John-a-likes finally folded their papers
away and started putting their coats on. I charged straight over before any of the smart bastards behind us decided they’d
quite like to start their Sunday with a smack in the gob, but unbelievably the moment I appeared, Janet and John suddenly
went into first gear, John tying and untying his scarf half a dozen times in an effort to get it just right, while Janet
sat back down and made a phone call on her mobile.
‘Are you two going or what?’ I finally had to ask.
I couldn’t understand how they hadn’t noticed the half-dozen people patiently waiting to be seated when neither of the inconsiderate
fuckers had been distracted by cutlery for the last twenty minutes.
‘In our own time,’ John haughtily replied. He should’ve got one straight in the chops just for that, but he was lucky, Charley
was standing just behind me, and I didn’t want her thinking I couldn’t go anywhere without threatening to punch somebody’s
lights out, so I simply hovered over the pair of them, folded my arms and started whistling.
And I ain’t very good at whistling.
I didn’t get more than a verse into ‘Hit The Road, Jack’, before Janet and John decided to do just that before any more spit
landed down the backs of their necks and finally we had a table. Charley cast me a disapproving look as we sat down, but really
she should’ve been casting it Janet and John’s way. Surely they were the ones in the wrong, not me.
For a moment I wondered if chronic inconsideration was some sort of class thing. I mean, first that dickhead in the Workers’
Social and now this. Perhaps these spoilt little posho brats were so used to getting their own way all the time that they’d
never had to learn basic consideration for others and the higher they climbed up the social ladder, the more they used their
elbows on everyone else.
It was a possibility, but I wasn’t really buying it. Charley wasn’t like that, just as I’m sure a lot of middle-class poshos
weren’t.
If anything, I reckon it was more to do with the fact that most people in these places were probably just a bit too polite
for their own good to say anything, so all the me-first merchants knew they could get away with it. Neither this place nor
the Workers’ Social looked like the sort of place you’d worry about getting your eyes blacked in so what was there to stop
a selfish git from doing a bit of queue-jumping or table-hogging if they were so inclined? Not a lot that I could see, but
sooner or later they’d do it to the wrong person. It always happens. I’ve seen it dozens of times before and no doubt I’ll
see it dozens of times again. You simply can’t get away with being a wanker for ever. It’s a basic rule of life. So why not
show everyone else a bit of common consideration and save the already overburdened NHS the trouble of having to put your face
back together when some mental Jock on his football travels blunders into the Funky Zebra looking for a deep-fried Mars bar?
‘Sorry, but I thought he was off and he only sat back down when he saw me coming over as a sort of fingers-up at me,’ I explained.
‘Well, people feel intimidated when they’re being rushed,’ Charley replied, and I wanted to ask her if they also felt intimidated
when they were being launched head first through plate-glass windows, but I already knew the answer to that one.
‘Anyway, what shall we have?’
I looked at the menu and found a full English at the top of the page.
‘Do you like eggs Benedict?’ Charley asked.
‘Yeah, which one was he again? Face in The A-Team , wasn’t he?’ I replied, made up by the fact that someone had finally asked me this question a mere twenty years after I’d
first thought up the accompanying gag.
Charley had never seen The A-Team and didn’t know what I was talking about so she pointed it out on the menu and asked me again if I liked them.
‘No,’ I
away and started putting their coats on. I charged straight over before any of the smart bastards behind us decided they’d
quite like to start their Sunday with a smack in the gob, but unbelievably the moment I appeared, Janet and John suddenly
went into first gear, John tying and untying his scarf half a dozen times in an effort to get it just right, while Janet
sat back down and made a phone call on her mobile.
‘Are you two going or what?’ I finally had to ask.
I couldn’t understand how they hadn’t noticed the half-dozen people patiently waiting to be seated when neither of the inconsiderate
fuckers had been distracted by cutlery for the last twenty minutes.
‘In our own time,’ John haughtily replied. He should’ve got one straight in the chops just for that, but he was lucky, Charley
was standing just behind me, and I didn’t want her thinking I couldn’t go anywhere without threatening to punch somebody’s
lights out, so I simply hovered over the pair of them, folded my arms and started whistling.
And I ain’t very good at whistling.
I didn’t get more than a verse into ‘Hit The Road, Jack’, before Janet and John decided to do just that before any more spit
landed down the backs of their necks and finally we had a table. Charley cast me a disapproving look as we sat down, but really
she should’ve been casting it Janet and John’s way. Surely they were the ones in the wrong, not me.
For a moment I wondered if chronic inconsideration was some sort of class thing. I mean, first that dickhead in the Workers’
Social and now this. Perhaps these spoilt little posho brats were so used to getting their own way all the time that they’d
never had to learn basic consideration for others and the higher they climbed up the social ladder, the more they used their
elbows on everyone else.
It was a possibility, but I wasn’t really buying it. Charley wasn’t like that, just as I’m sure a lot of middle-class poshos
weren’t.
If anything, I reckon it was more to do with the fact that most people in these places were probably just a bit too polite
for their own good to say anything, so all the me-first merchants knew they could get away with it. Neither this place nor
the Workers’ Social looked like the sort of place you’d worry about getting your eyes blacked in so what was there to stop
a selfish git from doing a bit of queue-jumping or table-hogging if they were so inclined? Not a lot that I could see, but
sooner or later they’d do it to the wrong person. It always happens. I’ve seen it dozens of times before and no doubt I’ll
see it dozens of times again. You simply can’t get away with being a wanker for ever. It’s a basic rule of life. So why not
show everyone else a bit of common consideration and save the already overburdened NHS the trouble of having to put your face
back together when some mental Jock on his football travels blunders into the Funky Zebra looking for a deep-fried Mars bar?
‘Sorry, but I thought he was off and he only sat back down when he saw me coming over as a sort of fingers-up at me,’ I explained.
‘Well, people feel intimidated when they’re being rushed,’ Charley replied, and I wanted to ask her if they also felt intimidated
when they were being launched head first through plate-glass windows, but I already knew the answer to that one.
‘Anyway, what shall we have?’
I looked at the menu and found a full English at the top of the page.
‘Do you like eggs Benedict?’ Charley asked.
‘Yeah, which one was he again? Face in The A-Team , wasn’t he?’ I replied, made up by the fact that someone had finally asked me this question a mere twenty years after I’d
first thought up the accompanying gag.
Charley had never seen The A-Team and didn’t know what I was talking about so she pointed it out on the menu and asked me again if I liked them.
‘No,’ I
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