My usual routine of building up muscle and training it down is coming to an end.
I've reached an age where I've realised the image of an oversize, lump of muscle is neither positive or of benefit to me. I am after a visit to the doctor judged by the blind scale of BMI to be clinically obese. I've always been active, I'm on my feet and walking, running upstairs, wrestling people all of the time I'm at work. I trainn hard cardio and high rep weights and have a muscular physique. The dumb assessment that my mass exceeds a safe limit for my height is not something I take too seriously.
It does flag up that I'm an outlier. That what I've been doing over the years with my build has placed me in the extreme of the distribution and as I get older this will only be getting more apparent. It's time to slim down, up the fitness and do with technique what I've been doing with body weight. I'm not going to be disappearing anytime soon, hiding behind lampposts or being confused for a marathon runner will not be me. I think I'm just aiming to turn some of the overdeveloped musculature into a more conventional broad shouldered sporty build.
We'll see how this goes down at work. I'll still have a face like a bag of spanners and all the lessons I've learned so far but being smaller will reduce my physical presence. Will this lead to more grief or less grief?
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Fat Chance
On a student night a good while ago, the place was rammed, the drinks were on offer and heading down fast. The whole place was full, the aircon was wheezing it's best but still not doing much against the heaving mass of sweaty folks dancing. I had battled my way through the floor, moving step by step, watching and listening. Also getting in as many photos as possible. Even the most crowded student space will find 6' to take a photo in. That gives me a perfect gap to 6' further along my route. I get after some time to the gents on the upper floor. This is usually a little less busy, a prime location to see the lesser spotted the white powder snorter.
This busy student night, these kind of checks are very necessary. I find the toilet lobby empty, I find the sinks and urinal devoid of inhabitant, I find the cubicle in use. Actually I find the cubicle not in use, now it contains a large sleeping gent. Sweaty, breathing like a racehorse with a cold and entirely unconscious.
I radio for assistance, we're going to need it. On the arrival of a colleague who possesses what we've come to term dumb strength we can begin the operation. Talking, shouting, shaking, ear pinching, sternum rubbing have no effect. Time to grab an armpit each, and haul hard. Up he comes, several acres of soft while flesh extra on a frame to match mine. Step by step we dance him out of first the cubicle then the toilets. As we leave the toilets it strikes us that getting 30 seconds of time on the main stairs is not going to be possible with the place this crowded. Time for the nearest fire door. All good getting there, even students shift when two staff are wrestling a whale. We get to the fire door then we realise the next challenge, this is not going to be wide enough for us to stay one on each side. I have the misfortune of trying to keep mr drunks fat head and fatter upper body from slapping into the concrete stairs while the other gent goes down first and steers the lower half down without tangling or picking up momentum. 3 steps down I'm fully tight, 3 steps further and the burn begins, only 12 more to go, by 12 my arms, legs and back are starting to tremble, on landing I unceremoniously dump the lump on my colleague who dances him to the door which I pop open. With one breath of fresh air and all the jolting about, this fool wakes, assesses his location, stuffed in the armpit of a beast, then starts to get shirty. Big girls blousey. After shutting the door we brief the front door team and head in for some fluids and a chance to breathe.
This busy student night, these kind of checks are very necessary. I find the toilet lobby empty, I find the sinks and urinal devoid of inhabitant, I find the cubicle in use. Actually I find the cubicle not in use, now it contains a large sleeping gent. Sweaty, breathing like a racehorse with a cold and entirely unconscious.
I radio for assistance, we're going to need it. On the arrival of a colleague who possesses what we've come to term dumb strength we can begin the operation. Talking, shouting, shaking, ear pinching, sternum rubbing have no effect. Time to grab an armpit each, and haul hard. Up he comes, several acres of soft while flesh extra on a frame to match mine. Step by step we dance him out of first the cubicle then the toilets. As we leave the toilets it strikes us that getting 30 seconds of time on the main stairs is not going to be possible with the place this crowded. Time for the nearest fire door. All good getting there, even students shift when two staff are wrestling a whale. We get to the fire door then we realise the next challenge, this is not going to be wide enough for us to stay one on each side. I have the misfortune of trying to keep mr drunks fat head and fatter upper body from slapping into the concrete stairs while the other gent goes down first and steers the lower half down without tangling or picking up momentum. 3 steps down I'm fully tight, 3 steps further and the burn begins, only 12 more to go, by 12 my arms, legs and back are starting to tremble, on landing I unceremoniously dump the lump on my colleague who dances him to the door which I pop open. With one breath of fresh air and all the jolting about, this fool wakes, assesses his location, stuffed in the armpit of a beast, then starts to get shirty. Big girls blousey. After shutting the door we brief the front door team and head in for some fluids and a chance to breathe.
Friday, July 30, 2010
In the trough
No-one enjoys the gents toilets in nightclubs. I've worked in attendant toilets and they're cleaner, fresher and almost tolerable but still not a place to spend your evening. Most places, most of the time they're grotty. The smell of cleaning fluid fades fast once the sweaty pissing masses start to trickle through the door and trickle over the floor. It is the unfortunate soul who, while mixing the fine balance of splash soaked linoleum and slight alcohol hydration imbalance, slips on the well signed wet floor and lands in the trough. Hand slipped, elbow slipped, shoulder flank and hip in the vile mix of nightlclub effluent.
warm I discover the scene a few minutes after the event. I walk in to a foul smelling room to find a gent, naked from the waist up, jeans wet over one hip, hanging his dripping shirt under the lukeasthmatic effort of a hand dryer. Not a pretty sight and not a pretty smell either but at least he didn't take much looking after, once he'd got his shirt dry enough he wasn't going to freeze he slunk off homeward. I can only imagine he reasoned the piss stained outfit would impair his efforts with the ladies for the night. I can only say I think he over-estimated the quality of the ladies in the venue.
warm I discover the scene a few minutes after the event. I walk in to a foul smelling room to find a gent, naked from the waist up, jeans wet over one hip, hanging his dripping shirt under the lukeasthmatic effort of a hand dryer. Not a pretty sight and not a pretty smell either but at least he didn't take much looking after, once he'd got his shirt dry enough he wasn't going to freeze he slunk off homeward. I can only imagine he reasoned the piss stained outfit would impair his efforts with the ladies for the night. I can only say I think he over-estimated the quality of the ladies in the venue.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Summer Getaway
The school holidays have descended upon this little town again. The impact upon the drinking age folks is limited. The last day for A-level students has been and gone and they won't emerge in force 'til results day in a few weeks. The 13-17yr olds that aren't yet old enough to legally drink still enjoy the few venues that don't notice or care. They all seeem to think that getting into a nightclub mid-week will be cool. They all think it'll be fun and grwon up. Little do they know that it's mainly the sad, chavvy and the odd bunch of students that fill out the quiet weeknights of summer.
It is fun to watch their insistent efforts to enter what you know to be a dire quiet night. But it's a night club and it's got to be cool, hasn't it?
It is fun to watch their insistent efforts to enter what you know to be a dire quiet night. But it's a night club and it's got to be cool, hasn't it?
I think the alternative, of running to an overpriced overcrowded summer party island and dancing 'til the sum comes up with spirits unmeasured and sunburnt flesh for entertainment for a week of saturday nights, has less appeal to me. At least the more that do that, the less I have to see of them.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Fallout
This post is not, you'll be relieved to read, a reference to the sometimes breathtaking faith larger bodied ladies have in their minimal underwear.
No this a post about the route shit takes to get to me. When a customer has a shit day and decides to meet his mates for a drink, the stress, poorly understood emotions and poorly expressed anger come my way.
underlings, who pass it out to the bar staff. These When a manager gets a roasting for shit profit and loss figures, they pass down the shit to theirbarstaff, give shit to the customers and I end up clearing it up when they make their frustrations known.
When the management of the door-company get a bollocking from the club company for not meeting the service level agreement, my boss gives me shit for keeping a slack door.
None of these is me bringing my shit to work, I don't do that as there's more than enough shit from other people to go 'round.
No this a post about the route shit takes to get to me. When a customer has a shit day and decides to meet his mates for a drink, the stress, poorly understood emotions and poorly expressed anger come my way.
underlings, who pass it out to the bar staff. These When a manager gets a roasting for shit profit and loss figures, they pass down the shit to theirbarstaff, give shit to the customers and I end up clearing it up when they make their frustrations known.
When the management of the door-company get a bollocking from the club company for not meeting the service level agreement, my boss gives me shit for keeping a slack door.
None of these is me bringing my shit to work, I don't do that as there's more than enough shit from other people to go 'round.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Running Around
I'm not happy being led on wild goose chases, even less happy doing it in a hot busy nightclub with the usual workload of drunken numpties to deal with.
The goose chase begins with me ejecting a customer the week before, too drunk, unsteady on his feet, time to go home without any issue about getting back in another night. That was until he ranted and raved at us on the front door, calling us a large number of abusive things, none of which were massively original. This ended when the local constabulary came by and after a whole 5 seconds of observation, hopped out the mini-van and had words to the effect of "go home, now!".
This worked and we decided in his wake that when he returned the next weekend, something we were certain about, he'd be excluded for a couple of nights to establish the point.
The following weekend, we see the punter walking past early doors, on his way to hit a few warm up venues with high velocity vertical drinking and large discounts. We clock his outfit for the evening and make a mental note to block his efforts later on.
I pop inside for a wander round, a glass of soda water and trip to the loo. I return to front door and the new lad on the team, oblivious to the discussions last week and earlier in the night, says to be aware we've just let in X many local chavs. I ask if one was 18-20, 5'7" to 5'9", brown spiked hair in Y brand shirt and Z brand shoes. He says yes.
Here, I could send him back in to dig him out but he'd be in a shit situation and have to about face from letting him in only 2 minutes ago. I wander in and start my search, every seating and standing area, the smoking crowd, the dancefloors, the gents toilets, systematically sweeping through. This is a busy night, it's hot, I spot a dozen folk to put on my mental watch list. Get called over by the barstaff, get all the usual action of a night. I get my sweep interrupted and have to go back and start again.
After half an hour of wandering about inside, I'm sweating, grumpy and figure it for a bad job. One punter sneaking by is gonna happen every now and again, I don't take it personally, I'll just have to up the rest of my game and attempt to nudge the line for order over anarchy a little in my favour.
Getting back to the cooler air of the door, I send the young one back in and cool off a little. Who do I then see staggering up the street towards the door. The punter I'd been searching for. Not his fault, no need to be nasty, but he did get knocked back and told to cool off.
The new lad, he got a roasting, but sod it, he'll learn.
The goose chase begins with me ejecting a customer the week before, too drunk, unsteady on his feet, time to go home without any issue about getting back in another night. That was until he ranted and raved at us on the front door, calling us a large number of abusive things, none of which were massively original. This ended when the local constabulary came by and after a whole 5 seconds of observation, hopped out the mini-van and had words to the effect of "go home, now!".
This worked and we decided in his wake that when he returned the next weekend, something we were certain about, he'd be excluded for a couple of nights to establish the point.
The following weekend, we see the punter walking past early doors, on his way to hit a few warm up venues with high velocity vertical drinking and large discounts. We clock his outfit for the evening and make a mental note to block his efforts later on.
I pop inside for a wander round, a glass of soda water and trip to the loo. I return to front door and the new lad on the team, oblivious to the discussions last week and earlier in the night, says to be aware we've just let in X many local chavs. I ask if one was 18-20, 5'7" to 5'9", brown spiked hair in Y brand shirt and Z brand shoes. He says yes.
Here, I could send him back in to dig him out but he'd be in a shit situation and have to about face from letting him in only 2 minutes ago. I wander in and start my search, every seating and standing area, the smoking crowd, the dancefloors, the gents toilets, systematically sweeping through. This is a busy night, it's hot, I spot a dozen folk to put on my mental watch list. Get called over by the barstaff, get all the usual action of a night. I get my sweep interrupted and have to go back and start again.
After half an hour of wandering about inside, I'm sweating, grumpy and figure it for a bad job. One punter sneaking by is gonna happen every now and again, I don't take it personally, I'll just have to up the rest of my game and attempt to nudge the line for order over anarchy a little in my favour.
Getting back to the cooler air of the door, I send the young one back in and cool off a little. Who do I then see staggering up the street towards the door. The punter I'd been searching for. Not his fault, no need to be nasty, but he did get knocked back and told to cool off.
The new lad, he got a roasting, but sod it, he'll learn.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Home time
I work anti-social hours. That's obviously anti-social for me, highly social for just about everyone else.
When I finish a shift, I've been on my feet for between 4 and 17 hours depending upon the day, the venue and the number of venues I've worked. No real sitting down during this time, often a little adrenaline, some physical exertion and a whole load of standing around talking shit.
When I get done I'm often tired, hungry and fairly awake. I don't caffeinate particularly, I don't do the red-bull, energy shots or stay awake drinks, when I do get home from work I don't want anything getting in the way of my beauty sleep.
I often fancy a high calorie, high protein, high flavour, high fat, high salt snack to stave off hunger 'til the morning. I am thus drawn to the late night fast food venues nearest to the venue. I know the really popular one, that'll be full of all the scum I've been battling on and off all shift.
I go to the other one, quieter, still capable and less dickhead filled.
I'm known there by name, if I'm coming late, I've got the man's number to get my order in.
Most of the time, it's very quiet by the time I'm getting there, taxi, drivers, barstaff, dancers and other doorstaff make up most of the custom. I don't get on with all of them but it's friendly, sober and necessary. Most of the drunken few who stumble in don't really pay much notice. They want food and their or others beds. Frankly that's really what I'm after and wrapped and ready to go, I take my heartstopper home to enjoy, out of my boots, feet up in front of some pre-recorded televisual tedium. Arteries won't thank me for it but at least it stops me losing weight.
When I finish a shift, I've been on my feet for between 4 and 17 hours depending upon the day, the venue and the number of venues I've worked. No real sitting down during this time, often a little adrenaline, some physical exertion and a whole load of standing around talking shit.
When I get done I'm often tired, hungry and fairly awake. I don't caffeinate particularly, I don't do the red-bull, energy shots or stay awake drinks, when I do get home from work I don't want anything getting in the way of my beauty sleep.
I often fancy a high calorie, high protein, high flavour, high fat, high salt snack to stave off hunger 'til the morning. I am thus drawn to the late night fast food venues nearest to the venue. I know the really popular one, that'll be full of all the scum I've been battling on and off all shift.
I go to the other one, quieter, still capable and less dickhead filled.
I'm known there by name, if I'm coming late, I've got the man's number to get my order in.
Most of the time, it's very quiet by the time I'm getting there, taxi, drivers, barstaff, dancers and other doorstaff make up most of the custom. I don't get on with all of them but it's friendly, sober and necessary. Most of the drunken few who stumble in don't really pay much notice. They want food and their or others beds. Frankly that's really what I'm after and wrapped and ready to go, I take my heartstopper home to enjoy, out of my boots, feet up in front of some pre-recorded televisual tedium. Arteries won't thank me for it but at least it stops me losing weight.
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