Staff Outing

"Oh my f***ing God!"


Marxist Jim is back in the Bottle Shop. He has been away for a couple of weeks on a driving tour of the Californian vineyards (which struck me as being something of a busman's holiday; like"Sideways" with more swearing). He came back full of the sort of vim and vigour that only comes from a fortnight screaming at uncomprehending Yanks. The first thing he noticed when he came back was the smashed-up burglar alarm.


This is not why he is shouting.


"F***ing hell! I don't f***ing believe it! Give me the f***ing phone, you Canadian c***!"


Marxist Jim is excited. It's an alarming sight. He snatches the telephone from Vinnie and starts feverishly dialling with one hand, while the other brandishes this week's Time Out in my face.


"Will you f***ing look at that?"


I f***ing look at it. Gig listings. My blank look obviously infuriates him, because he jams a meaty finger at the page. "John Prine," I read.


"Exactly. John f***ing Prine (yelling into the phone) don't you f***ing dare put me on hold, motherf***er!"


Wisely, I and the rest of the staff creep away and leave Marxist Jim to his raging.


 


A short while later, Marxist Jim calls a staff meeting. He is smiling broadly. This makes me profoundly nervous. Marxist Jim only usually smiles when he's about to throw somebody through a window.


He folds his arms over his chest and beams. I brace myself and hope that the window isn't plate glass. "We're closing early tonight."


Three incredulous faces gape at him. Marxist Jim never closes early. Even if avian flu had wiped out every human in a 100-mile radius, Marxist Jim would insist on staying open just in case some lone survivor was to stagger by in search of Pinot Grigio.


"And if any of you f***ers have plans for tonight, f***ing cancel them. We're going on a f***ing staff outing."


Once I can pick my jaw up off the floor and get it working again, I manage to croak out a faint "Where?"


Marxist Jim's smile broadens. It is like being grinned at by a crocodile. "We are going to a f***ing John Prine concert." He looks at his three stunned employees, obviously expecting some sort of big reaction. We just goggle at him. "Oh, for f***'s sake. John Prine. He's only one of the greatest f***ing country singers of all time."


This just baffles the already confused Bottle Shop staff even further. Marxist Jim, a country music fan? As we struggle to process this information, Marxist Jim is standing smiling that terrible smile, obviously waiting for some sort of thank you. I feel I should say something, before he takes umbrage at our perceived ingratitude and starts breaking things. "That's very good of you, Jim..." I began.


"Think of it as your Christmas bonus come early. And you f***ers had better enjoy yourselves, or you might as well start looking for a new f***ing job." He wasn't in any way joking. A true philanthropist, that's my boss. I sometimes wonder whether I should do something more restful. Like joining the SAS.


 


Scroll forward to that evening. At 7:00pm the sign in the Bottle Shop door is flipped over from "OPEN" to "CLOSED" and Marxist Jim shoos Vinnie, Lucy and myself out into the night air. He carries a clinking bag of beer, which he proceeds to sink in a determined and methodical fashion on the tube journey to Shepherds Bush.


"Have you ever heard of this guy?" I whisper to Vinnie.


"Nope."


"I thought you'd know about that sort of stuff."


"Nah, I leave all that country shit to the Yanks. I'm Canadian, man. You know, Joni Mitchell, Lennie Cohen, the Tragically Hip..."


"Barenaked Ladies..."


"Fuck off."


 


We rock up to the Shepherds Bush Empire and Marxist Jim picks up the tickets. I check the price - twenty-five smackers. So much for the Christmas bonus. Then we're inside and Marxist Jim is elbowing his way through the crowd. He does a remarkably good job - then again, as when someone as big and scary-looking as Marxist Jim elbows you the sensible thing to do is to move out of the way, and sharpish.


We wait.


Lucy goes off and buys four pints of lager.


We wait some more.


Vinnie complains that he can't see the stage. I make that the observation that he should stop being so lazy and grow a few inches. He flips me the bird.


Still we wait.


Lucy comes back with the lager and, as if by magic, the lights dim and a portly chap in a black suit and cowboy boots comes onstage to riotous applause. Marxist Jim whoops. Vinnie, regarding the figure on stage with a critical eye, observes that he's a bit on the porky side. Marxist Jim doesn't take this well. "That's because of the chemotherapy. He's just recovered from f***ing throat cancer, you ignorant motherf***er. Now shut the f*** up and enjoy the show or you'll be going back to Canada in a f***ing pine box."


We all shut up. And we did enjoy the show. Turns out, John Prine is damn good. And the sight of Marxist Jim rumbling along to "There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes" while openly weeping is not something we are going to let him forget in a long, long time.


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Robert Mondavi Winery Cabernet Sauvignon 2000 (USA). One of Marxist Jim's souvenirs from his Napa Valley trip. Full berry flavours, with hints of mocha and floral spices. Buy it with your so-called "Christmas bonus", and have enough left over for a one-day bus pass. Bargain. £21.99.
1.11.05 14:45


London Burning

It lives!


This is the first post to be written on the Bottle Shop's new computer. It is sleek. It is mean-looking. It cost a bloody bomb. And it has steadfastly refused to let me access the internet for the best part of a month. Oh, I do so love modern technology.


The reason why the shop needed a new computer escapes me. Sure, our old machine was big, ugly, noisy and temperamental, but then again so is Marxist Jim and you don't see us trading him in for a newer model with an Intel Pentium 4 processor (da-ding-da-ding). However, Marxist Jim does prefer conducting his business by email, as he hates actually having to talk to people - mainly because the talking usually segues quite quickly into the shouting, then all of a sudden you're looking for a new supplier. That said, he hates email as well (probably because he finds it difficult to type with his big, meaty fingers). In fact, in an ideal world, Marxist Jim wouldn't have to interact with people at all. Unfortunately, the realisation of such a utopia is still a good few years away - hence the new PC.


Marxist Jim:  It'll speed up our business.


Me:  (sotto voce, eyeing the empty shop) Because we're currently having to beat people off with a shitty stick.


Of course, because nothing ever seems to quite go to plan in Marxist Jim's world, the whizzy new computer turned out to be allergic to broadband. And so it sat in a corner looking sulky, while Marxist Jim was forced to actually speak to people. But it's all fixed now, and everybody is heartily relieved. Not least me, because I was usually the one who had to phone the suppliers back up and assure them that they're not really a bunch of f***ing c***s and can we please increase our order of Dancing Monkey (a straightforward Argentinian cab sauv that seems to go down well around here, presumably because the idiots like the name)?


 


As a result of my enforced exile from the world wide web, I missed the opportunity to tell all you stout yeomen about the Incident of the Burning Guy. And so, to get back into the swing of this whole blogging thing, I shall tell you about it now.


Cast your mind back, dear reader, to November 5th. Your faithful narrator - aided by his chums Vinnie, Enzo and Wall-Street Phil, as well as his inamorata, the fragrant Lucy - is putting the finishing touches to an 8 foot high pile of wooden wine crates, cardboard boxes and other detritus.


Vinnie:  So explain all this Bonfire Night shit to me again. You're celebrating the fact that some guy got burned at the stake?


Me:  No, no. We're celebrating the fact that he got hung, drawn and quartered. By burning him in effigy. Um.


Vinnie:  Jeez, you Brits.


Wall-Street Phil:  That's a point. We don't have a guy.


Lucy:  Not a problem. Wait here.


She disappears upstairs into the flat, while we men stand about drinking beer and regarding our big pile of wood with satisfaction. Shortly, she returns carrying what appears to be a dead body - an approximately human figure made out of stuffed shirt and trousers, with a football for a head.


Lucy:  Ta-daa! Say hi to Guy.


Me:  Hang on, are those my clothes?


Lucy:  I only used some of your old gear.


Me:  All of my gear is old! And that's my football!


Lucy:  You never play football.


Me:  Yes, but I'd like to have the option.


My objections ("But they're my clothes!") are swept aside as the rest of the group discuss how to fix the guy to the top of the bonfire. Eventually, Vinnie scrambles to the top of the heap of wood and sets a large fencepost into the centre of the pile. A hammer and a couple of nails are found, and he fixes a plank to the post as a crossbar on which to hang the guy. We pass up the stuffed mannequin and he lashes its arms to the crossbar with blue plastic twine, then slides down off the bonfire.


We stand back to observe our handiwork.


Wall-Street Phil:  It looks like we've tried to crucify a Cabbage Patch doll.


It did indeed resemble some terrible pastiche of the scene at Calvary.


Enzo:  Well, I think we should hurry up and burn the fucker. It's freezing and I've got a date later.


So without further ado, we make with the matches and light the bonfire. The fire spreads pretty quickly, as all the wood is very dry and the whole edifice is stuffed with cardboard, and soon the flames are licking upwards towards Guy. We sink more beers and feel very satisfied with ourselves as the blaze lightly roasts our faces. Lucy cracks open the sparklers and we entertain ourselves by writing rude words in the air.


It is not until Guy is fully alight that we understand that lashing him to the crossbar with plastic twine was a very serious error. We realise this at the very point when his bonds melt away and he pitches forwards into the flames - leaving behind a large burning cross which is visible to the entire neighbourhood.


We all stare in horror.


Me:  That... wasn't... supposed... to... happen...


Vinnie:  Do they have the KKK in England? 'Cos it looks like they do now.


Me:  Oh crap.


The next ten minutes are spent wildly lobbing anything that comes to hand at the burning cross in an attempt to knock it over. Eventually, Enzo succeeds with a well-hurled paint can, and the flaming cross topples over into the bonfire. We stand, panting, the ash making us look like we all have particularly bad psoriasis.


"That was fun. I wish we had Bonfire Night in Canada." Vinnie rubs his face, making him look like a Victorian chimney-urchin.


I snort. "You're welcome to it. Let's go to the pub."


"But we can't just leave the bonfire," opines Wall-Street Phil. I pat his shoulder kindly and gaze into the leaping flames with a beatific expression on my face.


"Phil, my friend, let me tell you something."


"Yes, Late?" His moon face gazing trustingly into mine.


"Bollocks," I say, "to the bonfire."


And off we went to the pub. Bonfire night always brings out the poet in me.


 


The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Cline Ancient Vines Carignane 2003 (USA). A big,  intensely herby red, ideal for drinking when you've just turned the local waste ground into a scene from "Mississippi Burning". £10.99


 
29.11.05 11:57