Worst day at work EVER

I work in a pub. It's nice. I quite like it. As with any job it has its ups and downs.

Last week wednesday however, secured itself as the worst day at work EVER. In fact so many things went wrong, it stopped being awful, and all I could do was laugh.

My pub is called The Albany. It is opposite Great Portland Street tube. Which is on the Metropolitan line. As is Wembley.

And last wednesday (the day of doom) happened to be the date of the England v Croatia Euro cup qualifier.

So, for those who have not yet worked it out, my pub was well and truly in the firing line.

But that's ok. I'm good when its busy.

So I get to work. And it's just me, the Polish guy Kasper, who is lovely, and Greg. He is in charge.

No one else turns up. So we are understaffed. By two people. Problem number one.

I notice that we are a little low on glasses. And all the tables, and the bar, in fact all available space is inundated by dirty glasses.

I go round, at great personal risk, as angry, thristy England fans do not like bar staff who are not making them drinks, and collect glasses.

The dishwasher is broken. We have no way to wash glasses.

There is a dishwasher (albeit from the 19th century) downstairs.

The lift is broken.

So, to clarify, we are missing two staff members, we have no clean glases, the dishwasher is broken, and the only way of getting them clean is literally to carry them, glass by glass, down two flights of stairs, and we are so busy, people are queuing to get into the pub.

After about an hour of constant abuse (wearing a football shirt seems to remove any concept of common decency, turning even the most respectable gentleman into nothing short of a yob) the crowd starts to die down.

The queue for the bar is still about 8 deep, but we can see light at the end of the tunnel.

I then hear a very strange noise, followed by screaming.

Water is POURING out of the ceiling. in the middle of the pub. In sheets. Within minutes, the surrounding customers are ankle deep in water.

Greg's solution is to put newspaper down. This swiftly turns the water into a swamp.

By the end of the night, after many people saying, "er, your floor's really wet" and "why have you got papier mache instead of carpet", aching arms, and more smashed glasses than whole ones, and it is time to clear up.

I am just about to leave. To go home to a clean(ish) house and sleep, when my Wiganer calls me. To inform me she has just been sick. A lot. Joy. Home will be nearly as good as work.

Football.........

I don't understand football. I don't pretend to. Nor do I particularly want to. I sometimes feign interest for the purpose of the boyfriend but in all honestly I find the entire activity dull and a little pointless (boys chasing a ball - little reminiscent of dogs in a park?).

And yet. the other day I, yes the embodiment of ultimate football disinterest, had to do a report on Ebbsfleet United.

They have become the first football club to be run by fans via a website called MyFootballClub.com. Members pay to join up, and then, alledgedly, get to have a personal contribution to how the team is run.

Somehow, out of a group of 5, including a boy, and an avid football fan, I managed to land this story. But, in a truly professional manner, I took a deep breath, and went for it.

I interviewed the club director (a man called Roly - like the pudding). And he didn't seem to notice my utter football ignorance. In fact, at the end he asked if I spported Ebbsfleet. That was followed by an awkward silence.

Using the interview I wrote up my entire report, and by the time it came to reading it, I actually understood the whole concept.

Don't get me wrong, I asked a LOT of questions, needed a LOT explained to me, and still have not got the correct football jargon. But I did it.

And I have now developed a very strong attachment to Ebbsfleet United. In fact, given a few more weeks, I may become a real fan.

Croydon nights

Many people think Croydon is a dump. And many bits are. Many also think that Croydon is dangerous. Again, they are not far wrong.

Fair enough, you will without fail see at least six fights, police vans line the streets, you have to go throug metal detectors to enter most of the clubs, and many of the other clubbers represent the crudest cross-section of society I have ever encountered (and I have a friend from Romford).

But there is something about Croydon that I am strangely attached to.

If you want a cheap, fun, cheesy night out, Croydon is probably your best bet. There are pubs where you can buy a round of five drinks, and still have change for a tenner (The Goose). There are clubs where you pay a whole £2 to get in. Mojama's is a good laugh. There is a Walkabout. And a very nice new cocktail bar (Svelte). And almost anywhere you can dance like a complete lunatic, and not get a single shocked/scared/disapproving look (the wiganer loves this).

And while many of the people you meet may have complete potty mouths, they are surprisngly friendly. One girl I met was more than happy to indulge in near acrobatic dance moves with despite not knowing her at all. Another didn't seem to mind at all when my wiganer accidentally spun into her. In fact, the opposite - she grabbed her hands and joined in.

Don't get me wrong, after long Croydon does start to drag, but go there once a month and I guarentee you will start to develop this strange love.

Old School Internet

My internet troubles have now come to resemble a saga of epic proportions. We now have a phone line (thank you Bt - we only had to wait a total of two months). And should finally have a wireless broadband package by december.

So, until then, I am stuck using this internet cafe.

And what a charcter building experience this is. The cafe is basically the front room of a guy's house. There are about 10 computeres in here. The newest, I would estimate, is about 20 years old. In fact these computers are so big, not one can have been made any earlier than the mid-80's.

Eacgh computer is precariously balanced on coffe tables. Most of these are missing at least one leg (some helpful bricks, and in one case a pile of mouldering newspapers is the replacement)and due to the vast size of the computer there is no room for either a mouse, or a keyboard.

So, the keyboard is balanced on my lap. The mouse is on the floor. Although I must be careful when reaching down for the mouse as my chair has three normal legs, and one, and no I am not joking, about a third shorter than the rest. It's a bit like being on a rocking chair. But less stable.

Today I have been lucky. As only two of the keyboards actullay have a full range of letters, often you have to wait for one to come free if you are indulging in activities such as writing a blog. Sometimes I've thought I can get away with it, but if the missing letters are "a" and "d" it really is impossible. There is one keyboard which is missing an "@" - fine, except for that all important internet acitivity of emailing (although, saying this, the internt here is so slow, that someytimes I wonder if it would perhaps be less stressful and more time efficient just to post a letter).

Periodically throughout my stay in here I am offered by the mute owner, "carribean coffee". As far as I can tell it is just two heaped teaspoons of kenko coffee and some hot water in a chipped mug. It's no tea at the Savoy.

ALl in all though, I shouldn't complain. Last time I was here I stayed for 2hrs, printed off about 20 pages, and was only charged £1.