The canape weasel strikes back
Chi leaves Nick hanging: I think this might be my favourite photo of all time.
Back to the Goose. For those who don't know, I have a long and chequered history with the Goose. It opened in 1999, not long after I decided not to go back to study in Aberdeen. It was a fairly dismal time, for a number of reasons, and I needed a job. The Snow Goose was recruiting. It was easy money - on good days I would double my wages with tips. I'm not sure where all that money went, but I think it involved Aberdeen, alcohol and a girlfriend.
For forty hours a week I would wait tables. The Goose did - and still does - a roaring trade. Folk would queue in the rain half an hour before opening to guarantee a good seat. It's just solid pub grub at decent prices, the same as every other one of the three hundred Vintage Inns. They have identical decor, too, faux-antique furniture with crafted burns and wax, quirky candlesticks and tarnished brass picture frames with prints of days gone by. A truly hateful arrangement, in other words.
I was the canape weasel, raiding the fridges and bain maries to create small stacks of food, balanced delicately atop the half-roast potatoes used in the salads. Ross and Duncan tolerated this little thievery. They understood my art.
A fat American man was studying the menu, while his fat American family sat around him in check jumpers. He was wearing golf trousers. "Honey, what's a fuckin' Snow Goose? You ever hear of a fuckin' Snow Goose? Naw, me either. I mean, it's on the sign above the door, but I don't see it on the menu. Yeah. Yeah, maybe they're out. Still, what is a fuckin' Snow Goose? Like some kind of mythical animal? It ain't snowing. Hey! Waiter! What the fuck's a Snow Goose?"
I couldn't answer him. I was crying, hysterical with laughter. The place started to fill me with spite. Fight Club came out. I watched it three times in four days. I got in trouble when the landlord heard me dealing with a query.
"Is everything a la carte?" asked the customer - sorry, the guest - "Is everything home-cooked?"
"Absolutely," I replied. "We serve the very pinnacle of microwave cuisine."
"Simon," said Steve, "can I have a word?"
I'm still - genuinely - not sure how I wound up in Lancaster. I don't remember filling in the UCAS form, and I can't recall any particular flash of inspiration that lit the path back to university. During holidays, I usually found myself back in the Goose, my spite both unabated and honed by resentment. The last time I was there, I worked four shifts before someone in London offered me work and I fled immediately on the train. I do not sense any chance of that rescue, this time round. I'm back in the Goose. I'm amongst the oldest waiters by several years. The whole place is synonymous with my personal failure. It's a horrible, poisonous regression. Customers look at me in a puzzled manner and ask politely what I'm studying at university. Because I'm on holidays, right?
Right?
I get up, cycle to the leisure centre, swim a little, cycle home, cycle to work, work, cycle home, beer and bed. On half days I take the dog for a walk where he chases ducks with an optimism that verges on inspirational. I spend a lot of time looking at my map of the world. I've read the entire Rebus canon. I listen to Modest Mouse 'We were dead before the ship even sank'. Every now and then I have a beer with Baker or James or Ruaridh. I helped out at Dad's am-dram group last week doing the lights for the world premiere of The Brahan Seer, first in English then Gaelic. Ewan and I came third in the pub quiz last week thanks largely to his borderline autistic sports knowledge, though Matilda rolled up for long enough to tell us that vodka, cointreau, orange and lime is a Cosmopolitan. I'm leaving in September, though I don't yet know where or why. I've been applying for jobs in some of the Alpine chalets but Europe might be too safe.
And in the meantime, Hammer Time - you know when you've been Goosed. It takes two to Goose. Can I have a dry red, please. Hey, waiter. What the fuck's a Snow Goose. Upsell, upsell.
Two months, four days and counting.
Sunset over the Black Isle
"Dude, rainbows are beautiful arcs of light in the sky!"
This last shot was taken just after midnight.
Back to the Goose. For those who don't know, I have a long and chequered history with the Goose. It opened in 1999, not long after I decided not to go back to study in Aberdeen. It was a fairly dismal time, for a number of reasons, and I needed a job. The Snow Goose was recruiting. It was easy money - on good days I would double my wages with tips. I'm not sure where all that money went, but I think it involved Aberdeen, alcohol and a girlfriend.
For forty hours a week I would wait tables. The Goose did - and still does - a roaring trade. Folk would queue in the rain half an hour before opening to guarantee a good seat. It's just solid pub grub at decent prices, the same as every other one of the three hundred Vintage Inns. They have identical decor, too, faux-antique furniture with crafted burns and wax, quirky candlesticks and tarnished brass picture frames with prints of days gone by. A truly hateful arrangement, in other words.
I was the canape weasel, raiding the fridges and bain maries to create small stacks of food, balanced delicately atop the half-roast potatoes used in the salads. Ross and Duncan tolerated this little thievery. They understood my art.
A fat American man was studying the menu, while his fat American family sat around him in check jumpers. He was wearing golf trousers. "Honey, what's a fuckin' Snow Goose? You ever hear of a fuckin' Snow Goose? Naw, me either. I mean, it's on the sign above the door, but I don't see it on the menu. Yeah. Yeah, maybe they're out. Still, what is a fuckin' Snow Goose? Like some kind of mythical animal? It ain't snowing. Hey! Waiter! What the fuck's a Snow Goose?"
I couldn't answer him. I was crying, hysterical with laughter. The place started to fill me with spite. Fight Club came out. I watched it three times in four days. I got in trouble when the landlord heard me dealing with a query.
"Is everything a la carte?" asked the customer - sorry, the guest - "Is everything home-cooked?"
"Absolutely," I replied. "We serve the very pinnacle of microwave cuisine."
"Simon," said Steve, "can I have a word?"
I'm still - genuinely - not sure how I wound up in Lancaster. I don't remember filling in the UCAS form, and I can't recall any particular flash of inspiration that lit the path back to university. During holidays, I usually found myself back in the Goose, my spite both unabated and honed by resentment. The last time I was there, I worked four shifts before someone in London offered me work and I fled immediately on the train. I do not sense any chance of that rescue, this time round. I'm back in the Goose. I'm amongst the oldest waiters by several years. The whole place is synonymous with my personal failure. It's a horrible, poisonous regression. Customers look at me in a puzzled manner and ask politely what I'm studying at university. Because I'm on holidays, right?
Right?
I get up, cycle to the leisure centre, swim a little, cycle home, cycle to work, work, cycle home, beer and bed. On half days I take the dog for a walk where he chases ducks with an optimism that verges on inspirational. I spend a lot of time looking at my map of the world. I've read the entire Rebus canon. I listen to Modest Mouse 'We were dead before the ship even sank'. Every now and then I have a beer with Baker or James or Ruaridh. I helped out at Dad's am-dram group last week doing the lights for the world premiere of The Brahan Seer, first in English then Gaelic. Ewan and I came third in the pub quiz last week thanks largely to his borderline autistic sports knowledge, though Matilda rolled up for long enough to tell us that vodka, cointreau, orange and lime is a Cosmopolitan. I'm leaving in September, though I don't yet know where or why. I've been applying for jobs in some of the Alpine chalets but Europe might be too safe.
And in the meantime, Hammer Time - you know when you've been Goosed. It takes two to Goose. Can I have a dry red, please. Hey, waiter. What the fuck's a Snow Goose. Upsell, upsell.
Two months, four days and counting.
Sunset over the Black Isle
"Dude, rainbows are beautiful arcs of light in the sky!"
This last shot was taken just after midnight.
posted by real sly shady at
12:47 AM
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