Gizzajob

Nothing on this weblog for over a week. You might be forgiven for thinking that Late, Lucy and the whole Bottle Shop gang had disappeared from the face of the earth. That the earth had opened and swallowed them, the shop and all its stock of fine wines, savoury snacks and filtered cancer sticks lock, stock and barrel.


This is not the case.


What is the case is that I have been attempting to find a replacement for Keith before he leaves. This has turned out to be something of a nightmare.


So. Last Wednesday I put up a sign in the window advertising the job. Now, you may recall that the last time we advertised for new staff, we got Lucy. And a very good job she does too, even outside the bedroom. But I really couldn't handle another person like her in the shop. That said, the likelihood of there actually being somebody else as crazed as Lucy is fairly slender. Nevertheless, I didn't want to risk it. So the sign read thus:


POSITION VACANTfficeffice" />


Junior Sales Assistant


Must be punctual, reliable, organized & sound in mind and body.


Knowledge of wine useful, but not essential.


Apply within.


I thought that should do it. The 'sound in mind and body' part was the main pre-requisite. I figured that it didn't matter if the candidate couldn't tell one end of a wine bottle from another, as long they didn't turn out to be another raving loony. Hell, they could even profess their everlasting love for Jacob's Creek as long as that was the only crazy thing about them. I should have known better. I should have listened to Rabbie Burns - best laid plans, and all that. I should have realised that there is something about this particular part of London (something in the water? too much inbreeding?) which dictates that everybody - and I mean everybody - is some sort of fruit loop. I think it's in their genes (which, naturally, are stonewashed).


Friday. A girl comes into the shop. And I use the word 'girl' in its loosest sense. She was virtually bursting out of a bubblegum pink velour tracksuit that was definitely at the top of the sizing range in the Big and Bouncy clothing collection at Primark or wherever the hell people buy these godawful white trash get-ups. She said she wanted to apply for the job in the window. Well, what she actually said was, "Iwannapplyferthejobinnawinder". I asked her to repeat herself a couple of times until I could decipher what she was saying. She was like Vicky from "Little Britain", only less attractive. She said her name was Sue Healey, but it came out as "Swealey". It made her sound like a pig squealing. Which is ironic, really, because that was what she looked like. I attempted to interview her.


Me: So why do you want to work here?


Swealey: IjussawthesigninyerwindernthoughtwhynotyerknocosI'mskintlikeyerkno?


Me: ......Right. Have you had any retail experience? (a blank look on Swealey's porcine features) Have you worked in a shop before?


Swealey: YeahIusedtoworkinSafewaysbutitwashitcosthemanagerwasabitch.


Me: ....So that's a yes, then?


Swealey: Yeahitwerefuckinboringmostofthetimeandthemanagerwasarealslag...


Me: Could you just give one word, yes or no answers please? I think my eardrums are bleeding.


Against my better judgement, I asked her to come in for a day's trial on the Saturday. Now, on the advert it clearly specified that the candidate should be punctual - for obvious reasons. Just as it would not do to have two nutcases in the shop, neither would it be good to have two people who are congenitally tardy. If I am Late, then everybody must be On Time (or even - whisper it - Early). That way we all rub along nicely. So Saturday morning dawns, I stagger down to open the shop at 10a.m. and Keith is waiting outside as usual... but there is no sign of Pig-Girl Swealey. She eventually rolled up at midday, with an excuse that went by me so fast I had no chance of making sense of it. Strike One.


I told her to shadow Keith and give him a hand, so she could see what the job entailed. He got her pricing up some of the bottles, and after about five minutes she was filling the shop with high-decibel, high-speed moaning along the lines of "itsfuckinborinthiscan'tIdosomefingmorefunmefeetarefuckinkillinme". It went on and on and on until finally Keith cracked and told her to go and take her lunchbreak. Strike Two.


Later in the afternoon, the staff of the Bottle Shop are industriously getting on with things. But where is Pig Girl? I'll tell you where - she's still sat in Giannone's cafe stuffing her face with bread and butter pudding and trying to flirt with Tony. She waddled back into the shop a full three hours after going for a 'quick lunch break'. Strike Three - and you're out. I told her not to bother coming back the next day. She didn't seem too upset about it. Neither were we.


Me: I told Pig Girl to get stuffed.


Keith: She already is stuffed. With pudding.


Lucy: I'm glad she's not going to be working here. I'd be afraid to turn my back on her in case she ate me.


Still, it meant that I was back to square one. Nobody applied for a couple of days. I got a bit desperate. Tuesday was my day off, so I did activities (food shopping! laundry! gym!) designed to take my mind off the fact that if I didn't find somebody sharpish then there wouldn't be any more days off for a goodly while. I was lying on the sofa watching TV when Lucy bounded into the flat.


Lucy: Good news! Somebody's asked about the job!


Me: Thank Christ for that. Are they coming in for a trial day?


Lucy: Yep - tomorrow.


Me: Fan-fucking-tastic.


Wednesday morning, ten o'clock. I staggered down in my boxers to see Keith standing there with the potential Bottle Shop employee.


It was one of the Steves.


Inner Voice: Lucy. What - have - you - done?!


To be continued...


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Lancié 2002 (France). Lovely aromas of wild strawberries and violets. It is called wine. It comes in a "bottle". And you pour it out of the thin bit at the end with the hole in. £6.49
4.3.04 17:14


Gizzajob (part 2)

Yesterday I told you how we had a truffling porker masquerading as a human female trying out for Keith's job last weekend. It didn't go well, and she didn't get hired (partly because I feared that she might start chowing down on the customers). So the position remained unfilled, and this stressed me out somewhat. I recall having a conversation with Lucy at some point on Monday wherein I stated that "I don't give a shit who we get, as long as we get someone".


Of course, trust Lucy to take my words at face value.


So on Wednesday we had one of the Steves working in the Bottle Shop. I wasn't entirely overjoyed to see him standing outside the shop with Keith when I came down to open up (in fact, my actual words were "What the fuck are you doing here?"), but I couldn't really tell him to piss off, because Lucy had said he could have a day's trial - and I wasn't keen on the idea of getting on Lucy's bad side (I've seen her bad side. It's terrifying. The thought that I should ever be unfortunate enough to get on her bad side keeps me awake at nights). On top of that, if I sent him off with a flea in his ear he'd probably come back with the rest of the Steves and heft a brick through the window of the shop. Or set it on fire. Or something. So with exceedingly bad grace I allowed him in.


Me: Alright, you can come in as long as you do as you're told and don't break anything.


Steve: 'K.


Me: And if you piss me off, I'll tell Marxist Jim that you're shagging his daughter.


Steve: That's not me, that's Steve-O.


Me: Marxist Jim doesn't know that. So consider yourself warned.


Steve considered himself warned. And, much to my surprise, at first he knuckled down to work with considerable zeal, clanking crates around with so much gusto that I feared for the bottles inside. A glimmer of hope kindled in my heart - maybe it would all turn out fine! Maybe this would be the making of Steve/Ste/Stevie/whoever!


Yeah, right.


About mid-morning, Keith told Steve to go and dump a load of empty crates in the bins behind the shop. So out he goes. Twenty minutes later, a worrying odour wafted up my nostrils.


Me: Uh, guys... can you smell smoke?


Lucy: (sniffs) Yeah. I wonder where that's coming from?


We looked out of the window of the shop. There was definitely smoke drifting from somewhere. We all trooped outside to see what's going on. All? Not quite. I noticed that Steve wasn't about, but didn't judge that to be a problem. A few of the other arcade regulars had congregated on the pavement, Enzo among them. I went and greeted him.


Me: Alright Enzo, where's the news? Has Tony started another chip pan fire?


Enzo: Nah. I think it's round the back of your shop, mate.


He pointed to where great plumes of blue-grey smoke were billowing over the roof of the Bottle Shop.


Me: Oh holy fuck!


Lucy, Keith and I all dashed through to the yard behind the shop. Stood before a huge bonfire of fiercely burning wine crates was Steve, who was calmly smoking a Lambert & Butler. I lost it a little bit.


Me: What in the name of sweet suffering fuck do you think you're doing?!


Steve: I tried t'stuff the crates in the bins but they was full, so I figured I'd just burn 'em.


To which I could only make high-pitched, incoherent yelps of apoplexy.


Lucy: I think it would be best if you left, Steve.


Steve: I ain't been paid.


My yelps became even more frenzied.


Lucy: Put it this way - either you leave now, or Late here throws you on the fire.


Steve looked at me and obviously realised that here was a man on the edge. He stamped off through the shop, trailing obscenities and glottal stops. Keith, Lucy and I stood and regarded the fire for a while.


Keith: Shouldn't we... er... put it out or something?


Me: I don't know if I have the energy anymore.


Keith: I think the wheelie bins are melting.


We filled buckets of water and threw it on the fire. I also 'accidentally' threw one over Keith, who I saw as the root cause of all this trouble. Ten minutes later, the fire was totally out and the yard behind the shop was a dripping, smoking mess of charred wood and melted plastic. The thought that Marxist Jim should see it in that state filled me with cold terror. So I did what any assistant manager worth their salt would do. I delegated.


Me: Er, Keith?


Keith: Yes?


Me: Get this cleaned up, would you?


And he did. Quickly, efficiently and without a whimper. I am never going to find someone to fill his shoes. God help me.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Tatachilla Breakneck Creek Cabernet (Australia). A smooth oak texture with bright blackberry and plum flavours. And the crate it comes in goes up a treat if you douse it in petrol and put a match to it. £4.99
5.3.04 17:09


End of an era

The moment had come. The time of farewells and new beginnings. Yes, Sunday was Keith's final day in the Bottle Shop, after which he would start work at Forbidden Planet with all the other borderline-Aspergers geeks and I would have to re-acquaint myself with the concept of "sweeping". The remaining staff tried to come up with a suitable send off. Marxist Jim got quite emotional. "I want to do right by the little f***er," he said with a quiver in his voice, "he's been like a f***ing son to me." (If that's the case, then I pity Hayley - something I never thought I would be able to say). Eventually, we decided that a piss-up in the shop would be the most appropriate course of action.


Nobody mentioned the fact that it was Keith's last day. He arrived first thing on Sunday morning with a vaguely expectant expression, as if he thought the shop would be festooned with bunting and banners reading "Farewell Keith". Instead, Marxist Jim told him to "go and clear out the f***ing storeroom, it's a m*****f***ing shambles". Keith gave a sad little shrug of plus ça change and went off to shift wine crates. The day continued in this vein until closing time. Keith put on his parka, muttered a "well, it's been good working with you guys" and made for the door. Looking pretty upset, actually. But his expression changed to one of bewilderment mixed with terror when he found Marxist Jim blocking his way and locking the door to the shop.


Marxist Jim: You're not f***ing going anywhere, you c***.


Keith stared at him, frozen with fear. I think at this point he genuinely believed that Marxist Jim was going to slaughter him and dump his body in one of the shop's (slightly melted) wheelie bins.


Marxist Jim: Not until you've opened your f***ing presents and had some f***ing fizz.


At which point Lucy appeared from the back of the shop bearing a huge cake that she'd spent the day baking, and I opened the back door to let in Wall-Street Phil, Mee-chelle, Enzo, Tony, Ian and Adrienne, all of whom had been waiting to give our little Keith their best wishes (and to partake of the free booze). Champagne was popped, glasses were filled and Marxist Jim gave a valedictory speech which, although peppered with profanity, was surprisingly heartfelt. Everybody applauded, while Keith stood in the centre of the room holding a full champagne flute and looking dazed, still wearing his parka.


Marxist Jim: ...And to say thanks a f***ing bundle for being such a f***ing pain in the a*** for the last three years, we'd like to give you this.


He handed Keith a box wrapped in yesterday's newspaper. Slightly overcome, Keith unwrapped it. Then gasped.


Keith: Ohmygod. ItstheCompleteBattlestarGalactica. Thewholeseriesonsevendiscs. InthelimitededitionCylonHeadpackagingwithLenticularRedEye.


Me: Breathe, Keith.


Keith: How (gasp, pant) did you manage to find it?


I gestured to Lucy, who gave a self-depreciating shrug.


Lucy: I have my sources.


Keith: It's... it's just... it's just brilliant...


He looked momentarily downcast.


Keith: But I don't have a DVD player.


Marxist Jim: Hold your f***ing horses. You haven't opened your other f***ing present yet.


He held out a much larger box.


Keith: No. It's not.


Marxist Jim: Open the c***ing present and you'll find out.


It was. Marxist Jim, in a fit of "fatherly" generosity, had shelled out sixty-odd quid to buy Keith a DVD player. Which I suppose goes some way to make up for Keith having to endure three years in the Bottle Shop without a pay rise. I wonder what I would get should I ever leave Marxist Jim's employ. Probably an alarm clock. Or a broken nose.


After the gift-giving, everybody got down to the serious business of getting as drunk as was humanly possible. Lucy handed out slices of her delicious cake to all and sundry, and it was rapidly devoured (Adrienne had at least three slices).


Me: (munch) This is great cake, Luce. It's got a really interesting taste to it.


Lucy: That'll be the secret ingredient.


Me: (munch, chew, swallow) What's that then?


Lucy: Marijuana. Lots of it.


Me: Ack.


Needless to say, within the hour everybody was higher than London house prices, myself included. My mental snapshots of the evening include:


- Enzo going off to get some food from the café and not coming back for ages. Then when he finally returned, explaining that he'd been too mesmerized by the microwave to leave the kitchen.


- Marxist Jim spending about half an hour telling Keith that "you've been like a son to me".


- Keith spending an hour and a half telling Marxist Jim about the complex mythology of 'Babylon 5'.


- Tony trying to chat up Lucy.


- Lucy pouring a can of Grolsch over Tony's head.


- Mee-chelle passing out in the middle of explaining to Enzo the difference between Ikea and the new Marks & Spencer Lifestore.


- Wall-Street Phil carrying Mee-chelle home in a fireman's lift.


And, the big shocker...


- Ian and Adrienne not arguing.


I think Keith is going to miss it here.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Pol Roger Réserve NV. A champagne with plenty of depth and zesty fruit. Perfect for sad farewells. £24.99
10.3.04 17:15


Under pressure

I don't handle stress very well. I am not the sort of person who enjoys being under pressure. I buckle. I break. I crumble into a mound of gibbering tics and neuroses. This is why I like working in the Bottle Shop - the only stress is of the "who is Marxist Jim going to threaten to kill next?" variety. Which is fine. I can deal with that. It was the "close this deal or you lose the company millions of pounds" type stress that made me crawl under my desk, curl into the foetal position and pretend I was back in a nice, warm womb. And that sort of response is not considered "professional" - especially if your immediate superior happens to walk by your workstation and see your feet sticking out from under the desk. That sort of behaviour gets you lots of sick leave, regular trips to a therapist and a move into wine retail.


Happily, working in the shop is pretty stress-free. However, this means that I am now even less able to cope when the stress levels go up. Since Keith's much-lamented departure, I have been busier than a bee that's left all its nectar-gathering to the very last minute and needs to fulfil its pollen quota or risk being booted out of the hive by a seriously pissed-off queen bee. Every Epsilon Semi-Moron and his dog suddenly seems to have developed a hankering for fine wine, one of our suppliers is playing silly buggers and keeps messing up their orders, and I still haven't found anyone to replace Keith so I'm having to do all the grunt work around the shop. Ergo, I am stressed to the nines. So what better way of alleviating it than for Lucy's sister and brother-in-law to come and stay for the weekend?


Hmmm.


Saturday. A steady stream of punters had been coming in all day and my head felt like it was going to burst. It was almost closing time when the door jangled open and a youngish couple walked in. The woman looked strangely familiar. A weary "can I help you?" had barely left my lips when Lucy ran shrieking past me and launched herself at the woman. I thought, Christ, she's finally lost it, then noticed that she was hugging the strange woman rather than throttling her. Once they had finally disentangled themselves from my girlfriend's over-enthusiastic embraces, the mystery couple went back outside and started taking suitcases out of a Vauxhall Astra minicab. I turned questioningly to Lucy.


Me: What was all that about? Who was she?


Lucy: That's my sister. She and her husband are coming to stay.


I digested this information.


Me: Your sister. Who I've never met.


Lucy: Yep.


Me: And her husband. Who I've also never met.


Lucy: You got it.


Me: And these two people that I've never met are going to come and stay in our one-bedroom flat. A flat that brings new meaning to the word "pokey". And you didn't think to tell me about this until after they arrive?


Lucy: I forgot. Don't get all batey. It's just for one night. They're flying to Alicante from Stanstead tomorrow morning.


"Batey". I hate it when Lucy accuses me of being "batey". And she knows I hate it. Which is why, whenever I question her judgement or point out that maybe she's being a teensy bit inconsiderate/rude/unreasonable/psychotic, she will say I'm "getting all batey". And, naturally, as soon as I'm accused of being batey, I then become batey. (To be honest, I am still unsure about what "batey" acually means. But being called it pisses me off nonetheless).


Normally, Lucy springing this sort of surprise on me (and then accusing me of being "batey") would have been annoying, but I would have got over it pretty quickly. But on Saturday I was stressed and 'reasonable' was no longer part of my vocabulary. Thus, I was not in the best of moods when I was introduced to Nick and Clare Shaw (neé Miller). Nick was the sort of tall, lantern-jawed individual who calls men "chaps" and who follows Rugby League. His handshake was so firm that I think he may have cracked a couple of my metacarpals. Clare looked a bit like Lucy - same eyes, same hair colour, and let's just say that the women of the Miller family have really lucked out on the mammary front - and had the same air of barely-controlled manic energy. They seemed pleasant enough people, so I made an effort to be polite despite the fact that I was seething inside. But the red mist had descended.


Me: It's very nice to meet you both. It's a shame I won't be around tonight to get to know you better. But I'm going out.


Lucy: You are?


Me: Yes. Oh, I'm sorry, did I 'forget' to tell you?


Lucy: (turning to Nick and Clare) He's not really going out. He's getting all batey because I forgot to tell him you were coming.


Nick and Clare laugh in unison. I am now in full pissed-off mode, though also aware that I am increasingly sounding like a petulant child.


Me: I am going out. Tonight. In about ten minutes' time, in fact. So there.


Lucy: (in a high-pitched squeak) I think he's a bit cwoss.


Clare: (squeaky) He's an old cwosspatch.


Lucy: (squeaky) You know what we do to people what are cwoss.


Inner Voice: Why are they speaking in those weird voices?


I soon found out as the Sisters Miller dived onto me and wrestled me to the ground, Lucy shrieking "Pin his arms!" and Clare screaming "Lick his eyeballs!", while I yelled variations on the theme of "Get the fuck off me!". However, five minutes of two girls kissing, licking, biting, tickling and blowing raspberries on various parts of your anatomy is enough to dissolve any bad mood. Especially when they are as comely as the Miller sisters. They finally let me get up, all three of us panting and smiling. Nick had watched the whole thing with amusement.


Me: Well, (gasp, pant), that was one way of settling an argument.


Nick: (grinning) You've been Millered.


Me: You get this too?


Nick: All the time. Why else do you think I married this psychopath?


And we all went down to the pub to get drunk. Lucy and Clare yammered on to each other in some incomprehensible sister shorthand; Nick and I talked about what it was like being with a Miller girl. It was somehow comforting to know that Clare is almost as cracked as Lucy. "You should meet their mother," said Nick with a wondering shake of the head. I made a mental note to avoid that at all costs.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Bourgogne Passetoutgrains 1999 (France). A splendid Burgundy with lots of jammy fruit flavour. Nick picked it off the shelf in the shop and mused that "Clare threw a bottle of burgundy at my head once." God help mankind if these girls are allowed to breed. £6.99
15.3.04 18:04