottle Shop. As soon as we lose a staff member, every goddamn Lambrini-swilling moron in the district suddenly develops a hankering for fine wine. On top of this, Seedy Carl seems to have gained a new personality disorder. He came in yesterday lunchtime after I’d just finished serving a customer (a hulking Cro-Magnon throwback who wouldn’t know fine wine if he walked into his bedroom one day to find a 1959 Château Lafitte orally pleasuring his wife). The fact that Seedy Carl was there in the afternoon was surprising in itself, as he normally comes in at 9:30 p.m. on the dot. He started up his usual routine – he picked up a bottle from the New World section, doing his little “hmm-hmm” noises. He read the label and then, instead of putting the bottle back on the shelf, he put it in his trouser pocket. He didn’t even try to hide what he was doing. I was so stunned at this sudden deviation from the norm that I didn’t do what I normally do to shoplifters (i.e. say “Put the fucking bottle of wine back on the shelf you gormless twat”, preferring to see how the situation would develop.

Seedy Carl picked up another bottle. Read the label. Put it in his other pocket. He then picked up a third bottle. And put it down his trousers. Another bottle – into the trousers. And another. And another. So by this point I’ve got a humming, jangling lunatic shuffling round the shop like a human bottle-bank and I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to deal with it. I tried asking nicely – “Err, Carl, can you put the wine back on the shelf please?” – but he just ignored me and stuffed a bottle of White Zinfandel down his kecks. Fortunately, at this point Keith came back from lunch. He was understandably taken aback.

Keith: Has Seedy Carl got wine bottles in his trousers?

Me: Yes.

Keith: Why?

Me: He thinks he’s an off-licence.

Keith: Wow. He should see a doctor about that.

Sarcasm is totally wasted on Keith. Between us we managed to extract all the bottles from Seedy Carl’s trousers. Which was a far from pleasant experience. He didn’t struggle, and the “hmm-hmm” noises had taken on a worryingly excited timbre. I couldn’t help but notice that he had a full-on erection. I had to wash down all the bottles with disinfectant afterwards. Jesus. Nowhere in my original job description was there written anything about digging around in the stinking trousers of a sexually-aroused care in the community weirdo.

And Hayley’s in the shop this afternoon. Fucking fuck fuck.

The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Deakin Estate Colombard Chardonnay 2002 (Australia). Crisp and citrus-scented with rounded apricot overtones. And don’t worry, the bottle’s been thoroughly disinfected. £4.49
3.10.03 13:58


It is around this time on a Friday that my thoughts turn murderous.

Hayley. She’s here. She’s staring at me right now. Jesus. Why can’t Marxist Jim do some proper parenting and send the little Jezebel to boarding school?

The Harridan lets Hayley dress however she likes. So she currently looks like a mini version of Christina “Dirrrty” Aguleira. Spangly boob tube, tiny skirt, high heels and lipstick, for chrissakes. If her career as world dictator doesn’t work out, she could make good money touting for business in Kings Cross.

She threw a tantrum earlier because I wouldn’t let her change the radio station. I always keep it tuned to XFM because it is by far the least offensive station on the air and it dramatically reduces the possibility of accidentally listening to David fucking Sneddon or G-g-g-areth cocking G-g-g-ates. Hayley wanted me to tune it to Cheesy Shit FM or some such aural horror. I said no. She went crazy. Screaming. Stamping. Knocking over displays (hmmm, I wonder who she gets that from). I figured she’d give up eventually, but she kept going. She was like a demonic, pre-pubescent Duracell bunny. I caved in after five minutes and changed the radio station. Great. I toyed with the idea of throwing Hayley through the shop window. But instead I did what I always do when I’m stressed. I got a bottle of Blue Nun, took it into the back room, picked up a hammer and smashed that fucker to smithereens. Felt much better. But it didn’t feel as good as taking the aforementioned hammer to the cranium of my employer’s daughter would have done.

I don't suppose anyone could off her for me? Like in "Strangers on a Train".
3.10.03 18:06


Lie-ins are frowned upon

More news from the Village of the Damned this weekend, courtesy of my mother who called on Sunday at 9 o’clock in the morning. I tried to ignore the phone but it kept ringing non-stop for five whole minutes until I cracked and answered it. Then she had the effrontery to ask whether she’d woken me up. Not swearing at her was extremely hard. My parents don’t use “language”. They believe it to be common. Sometimes I have difficulty believing that we are related.

My mother’s unilateral feud with the Clancys continues apace. Their electric gates are now in place and are quite the talk of the village. Which incenses my mother no end. So she has informed my father that they too are going to have electric gates. And in a masterstroke of one-upmanship, they are also going to have their gravel drive tarmacked. As my mother pointed out, “It’ll mean that we’ll only be able to go on holiday once this year, but at least it will show that Clancy woman that she’s not so special after all.” My mother is also fuming about the fact that the Clancy’s horse chestnut tree is dropping conkers into her garden. So she’s been scooping them up on a spade and catapulting them back over the fence. She’s roped my father in as well, who has taken time off from shooting the squirrels with his air rifle to whack conkers into the Clancy’s garden with his five iron. I fear that one day I’m going to get a phone call telling me that Kenneth Clancy has been killed by a horse chestnut and that my father has been arrested for manslaughter.

My mother is also foaming at the mouth about the renovation of the local pub. The Blue Cap used to be a dreary, unfriendly hole of a place, the pub equivalent of a London bus driver. It squats malevolently at the end of my parent’s road. I could never get served in there as a teenager and the landlord always used to call me “Sonny Jim”. In my opinion, renovating the place is a waste of time. Burn it to the ground, blow up the smoldering remains and sow the ground with salt. But now it is apparently “family friendly”. What this means I have no idea. Presumably they have taken down the “No Children” sign. In addition to painting the outside a bubblegum pink, my mother tells me that they have also installed a jukebox and are going to have karaoke nights. She sees this as a sign that the area is “going downhill”. My mother is also suspicious of the new owner of the pub, who is a woman. She seems to think that any woman who runs a public house must be some sort of brazen hussy. “You won’t be seeing me in there!” my mother declared. I chose not to mention that the last time she set foot in a pub a pint of beer only cost tuppence ha’penny.

In other news, the War Memorial was defaced again, the day after the renovations were completed; the local primary school is having a jumble sale; and another neighbour, Rowena Neale, is expecting her fourth child, which my mother thinks is excessive -“but then again,” she said, “they are Catholics”. My father’s golf handicap is still improving. Probably thanks to all the practice he’s having with the horse chestnuts.

I went back to bed as soon as I got off the phone, but that was it – no more sleep for Late. Thanks a bundle, mother. I think it’s time I invested in an answering machine. Or maybe just threw my phone away.
6.10.03 14:52


Equal opportunities employer

Hallelujah. We have a new staff member. After nearly two weeks without a day off I was on the verge of buckling and giving the job to one of the Steves. Probably Steve-O, since he seems to have the most go-getting attitude of the bunch (as evidenced by his habit of shoplifting from the main shopping arcade and then flogging his booty in the Swan). But that would have only have been a very temporary measure, because Marxist Jim would have quickly lost his rag with the whiny little shyster and would have ended up stamping on Steve-O's head. This I know from long and painful experience.


Then yesterday I actually got an applicant for the job that wasn't a petty thief, a glue-sniffer or called Steve/Ste/Stevie/Steve-O. She was, however, of the female persuasion. Now, The Bottle Shop is a bit of a boys' club, to be honest. We stand about talking about boy's stuff. We swear. We leave the toilet seat up. We make dens out of old wine crates. So I was slightly worried about how a woman would fit into our dynamic. I was also concerned about how Marxist Jim would react. He only ever has dealings with two women - The Harridan and Hayley. Neither is a good advertisement for the female sex. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. The "interview" ran something like this:


Mysterious girl: Hi, it says in the window that you're looking for a shop assistant.


Me: Yes, it does.


Mysterious girl: I'd like to apply for the job.


Me: Oh. Ummmm...


Mysterious girl: What?


Me: You know it says "Ability to withstand constant abuse" on the sign?


Mysterious girl: Yeah.


Me: That's not a joke.


Mysterious girl: Oh. Who's going to be doing the abusing? You?


(Is she flirting with me?)


Me: No, the owner - Marxist Jim.


Mysterious girl: Riiight.


Me: He's not really a Marxist though. It's sort of an ironic thing.


(Why am I gibbering?)


Mysterious girl: I see. Well, as long as he's not really a Marxist then I'm sure I can deal with a bit of abuse.


Me: Well, excellent.


(My mouth seems to have gone dry. Maybe I'm coming down with something).


Me: So, do you have any previous experience?


She told me that she'd worked in a Victoria Wine when she was at University. She also professed a profound hatred of Blossom Hill. I hired her on the spot. My decision was entirely based on her previous experience and obvious knowledge of fine wine. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she had a terrific smile that made me come over all unnecessary.


Her name is Lucy. She'll be doing evening and weekend shifts, starting tonight. If Marxist Jim lets her live.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: La Palmeria Merlot 2001 (Chile). A plummy, fleshy, in-your-face bastard of a wine. £4.99.
7.10.03 15:57


I fear I may have made a terrible mistake

Lucy started work yesterday evening. I'm still reeling slightly.


I freely admit it - I was looking forward to working with her. First impressions had been good. Better than good, if I'm honest. She was pretty. She had a sense of humour. She seemed normal. And normality is a very scarce commodity here on the arcade. I am surrounded by dysfunctionals. Marxist Jim. Keith "Rainman" Denness. Seedy Carl. Wall Street Phil. Ian and Adrienne with their daily re-enactments of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf". Lucy would be a breath of fresh air. A touchstone. A rock. And many other metaphors of stability.


Fuck me if she isn't the strangest of the lot. Except maybe Seedy Carl.


It all seemed fine at first. She showed up on time, which is more than I ever manage. It was a fairly quiet night, so after I'd shown her the ropes (such as they are) we had time to chat. It was around this time that the alarm bells started going off. I asked Lucy where she lived, and she gave the name of a suburb of London that is fucking miles from here. I was taken aback, and asked how she had come to be in our neck of the woods. I was a bit floored by her blithe reply:


Lucy: Oh, I just tend stick a pin in a map of London and then go there. I've been in Colliers Wood today. Don't go there. It's a shithole.


Me: Errr. Why do you do that?


Lucy: Because I can.


O-kay. So. Maybe not so normal after all.  Then she had to deal with a customer. One of our irregular regulars, a middle-aged greyish balding bloke who repeatedly tells me his name, and I repeatedly forget it. He's that sort of harmless but instantly forgettable chap. He dithers around the shop for a bit, obviously clueless as to what to buy, then comes up to the counter holding a bottle of cheap plonk. Lucy smiles her terrific smile and says, "You don't want to buy that". Grey Bloke is understandably nonplussed.


Grey Bloke: Erm, yes I do.


Lucy: No you don't. It's shit. Do you enjoy drinking cat's piss?


Grey Bloke: What?


Lucy: Do - you - enjoy - drinking - the - urine - of - felines?


Grey Bloke: Well, no, I...


Lucy: Then stop being a cunt and put that bottle back on the shelf.


As if in a daze, he obeys.


Lucy: Now reach up. No, left a bit. Yes, that one.


He takes down a bottle of Labeye Chardonnay Viognier 2000 (vibrant, rich fruit aromas).


Lucy: Now that's a proper bottle of wine. And it's only a bit more expensive.


Grey Bloke: But I didn't really want to spend...


Lucy: You're being a cunt again. Just buy the wine.


And bugger me if he didn't buy it. He looked as stunned as I was. And throughout this whole exchange, Lucy never stopped smiling. I have a feeling that she and Marxist Jim are going to get along like a house on fire. But to give the girl her dues, she certainly knows her wine.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Bourgogne Blanc Chardonnay Jean Lafitte 2002 (France). Brimming with zippy lemon and melon flavour. And it won't induce the wrath of my potentially psychotic new colleague. £4.99
8.10.03 18:11


Blow me down with a feather

Marxist Jim met Lucy yesterday. I'd told him that I'd found someone to fill Nathan's job. I had omitted to tell him that his new employee was female.


So, Keith is stacking shelves and I'm doing a stocktake out the back. Marxist Jim is behind the counter puffing away on one of his revolting Gitanes. The shop bell goes, swiftly followed by Marxist Jim bellowing "Where the fuck do you think you're going?". I assume it's just one of the Steves, until I hear Lucy yell back, with equal power and volume, "I'm going the fuck to work, what does it look like?".


Dead silence. I'm ashamed to say I didn't run out to protect her. I figured that if Marxist Jim was going to kill Lucy then he'd have no qualms about flattening me first. Especially as I was the one who'd hired her in the first place.


Eventually, worried by the lack of shouting, I poked my head round the door of the store room. And was shocked to see Marxist Jim placidly smoking his cigarette while Lucy busied herself behind the counter. Where was the devastation? The blood? The smashed bottles? I was genuinely shaken, even more so when, just before he slouched off to the Swan, Marxist Jim took me to one side and congratulated me for having employed Lucy. Well, I say congratulated. What he actually said was, "I suppose she'll have to do. She's a **** of a lot better than most of the ****ing ****s you usually hire". Praise. From my employer. This is unprecedented. I feel like my whole world has been turned upside down.


Keith later told me that Marxist Jim and Lucy had just stared at each other. It was a battle of wills, "like," he said, "that bit in The Fellowship of the Ring where Gandalf and Saruman have their wizard's battle only without all the magic and flying about and stuff". I told him not to be such a goddamn geek and to go and price up the Lindemans bin-ends.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Cono Sur Pinot Noir 2001 (Chile). A chewy, plummy red, ideal as an aperitif. Or as a means of calming your nerves when you've been shocked to the depths of your being. £4.99
9.10.03 16:46


Conversation with myself

Me: Lucy. Oh, but she's weird. How did I not realise it when I interviewed her?


Inner voice: Because you were entranced by her smile, Late.


Me: Yeah, but -


Inner voice: And her breasts. Don't forget her breasts.


Me: Well, there is that.


Inner voice: Pert, rounded, luscious.


Me: Yessss. But she's strange.


Inner voice: So?


Me: She came into work today wearing a hat with a veil that she'd picked up in a charity shop. In Dollis Hill. Which she was visiting because she'd stuck a pin in the A to Z again.


Inner voice: Well...


Me: And yesterday she took her break and came back half an hour later covered in mud.


Inner voice: I'm sure there's a rational explanation.


Me: She'd been to the kids playground and had fallen off a swing.


Inner voice: Ah.


Me: She'd tried to go all the way over the top.


Inner voice: We've never managed to do that.


Me: I know. Maybe if we got enough speed up... don't change the subject.
10.10.03 15:32


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