Sunday, December 30, 2007

celebrity

The notoriety gained from working in the friendly neighbourhood boozer would be slightly more enjoyable if every person who tapped you on the shoulder in a club to shout "Hey, you work at 'Spoons, I know you!" didn't then follow this up by saying "If you can remember what I drink, why can't you remember how old I am and stop fucking ID-ing me?"

That, or trying to lick your face and insisting on introducing you to all their friends as "My mate what works in that pub what I drink in, innit."

Why bother? Any physical attributes you may possess are, I assure you, far outweighed by the possibility of you being there tomorrow morning ordering breakfast and complaining about your hangover when I've been at work for three hours still drunk.

I am not your mate. Not until you can remember my name without prompting, and certainly not until you stop thinking I'm easy because I serve you beer.

Friday, December 28, 2007

a letter to esther

Marra, I don't care what time it says I published this, it's now half past four in the morning and I just got in from work. It was a very long shift indeed - somebody called me a 'titbag' and then was sick in the garden (deliberately, I think).

I'm addressing this blog post to my marra for two reasons. One, it would be pretty damn rude to call you at this hour - although you're probably awake and doing something horrendous involving vino and Frankie - and two, my phone has been cut off by Orange because I haven't paid my bill. An overreaction on their part, I feel, and definitely not worth being charged to call them and pay the bill. Stalemate continues. It's all very complex.

Everything is very, upsettingly about money. I wish it wasn't, because it's such a sad way to look at life, but money is the reason I cannot sort out my phone, or get the train, or go for drinks. Money is the reason that I have to work until four in the morning just to not have enough money to do the things that would make the job worthwhile. I fucking hate it, so fucking much it makes me swear.

Also, I thought it would be fun to write you a blog letter. Sort of creepy, because it's not from me as such, it's by me. This could well be fiction. Except it's not. I'm pretty tired.

On the plus, Santa brought me a hench bottle of Bombay Sapphire for Christmas. Tonk, if you like. It's massive; it's calling to me.

I love you very very much and missing you makes me sad. Royal Holloway feels fucking years ago, I can't even tell you how different everything is. It's like it never happened and I've been in this shit job the whole time; I've always been a hard-ass bar bitch and I just happened to take some drugs one night in Cambers that made me dream that I sat in a kitchen with a souped-up Soho mincer and made ransom-note poetry. "Biting in love/ in French/ in death/ in England."

I am still a pikey, but with less of a knowledge of scripture. I want to go and sit underneath Queen Victoria on the North quad and drink wine and talk about how uncanny things are. That was one of the best nights I've ever had.

Love,
FUF

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

ho ho ho

Thank you, to the drunk man with the dog who I almost walked into whilst sliding my way across Yateley on Christmas Eve in boots with no grip. He had what looked like several days worth of conjunctivitis scum around his eyes and reeked of booze and worse, but after I skidded to a halt in front of him and shrieked "I'm sorry!", he said something.

"Huh?"

"I said, happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

Because even though I spent the rest of Monday night serving copious amounts of shit booze to other drunks and partaking in banter such as "If you wave that ten pound note in my face one more time I'll bite your fucking hand off" and "No, mate, I don't fancy your mate, your mate thinks my name is Sharon, mate", even though there was drinking and dancing and singing that do-they-know-it's-Christmas song, even though a beautiful man gave me a Christmas card made from a Marlboro Lights box - that crusty old man almost made my day. Almost.