Purged

I have been unwell.


To those of you who have been on tenterhooks, salivating with anticipation, dying to hear about my adventures under canvas at the Carnival of Mud that was this year's Glastonbury Festival, I have but two words to say.


FOOD.


POISONING.


Yes, a few hours after wolfing down an ill-advised bacon-double-crapburger on my way to see the Chemical Brothers on the Friday night, I was horribly, violently, disgustingly sick. Unfortunately, we had elected to pitch our little blue tent on the very edge of the Green Fields, far from the toilet facilties, necessitating the use of a black bin-liner as a makeshift loo.


And so it was that I turned 35 while shitting water into a binbag.


I console myself with the knowledge that things can only get better from here on in.
7.7.04 15:30


Give us a clue

Wall-Street Phil, our resident Gordon-Gecko-wannabe, often drops into the Bottle Shop for a chat during his lunch hour. Generally the talk revolves around Mee-chelle - the new suite she's bought for the lounge, her search for the perfect dining room table and (lately) her numerous pregnancy-related ailments (most of which I suspect are psychosomatic). He showed up today looking tenser than a Sarajevo sniper.


Me: Hey Phil, what's up? Is Mee-chelle still craving steak with ice-cream?


Wall-Street Phil: No, she's moved onto marinara sauce now.


Me: So what's the news?


The news was that the head honcho of Bricks and Mortar Estate Agents is visiting Phil's branch to "assess his progress" as senior salesman. You may recall that Wall-Street Phil was only made senior salesman because the previous incumbent dropped dead while showing a young couple round a 2-bedroom fixer-upper. Now, Phil is not a natural salesman. And I have a sneaky suspicion that his branch has not been meeting its sales targets. As he talked, I got a sinking feeling that demotion might be on the cards for our Phil. This was obviously something that worried him too.


Wall-Street Phil: I'm sure the boss will see that we've got a good atmosphere in the office. It's a great working environment. And that leads to sales, doesn't it?


Pleading, anxiety-filled eyes.


Me: Mmmmph. Yeah... of course.


I have to say I wasn't really listening properly, because by this point I was being distracted by Vinnie, who was standing a short distance behind Phil and miming frantically. He'd turn round, point to the back of his head, then turn back to me and mouth something indiscernible.


Wall-Street Phil: ...And being senior salesman is tough, I know, but...


Me: Sorry, Phil, hold that thought. (to Vinnie) What are you trying to say to me?


Vinnie: (instantly nonchalant) Who, me? Nothing.


Me: Riiiight.


I turned my attention back to Phil. Vinnie resumed his frenzied miming.


Me: Vinnie, what the fuck do you want?


Vinnie: Nothing. I just got a letter to send so I thought I'd head off later to post it.


Me: Okay, fine, whatever. Just stop all that jerking about, you look like you've got Tourettes. (to Phil) Sorry mate, what were you saying?


Wall-Street Phil: It doesn't matter. I've got to get back anyway. See you later.


He turned to go, and I finally realized what Vinnie had been trying to tell me. Wall-Street Phil had a fluorescent yellow post-it note stuck to the back of his head. The post-it had TIT scrawled across it in thick black marker pen.


To my shame, I didn't tell him. Instead, I laughed my arse off. Maybe Lucy is right, maybe my soul is dark and twisted.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Riff Pinot Grigio delle Venezie 2003 (Italy). A fragrant bouquet of citrus, smoke and spice and lovely rounded apple and melon flavours. Write that on a post-it and stick it to the bottle. £6.99
7.7.04 17:50