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Monday, January 30, 2006


Now there are a few folk who fall foul of the end of my patience. I'm reknown as a very laid back, very patient kind of guy when I'm at work. However...

The easiest way to get kicked out on your own into the cold dark night filled with creeps, crawlers and things that quite like going bump in the night is to get on the escalator to the end of my patience. The incident will start with something simple, a trip, a dropped glass, a raised voice or one of a plethora of minor little things that first warrant my attention. The punter then faces the simple choice to step onto the escalator or to avoid it. To avoid it requires neither intelligence nor sobriety, more a sense of manners/reponsibility/embarrassment/recognition of status as guests in the establishment/some concept of them not being the still centre of the ever turning world. It will usually be a punter responding to an enquiry of mine with a "sorry man, yeah, no bother" or a giggled "oops, yes I'll not do that in here" from the lighter sex.

To step onto the escalator is all too natural a response for the chav's, scrotes, neds, scallys that haunt my regular work habitat. The first response is often a deliberate ignoring, when you look over at the person talking to you, then deliberately look away and act dumb then I think it's perfectly reasonable to keep an eye on your behaviour from then on. This may lead to me seeing you do something you shouldn't and sending you homeward early, this may just mean you get pulled to one side and told sternly that somethings are acceptable, other things are not. Eventually either way the end of the night arrives (thank god) or then end of their night arrives.

Some don't step onto the escalator, they run full tilt at it and keep going for the top. One fellow did this, after asking a fellow "Don't you think it's time you headed home?" his mate chirps up with an "alright man leave him alone, he's just having a good time." Not horrific but enough to start trying my patience, on the peaceful escorted walk to the main door the original very drunken friend is cheery, amenable and merrily accepting of his premature wander home. The mate is however running full tilt upwards at this point. The arm placed around the drunkards shoulder to steer his staggering form doorwards is pulled away by his mate. Now that's just foolish and the mate is then the recipient of the guiding arm, this time a little less steering a little more stiffening. At the reception, the absence of coats is noticed. The drunkard amazingly locates his cloakroom ticket it only the 5th pocket he empties.

Not bad going methinks, the mate however takes this pause in the exit procedure to be abusive and starts swearing at me. This just adds another few flights to the escalator and it's now northern line proportions. I'm fairly immune to swearing, too many nights out with squaddies have left me rather immune to the whole affair. However the very big, very bored and very short fused front door men after half an hour freezing their arses off decide listen in for a laugh. The patience escalator has reached the end and the little voice should be chirping up with "
please get ready to walk on NOW" but instead the end is reached with a very gently shove doorwards, he tries to shove back and rapidly finds the wall closer to his face and his hands closer to his coccyx. Then a rapid flight down the front steps to encounter the front door lads stepping swiftly out of the way as the curb beckons for our willing escalator rider. Only possible improvements on this are the verbal threats to the front doormen who will readily laugh/walk away/tear you a new one.

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