Second prize is a set of steak knives

Mine is not a model career. People don't look at my life and think "Wow, he assistant manages a wine merchants. He jetsets off to Dorset at the drop of a hat. He has his own book of Saver bus tickets. I want to be just like him." However, in comparison to Wall-Street Phil, I am Richard Branson and Rupert Murdoch rolled into one.


You may have gleaned that the nickname "Wall-Street" is somewhat ironic, and doesn't just refer to Phil's habit of wearing red braces to work. He's been working in the same small estate agent on the parade since he left school. All attempts at advancement have met with abject failure. He is a twentysomething Estuary equivalent of Levene from 'Glengarry Glen Ross'. I have images of his boss screaming "Put that coffee down! Coffee is for closers!" at him, day in, day out.


Phil is under no illusions. He knows he is bad at his job. "I'm just not a closer," he'll sigh. I've suggested that he try a different career, one that plays to his strengths (whatever they may be. He surely must have some). But Phil won't hear of it. "I've always wanted to be an estate agent," he'll explain, "ever since I was a little boy." The fact that someone should ever want to get into real estate is incomprehensible; that it should be their most cherished childhood dream boggles the mind. When the other kids were playing at being Han Solo and Luke Skywalker, Phil was pretending to sell houses for a big fat commission.


Still, a boyhood spent showing the family dog round an imaginary bungalow did nothing to alter the fact that Phil is hopeless at selling houses. Which is why I think it came as a huge surprise today to learn that he's been promoted. He came in during his lunch hour, with a big fat grin slapped across his face.


Phil: Hi there Late.


Me: You're looking pleased with yourself.


Phil: Well you are looking at the new senior salesman of your local branch of Bricks and Mortar Estate Agents.


Me: They promoted you?!


Phil: They certainly did. So I would like a bottle of your finest champagne, please.


I got down a bottle of Tattinger Comtes de Champagne. Phil looked at the price tag and blanched.


Phil: Um. I was thinking of something a bit more reasonable.


I put back the Tattinger and picked out a Perrier-Jouet.


Me: (wrapping the bottle) I have to say, I'm impressed Phil. I thought the only way you were ever going to get promoted was if your boss snuffed it.


Phil: (still beaming) He did.


It turns out that the previous senior salesman had suffered a heart attack while showing a couple of newlyweds around a two-bedroom semi ("could be an ideal starter home," mused Phil, "if you and Lucy ever decide to settle down"). I was rather shocked at how upbeat Phil was about it.


Phil: Of course, it's terribly sad and all, but he lived for his job so I'm sure it's the way he'd have wanted to go. And I've always said that when your number's up, your number's up...


Me: I don't recall you ever saying that, Phil.


Phil: Mmm, well, yeah, I may not have said it, but I've definitely always thought it.


He paid and strode off. I'm sure I detected a new, determined set to his shoulders. He looked... executive. I don't think I like this new, improved Wall-Street Phil all that much. He's definitely more Michael Douglas than Martin Sheen. Which I suppose means that Mee-chelle is his Catherine Zeta-Jones.


Nah. I don't buy it. Which is no doubt what Phil's clients will continue to say.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Argento Pinot Grigio 2003 (Argentina). A flowery apricot bouquet, underscored by pleasant nutty flavour. Though if Phil tried to sell it to you, you'd probably end up buying a bottle of Blue Nun at the local offy instead. £4.99
2.2.04 17:02


Poesy

Someone asked me recently if Lucy really is as barking as I make out. Can she really be madder than a bag of otters? Is the nickname Screw Lucy really justified?


Yes, yes and yes.


Some days it's just a low-level insanity (like her seeming ability to get by without sleeping. Or the fact that she eats dry spaghetti out of the packet. For breakfast). Then there are days like today.


Picture the scene. It's morning. I am bundled up in my duvet, halfway through a very pleasant dream about ice-skating with Bruce Forsyth and Carol Smillie (what does that signify, incidentally?). Lucy jumps on me just as I was performing a particularly tricky triple salco.


Lucy: Wakey, wakey, rise and shine/It is almost half-past nine.


Me: Mwuh? Bruce?


Lucy: Not Bruce, I'm Luce/And if you don't vamoose/All hell will break loose.


Me: Guh. Why are you talking in rhyme?


Lucy: Because I thought it was about time.


Me: Luce, please stop.


Lucy: Poppet, I can't stop it/I'm only getting started,/But I think it's time we parted./So go open up the offy/While I make us some coffee.


Inner Voice: You realise that this is going to go on all day, don't you?


And it has. She's been serving the - very bemused - customers in rhyme ("Don't be an ass/Choose the Wolf Blass"; "Are you a spaz?/Then buy a Shiraz"). The only way I can avoid being bombarded by doggerel is to end every sentence with "orange". For example:


Me: Luce, we need to order a few more cases of the Dragon Tempranillo. Orange.


Much more of this and I may have to lock her in the back room, bound and gagged. I just pray to God that she gets it out of her system soon, otherwise I may become the first victim of death by rhyme.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Kumala Merlot Pinotage 2003 (South Africa). Smooth and perfectly drinkable. And nothing could be worse/Than all this awful verse. £4.99
5.2.04 14:56


Don't do doggerel

Amazingly, I still have my sanity today despite Lucy's unremitting volleys of versification. She didn't stop all day. I would have been impressed if it hadn't been so goddamn irritating. Keith's solution to the problem was masterful - he plugged into his iPod and stacked shelves. I had no such option, so was being bombarded by shockingly ropey rhymes. I asked her to cut it out, but my pleas fell on deaf ears (and were often responded to with yet another awful rhyme if I forgot to append my request with "orange").


Marxist Jim showed up late in the afternoon, by which point I was on the verge of cracking up. He made the fatal error of speaking to Lucy first before I could warn him.


Marxist Jim: Afternoon. You all still running my business into the f***ing ground?


Lucy: We're doing the fine work for which we're so renowned.


Marxist Jim: Then why is there nobody in here buying any of my f***ing wine?


Lucy: Because the people round here are all philistine?/Or perhaps wine-drinking is on the decline?


Marxist Jim goggled at Lucy, then turned to me.


Marxist Jim: Why is she f***ing talking like that?


(Lucy gaily chimed "Don't ask Late, he's being a twat!")


Me: (teeth gritted) She's rhyming. She's been doing it all day.


("And I'll keep on doing it if I get my way!")


Marxist Jim: (whispered) Late, make her f***ing stop.


Me: (whispered) I can't. I have to keep saying "orange" so she can't say anything that rhymes. It's driving me insane.


Marxist Jim looked at me. He obviously saw that I was on the edge. And having your assistant manager go postal and smash up one's shop is not good for business. So he took me firmly by the shoulder.


Marxist Jim: Get your coat, Late. You're coming to the pub. And you - (he turns to Lucy) if I hear just one f***ing rhyme out of you, just one tiny half-rhyme, then there will be f***ing bloodshed. F***ing orange.


So last night I ended up in the Swan with Marxist Jim. Naturally, the initial topic of conversation was Lucy. I let off some steam about how annoying she'd been while we sank a couple of pints. After I'd ranted myself out, a short silence descended. I sighed. He sighed.


Marxist Jim: You should have stuck to Jim's First Rule of Relationships.


Me: I know, I know. Never go out with a woman who's crazier than you.


Marxist Jim: F***ing right.


Another silence. Sip, sip, sip go the pints.


Marxist Jim: You're happy though, right?


Me: Mmmmf.


Marxist Jim: I mean, it's obvious you f***ing love her.


Inner Voice: Whoa whoa whoa! What in the name of sweet suffering Christ is your boss doing mentioning the L-word? We don't use the L-word. We don't even think the L-word. It's bad. It leads to bad places. Quick, have another drink of your pint.


Me: Well... I...


Inner Voice: Drink, for fuck's sake! Talk about the football! Go and have a piss! But do not, whatever you do, even consider going down this road.


Me: ...Yeah, I guess I do.


Inner Voice: Nooooooooooo! Oh this is bad, this is very very bad. You have just admitted that you L-O-V-E Lucy. You have just opened yourself up to a whole world of pain and heartache, my friend.


That little personal revelation knocked me for six somewhat, so I clammed up for a bit while Marxist Jim started sounding off about The Harridan's latest beau ("that greasy spiv c**t") and the fact that she's let Hayley go off and get her bellybuttton pierced ("I don't want any daughter of mine stuck full of f***ing holes like some motherf***ing Amazon Indian"). Another pint and I wanted my bed. The thing was, my bed would contain Lucy and this made me anxious for two reasons. One - would she still be rhyming? Two - I'd just admitted to myself that my feelings for her match the title of a very famous American sit-com starring Lucille Ball. And that made me nervous as hell. Stupid? Probably. But I was still bricking it when I climbed the stairs to my flat.


Lucy was in bed, awake and reading a book. She beamed at me when I walked in.


Me: Hi. Are you still rhyming?


She left a dramatic pause, then shook her head with a grin.


Lucy: Nah. I got bored. Coming to bed?


This last said with a dip of the head and a sultry look through long eyelashes. I didn't need to be asked twice.


No more rhymes. Oh, the relief. The L-word is going to have to wait a while, though.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Esperanza Merlot 2002 (Argentina). A smooth, opulent wine with the aroma of cherries and plums, chosen in honour of The Harridan's new boyfriend who apparently "says he was in the f***ing Falklands war. He was probably the c**t who sank the f***ing Belgrano". £3.99
6.2.04 17:56


Roses are red, violence is blue

It's that time of year again. You can't escape it. The trappings are everywhere. Hearts. Roses. Stuffed toys holding hearts and roses. Yes, it's nearly Valentine's Day. Oh God. The mere thought of it sends a cold shiver of panic down my spine.


Now you might think that, given my recent admission of tender feelings towards the delectable Screw Lucy, I would be looking forward to Valentine's Day. You might think that. But if you did think that you would be wrong. Oh, so very wrong. Wronger, in fact, than you've probably ever been in your life.


Valentine's Day has always been my least favourite feast day. Too much opportunity for humiliation (too often the question "How many Valentine's cards did you get, Late?" had the reply "Pick a number between nought and zero."). But it was forever tainted for me five years ago, because February 14th 1999 was the fateful day that I got down on one knee and asked Nell if she would do me the honour of simultaneously destroying my world, my self-confidence and my faith in all that's good and pure (well, actually I just asked her if she'd marry me, but it boiled down to the same thing). Hence the Pavlovian reaction whenever I see red roses or special deals for romantic trips for two to Paris.


So normally, when Valentine's Day (or VD, as I like to call it) rolls around, I try and ignore it until the whole soppy, slushy, pink-tinted shooting match is over. But this year there's Lucy to think about. What if she's expecting some grand romantic gesture? What if she expects to be whisked off somewhere (women always seem to want to be "whisked off". Why is this? I suspect it's because girls are actually made from double cream and egg whites, and whisking makes them feel all fluffy). The idea made me anxious. I knew that if I did bow to pressure and take her somewhere romantic, I'd be so on edge that I'd probably end up doing something stupid like spilling wine all over her. Or proposing. I decided the only thing to do was to broach the subject with my beloved to see how the land lies.


Yesterday afternoon, Lucy and I were alone in the shop, Keith having gone to the café to get us all one of Giannone père's magnificent cappuccinos. There were no customers about. It was now or never.


Me: Ummm, Lucy?


Lucy: Yes, my sweet?


Me: It's... ah... uh... Saturday. Um. Did you... uh... want to do anything... uh... special then?


Lucy: Saturday?


Me: Um... Valentine's Day.


Lucy: Oh, yeah, now you come to mention it, I had this great idea - I want to give out love poems to the customers. You buy a bottle and get a poem. It'd be cool.


Me: Oh... yeah, sure. That sounds... er... nice.


Lucy: And don't worry, I won't be the one writing them. I got all the rhyming out of my system last week.


Me: Well that's a relief.


Inner Voice: And how! Hang on, don't get distracted.


Me: Yeah, um... apart from the poems - which I think is a really good idea, by the way - is there anything else you, ah, want to do?


(Lucy looked at me blankly)


Me: Anything, ah, romantic.


Lucy: Oh. Christ, no. I fucking hate Valentine's Day.


Me: You do?


Lucy: It's a bunch of sentimental wank designed to sell Hallmark Cards. Why, you didn't want to do something romantic did you?


Me: No. Definitely not.


Lucy: Good. I reckon we should just get up late, go to work, go to the pub, get pissed then come back and shag until we go blind. Sound okay to you, Mr Romantic?


It sounded just fine.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Goiya Merlot-Cabernet 2002 (South Africa). Full bodied and fruity with hints of chocolate and spice, and not a single trace of romance. £4.99
11.2.04 15:20


Earplugs at the ready

I have to admit, when Enzo came into the Bottle Shop a couple of weeks ago bragging that he was going to start a band I took it all with a large pinch of salt. I figured it would go precisely nowhere - like the time he decided he wanted to be a movie star. For a couple of months last year he went round telling people that he was an actor, despite never having trod the boards in his life, his attitude being "How hard can it be?" (that high-pitched whirring sound you can hear is Laurence Olivier, Ralph Richardson, John Gielgud et al spinning in their graves). He went to a couple of open auditions, including the BBC Talent competition. I think one of the casting directors at the latter must have pointed out that Enzo had all the acting ability of a quadriplegic, brain-damaged Joe Pasquale, because after that he dropped the whole "I'm an actor" thing and just went back to being a poseur.


Thus, when Enzo asked if he could put up a sign in the shop advertising for band members, I smiled my most indulgent smile and agreed. So currently we have this blu-tacked to the window:


Do you want to ROCK?fficeffice" />


Talented, carismatic (sic) singer seeks band


Lead guitar/rhythm/bassist/drummer


WE CAN BE THE NEW STROKES!


Inquire within or call Enzo on 020 ********


Reading the notice, I was worried that Enzo might get prosecuted under the trade descriptions act (talented? charismatic?). Either that, or The Strokes will hire someone to rough him up for sullying their good name.


"Why didn't he put the notice in the window of Giannone's café?" you ask. Indeed, I put that very question to our favourite popstar wannabe. It turns out that Giannone père takes a very dim view of activities unrelated to the running of the café. "He's stifling my creativity," moaned Enzo, "he doesn't see that I've got star quality."


Yes, he actually used the phrase "star quality".


So I put up the notice in the window and expected to hear nothing more about it. But, amazingly, people have been coming in to enquire about joining Enzo's band. First the Steves showed an interest - a couple of them (Ste and Steve-O, I think) swaggered in, jaws masticating away at wads of Orbit Extra.


Steve-O: Whassall that about?


(He jabbed a thumb back at the notice in the window).


Me: Enzo's starting up a band.


Steve-O: Sound.


Ste: Can we be in it?


Me: You'd have to talk to Enzo. Can you play any instruments?


Ste: Nah. I can rap though.


Steve-O: Yeah, me too.


Me: Well, that's just dandy, but not, I think, what Enzo's after. Maybe you should start up your own Eminem tribute act?


Ste: Y'what?


Me: (wearily) Just talk to Enzo. Number's on the sign.


And so it continued. Who'd have thought there would be so many chancers out there desperate for the chance to lip-synch on Top of the Pops. A couple of grungy-looking teenagers came in claiming that they could play guitar, so I sent them Enzo's way; a trendyish bloke in charity shop get-up came in for some booze, saw the sign and took down the number; a Goth came in to ask if the band would play any Korn - I threw him out of the shop.


I asked Enzo today how the band was coming along. Apparently, he now has a guitarist (the less grungy of the two grungy teenagers) and a bassist (charity-shop geezer) but no drummer.


Enzo: But that doesn't matter, we can programme all the drums on computer.


Me: Oh, do you have a computer that can do that?


Enzo: Not yet.


Me: Riiight. And have you thought up a name for this supergroup you're forming?


Enzo: Sure have. We're called The Vespas. Because you've got to have a name starting with "The". Like The Strokes, The Vines, The Rapture, The White Stripes, The...


Me: Yes, yes, I get the picture.


I have this horrible sinking feeling that one day I'm going to buy Time Out only to find the front page plastered with a picture of Enzo pouting into the camera and fondling his chest. This must not be allowed to happen. Maybe I should hire someone to tear his vocal chords out. Either that, or I get on to The Strokes and let them know they're about to be ripped off yet again...


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Grange du Midi Grenache 2002 (France). Soft blackberry fruits combine with a long lingering finish. And once you've drunk a couple of bottles you can use the corks as handy ear-plugs to block out the cacophony that is The Vespas. £3.99
12.2.04 17:26


Ode on a Wine Merchants

"Would you like a poem with that?" Yep, it was Confuse-The-Customers time at the Bottle Shop on Saturday, as Lucy decided to celebrate Valentine's Day by giving away love poetry with every purchase. She claimed to be able to match the poem to the customer - hence, a single woman buying a bottle of Chardonnay would get a copy of Wendy Cope's "Bloody Men", someone purchasing champagne would get something by John Donne, and so on. A typical encounter ran thus:


A punter comes into the shop, dithers over the Californian reds, eventually choosing a £7.99 bottle (really pushing the boat out, obviously trying to impress a girlfriend). He brings it up to the counter where Lucy stands, beaming.


Lucy: Happy Valentine's Day, sir!


Punter: Err... thanks.


Lucy: Can I interest you in a love poem?


Punter: I'm sorry?


Lucy: You get a free love poem with every purchase.


She ducks down behind the counter and rummages through the huge pile of poetry that she spent all day Friday printing out.


Lucy: Here you go, I think you'll like this one. (leans in to him, conspiratorially) Read it to your girlfriend. She'll like it too, I guarantee you.


Punter: (utterly bemused) Th..thank you very much.


Lucy: (trills) You're welcome.


Some customers found it funny, others were just confused, many refused point blank to take a poem (I think they were worried that they had to pay for it or something - they're a stingy lot around here). One man got really belligerent.  It was a guy who comes in on a pretty regular basis - he always wears too-tight black leather trousers and is always unpleasant, hence his nickname: Twatman. He came up to the till with a six pack of lager, and Lucy trilled her Valentine's Day greeting to him (but I did note that the trill had a certain icy edge to it). He just grunted.


Lucy: Would you like a love poem to go with your beer?


Twatman: You what?


Lucy: We're celebrating this day of love and romance by giving away a poem with every purchase.


Twatman: I don't want a bloody poem.


Lucy: (bringing all her considerable charm to bear) Oh, go on. Just have a little read while I ring up this sale. Go on, it won't kill you. Here, I think this one is absolutely perfect for you.


She handed him a poem. He grudgingly took it. As he started to read, his face started going purple. He scrunched it up and looked as if he was going to hit Lucy.


Twatman: What the... you bitch!


Lucy: (with a smile) Have a nice day.


Twatman seemed to have some sort of inner debate over whether smacking this broadly-grinning lunatic would be a good thing or not. I geared myself up to step in and get smacked in her stead. Fortunately (for me and for him) he decided against it and stormed out on a stream of invective.


Me: What the hell was all that about?


Lucy: (shrugging nonchalantly) Obviously not a poetry fan. He's probably more into prose.


I picked up the scrumpled-up poem from the floor where Twatman had let it fall, and un-scrumpled it. I was curious to see what had made him want to go postal on my girlfriend. And here is what my mentalist co-worker had given to a customer:


Love Againfficeffice" />


 


Love again: wanking at ten past three


(Surely he’s taken her home by now?),


The bedroom hot as a bakery,


The drink gone dead, without showing how


To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,


And the usual pain, like dysentery.


 


Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt,


Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare,


And me supposed to be ignorant,


Or find it funny, or not to care,


Even… but why put it into words?


Isolate rather this element


 


That spreads through other lives like a tree


And sways them on in a sort of sense


And say why it never worked for me.


Something to do with violence


A long way back, and wrong rewards,


And arrogant eternity.


 


Philip Larkin


The power of poetry, eh? It evidently touched a nerve with ol' Twatman. Maybe he didn't like the imagery... Anyway, I don't think we'll be on the receiving end of his custom again. Ah well, our loss is Oddbins' gain.


But, apart from this minor glitch, Valentine's Day in the shop went remarkably well with no crises or breakdowns or proposals of marriage. And after we shut the shop? Mind your own damn business.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Duque de Viseu 2000 (Portugal). Violet overtones blending well with oak and pepper flavours. Buying this would probably have got you a copy of somthing pithy by George Bernard Shaw. £4.99
16.2.04 17:27


Flying the nest

We've had many employees come and go in the three years I've been in the Bottle Shop. Some left of their own accord - some to go travelling, some to go to University, some just to go anywhere where Marxist Jim was not. Then there were those whose contracts were terminated rather more abruptly. There was Dave, who tried to steal from the till and ended up minus two front teeth. Mel, who wore flashing Christmas tree earrings and was frogmarched out of the shop when she refused to remove them. The phenomenally clumsy Ryan, who dropped one crate of Bordeaux too many. Katy, Andy, Chris Number 1, Chris Number 2, Nathan - the list of staff who got on Marxist Jim's bad side and were thrown out (sometimes literally) just goes on and on. And in the middle of this constant stream of personnel, like a rock in the middle of a fast-flowing river, stood Keith.


I think the reason Keith has lasted so long in the Bottle Shop is because he hides at any sign of trouble. Hayley's in the shop - but where's Keith? Oh, there he is, hiding behind a crate of Australian Merlot. Watch out, Marxist Jim's on the warpath - but hang on, where's Keith got to? Oh, I see him, he's cowering in the store room trying to look like a case of Champagne. You get the picture. He's not the sort of guy you look to for help when the going gets tough. Well, you can look for him, but he'll be hiding behind a display of wine somewhere.


But he's part of the furniture now, is Keith. I stagger down to open up first thing in the morning and there he is, waiting outside to be let in. He tells me about what he bought on Ebay the night before, or the latest plot development in Star Trek/X-Files/Stargate or whatever sci-fi junk he's currently obsessing about. It's like a soothing aural wallpaper. It eases me into my day. Then, as the day progresses, he does the donkey work in the shop - stacking shelves, lugging crates - while I deal with customers or, more often than not, faff about on the computer and write this weblog. He makes my life easier. I can't imagine the Bottle Shop functioning without Keith. Which is why it came as a bit of a shock when he handed in his notice this morning. I didn't take it all that well.


Me: W-w-what the fu... what do you mean you're handing in your notice?


Keith: (sheepishly) I've - um - got another job.


Me: What do you mean you've got another job?! You've got a job. Here. Doing this. Look - wine, shelf; shelf, wine. This is your job.


Keith: Yeah, but... um... I've found a different one.


Me: Doing what, exactly? Fuck, it's not Oddbins, is it? Christ, if it's Oddbins then Marxist Jim is going to kill you. And then probably bring you back to life so he can kill you again. Please God, tell me it's not Oddbins.


Keith: It's not Oddbins.


Me: Thank Christ for that. Where then?


Keith: Forbidden Planet.


Me: ...Is that a geek shop?


Keith: Um... yeah.


Me: I can't believe you're leaving us to go and work in a geek shop.


Keith: Well it was sort of your idea.


Me: My idea?


Keith: Sort of.


Me: I'm sorry, my memory must be going. At what point did I take you to one side and say, "Hey, Keith, here's an idea, why don't you jack in your job here and go work for a bunch of geeks selling geeky shit to other geeks"?!


Keith: Well, you didn't say that exactly...


Me: I thought not.


Keith: ...But you did say I should start afresh with new horizons.


Me: When did I say that? Was I drunk? You should never believe anything I say when I'm drunk.


Keith: It was when I'd just broken up with George. You said it was my chance to have a fresh start. And you were right.


Inner Voice: Shit. You did say that, didn't you? You and your big mouth.


So there was nothing I could do. I bleakly told him to put his resignation in writing. He's leaving two weeks tomorrow. I still haven't told Marxist Jim. Now that's going to be a fun job. And I guess I'll have to start advertising for Keith's replacement...


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Ironstone Shiraz Grenache 2001 (Australia). Vibrant and spicy with real body and raspberry fruitiness. The sort of wine you can rely on - unless it gets offered a job at some godawful geek shop with a two grand payrise and all the comics it can read. £6.99
19.2.04 17:17


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