Erection of a fence between the neighbors and the Wayside Tavern has stalled.
Only 30 metres of an eventual 60 metres has been erected. Two metres high of chain link mesh topped by 3 strands of barbed wire looks incongruous standing alone, sort of like a remainder/reminder piece of the Berlin wall.
As evidence that the power of thought is a stranger to many of the clientele, one fellow stated this morning that last night he had climbed the fence to get into the Wayside Tavern. (This is akin to clambering over a restaurant table to get to the other side - rather than going around it)
The fellow had clambered over in the dark, then drank in the Wayside Tavern for several hours.
As further proof (not required) that thought processes are slow, when he started to climb the fence he had on his person an emptied cigarette packet, containing $350. When he clambered down the inside of the fence & stood up, he no longer had this cigarette packet. However he did not recall/notice this loss until the following day.
Which brings Mine Host to recounting the purpose of this fellow's visit this morning to the Wayside Tavern:
He was demanding a "refund" from Mine Host of the $350 which had fallen from his pocket as he climbed our fence in the dark.
From his demeanour, and the way he scoured the ground by a particular part of the fence, Mine Host believes the loss of $350 to be authentic.
Also authentic is the belief of the bereft one that it is Mine Host's responsibility to "make good" the loss.
He blithely asked for the "refund" in a manner which suggested he was demanding the return of an overdue item (say a leather jacket) loaned by him to Mine Host.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Sunday, June 18, 2006
The "after work" crowd
A routine unique to urban dwellers & others who live close enough to a pub to make daily visits, is what is known as "after work" drinkers.
Upon completion of their day of toil, they repair to the pub with workmates to relax over a few drinks and to have a good time in a convivial atmosphere.
These drinkers are by no means a homogenous genre. They fall into two distinct groups:
Those who labour.
Those who don't.
The worker who works with his body (eg, pushing a lawnmower on the
council) is "stuffed" after a day at work, and wants nothing more than to sit down, drink cold beer, and relax. He gets exercise aplenty at work, and wants only to rest.
This worker will sit quietly in the pub downing several cold beers and is a pleasure to serve.
The worker who does not use his body at work (eg, an office johnny) is ready to rip. He gets no exercise at work, and now wants to let off the energy he is not allowed to release during the day. His off duty pursuits will tend towards the physically active, gym or running or something.
His pub habits will tend toward the boisterous. This worker is jus
t looking for some way to act up. Dealing with him is never the honest pleasure which comes from serving the physical labourer.
Upon completion of their day of toil, they repair to the pub with workmates to relax over a few drinks and to have a good time in a convivial atmosphere.
These drinkers are by no means a homogenous genre. They fall into two distinct groups:
Those who labour.
Those who don't.
The worker who works with his body (eg, pushing a lawnmower on the
council) is "stuffed" after a day at work, and wants nothing more than to sit down, drink cold beer, and relax. He gets exercise aplenty at work, and wants only to rest.This worker will sit quietly in the pub downing several cold beers and is a pleasure to serve.
The worker who does not use his body at work (eg, an office johnny) is ready to rip. He gets no exercise at work, and now wants to let off the energy he is not allowed to release during the day. His off duty pursuits will tend towards the physically active, gym or running or something.
His pub habits will tend toward the boisterous. This worker is jus
t looking for some way to act up. Dealing with him is never the honest pleasure which comes from serving the physical labourer.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Are you hereafter what I am hereafter?
Kitchen (& kitchen staff) stories are among the fertile ground of personal experience from which Mine Host harvests blog stories.
Davo was big and strong. Standing around 6'3", he was lean, carried no fat, blonde and well built. His arms were strong and had range, sort of like horizontal telegraph poles.
He had for some time worked "door" just up the street at the Slaughterhouse Room in the No-Holds-Barred Tavern. Now he was a kitchenhand at the Divers Arms.
He was local, white, could fight, and also what is these days known as "gay".
Everybody knew, nobody cared, Davo bothered nobody who hadn't asked for it, at one time or another had flattened some of the toughest fellows around town, and being more butch than most men was at no risk of being considered effeminate.
"Dukey" was an energetic and enthusiastic chef and, as events transpired, the only person in the kitchen who was unaware of Davo's orientation.
The mists of time have obscured whose idea it was. Mine Host believes it to have been Dukey's suggestion; that Dukey & Davo, on a night off, borrow a dinghy, load it with grog, head to a deserted beach, run 'er up onto the sand, light a fire, and then far from the strife & trouble of the workplace spend the night yarning until they fell asleep.
All went well. They caught fish on the way. Upon arrival they lit a corker of fire, then in a leisurely manner proceeded to enjoy their surrounds.
The night became black, hours wore on, and still nothing besides drinking, yarning, eating fish and stoking the fire.
Davo, tiring of what seemed a much too extended preliminary session, decided to get things a moving along a little. He reached over to Dukey & put a hand on his thigh.
Not until this moment had Dukey the faintest idea that Davo was gay. Dukey's reaction (which we can only imagine) was the first glimmer for Davo that Dukey was unaware of Davo's.. uh.. orientation.
Thus horrifyingly and simultaneously the penny dropped for each of them.
The ride home in the dinghy (they arrived back before midnight) undoubtedly was a most awkward experience for each. (Though a subject of considerable mirth for their co-workers)
Davo was big and strong. Standing around 6'3", he was lean, carried no fat, blonde and well built. His arms were strong and had range, sort of like horizontal telegraph poles.
He had for some time worked "door" just up the street at the Slaughterhouse Room in the No-Holds-Barred Tavern. Now he was a kitchenhand at the Divers Arms.
He was local, white, could fight, and also what is these days known as "gay".
Everybody knew, nobody cared, Davo bothered nobody who hadn't asked for it, at one time or another had flattened some of the toughest fellows around town, and being more butch than most men was at no risk of being considered effeminate.
"Dukey" was an energetic and enthusiastic chef and, as events transpired, the only person in the kitchen who was unaware of Davo's orientation.
The mists of time have obscured whose idea it was. Mine Host believes it to have been Dukey's suggestion; that Dukey & Davo, on a night off, borrow a dinghy, load it with grog, head to a deserted beach, run 'er up onto the sand, light a fire, and then far from the strife & trouble of the workplace spend the night yarning until they fell asleep.
All went well. They caught fish on the way. Upon arrival they lit a corker of fire, then in a leisurely manner proceeded to enjoy their surrounds.
The night became black, hours wore on, and still nothing besides drinking, yarning, eating fish and stoking the fire.
Davo, tiring of what seemed a much too extended preliminary session, decided to get things a moving along a little. He reached over to Dukey & put a hand on his thigh.
Not until this moment had Dukey the faintest idea that Davo was gay. Dukey's reaction (which we can only imagine) was the first glimmer for Davo that Dukey was unaware of Davo's.. uh.. orientation.
Thus horrifyingly and simultaneously the penny dropped for each of them.
The ride home in the dinghy (they arrived back before midnight) undoubtedly was a most awkward experience for each. (Though a subject of considerable mirth for their co-workers)
Saturday, May 27, 2006
We asked the kids
Those who have actually experienced the unique subculture of the outback cattle station will know of the "manager's kids".
These rascals are not only untouchable, but can (& do) get up to all sorts of mischief, often whilst role-playing a wild-west themed activity. These activities can become extreme.
For example: Station dogs, pet sheep, poddy calves, chooks etc have been known to be hanged as "outlaws" - that is REALLY hanged, until dead, from a slaughtering gallows or a cap rail in the stockyards.
Mine Host himself has a small hairless patch on his scalp, the result of (as an 8 year old) using rapid fire from a cap pistol to add some realism to the galloping pursuit of "indians" through light timber. The old stockhorse didn't take to well to the new trick.
However the "managers kids" are often a source of information, and their innocence when pumped by the station or stock camp staff can be quite revealing......
.............................................................................................
The sudden removal of the governess from "Hardwork Plains" had us all wondering. Though she was a "hottie" she had, over time, grown aloof toward her fellow workers.
In the twilight one afternoon, playtime brought the kids (armed to the teeth with capguns & carrying an assortment of "lassoos") around the lawns of the ringer's quarters.
Taking this opportunity for some inside gossip from the "big house", we asked why the governess had left.
"The governess and Daddy were fighting a lot, and Mummy wasn't happy about it"
This was a shock to us, as privately we had all suspected that the manager was rather "close" with the governess.
"Are you kids sure they were fighting?"
"Oh yes, we saw them, through the steel louvres of her quarters, it was horrible."
"Er... we thought Daddy had been friends with Miss Hourglasshape"
"Oh no, it was proper fighting, like grownups do, they took off all their clothes and lay down on the floor, we were scared by it and we went and got mummy."
These rascals are not only untouchable, but can (& do) get up to all sorts of mischief, often whilst role-playing a wild-west themed activity. These activities can become extreme.
For example: Station dogs, pet sheep, poddy calves, chooks etc have been known to be hanged as "outlaws" - that is REALLY hanged, until dead, from a slaughtering gallows or a cap rail in the stockyards.
Mine Host himself has a small hairless patch on his scalp, the result of (as an 8 year old) using rapid fire from a cap pistol to add some realism to the galloping pursuit of "indians" through light timber. The old stockhorse didn't take to well to the new trick.
However the "managers kids" are often a source of information, and their innocence when pumped by the station or stock camp staff can be quite revealing......
.............................................................................................
The sudden removal of the governess from "Hardwork Plains" had us all wondering. Though she was a "hottie" she had, over time, grown aloof toward her fellow workers.
In the twilight one afternoon, playtime brought the kids (armed to the teeth with capguns & carrying an assortment of "lassoos") around the lawns of the ringer's quarters.
Taking this opportunity for some inside gossip from the "big house", we asked why the governess had left.
"The governess and Daddy were fighting a lot, and Mummy wasn't happy about it"
This was a shock to us, as privately we had all suspected that the manager was rather "close" with the governess.
"Are you kids sure they were fighting?"
"Oh yes, we saw them, through the steel louvres of her quarters, it was horrible."
"Er... we thought Daddy had been friends with Miss Hourglasshape"
"Oh no, it was proper fighting, like grownups do, they took off all their clothes and lay down on the floor, we were scared by it and we went and got mummy."
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Who says only pubs prefer female staff?
The job market in Oz is very much a seller's market.
The extent of the desperation of the employment crisis:
Over the past few months the hospital has sent agents into the Wayside Tavern on several occassions, and almost all of Mine Host's female staff have while at work, recieved a surreptitious approach, offering to train them as nurses.
I never imagined in my life this would happen, that hospital management would be coming into pubs and bottleshops, repeatedly, attempting to cajole the girls into a nursing career.
Clearly the hospital management is under extreme pressure.
Mine Host, who has to fend off poaching attempts from many directions, at least has not to worry about this new threat, as the ladies have all informed the hospital recruiters that they prefer pouring beer to wiping bums.
In a sexist twist, None of the male staff have been targeted by the hospital.
The extent of the desperation of the employment crisis:
Over the past few months the hospital has sent agents into the Wayside Tavern on several occassions, and almost all of Mine Host's female staff have while at work, recieved a surreptitious approach, offering to train them as nurses.
I never imagined in my life this would happen, that hospital management would be coming into pubs and bottleshops, repeatedly, attempting to cajole the girls into a nursing career.
Clearly the hospital management is under extreme pressure.
Mine Host, who has to fend off poaching attempts from many directions, at least has not to worry about this new threat, as the ladies have all informed the hospital recruiters that they prefer pouring beer to wiping bums.
In a sexist twist, None of the male staff have been targeted by the hospital.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Just When I think I have Seen it All (part 4)
Jennifer responded to a job ad. Married 9 years, with 2 young children and a skilled technician husband she was in a different league to most pub staff.
A former legal secretary, she was more than competent at most aspects of pub work. She was demure in behaviour, eager to work, wore petticoats and singlets, could handle almost any situation. She was working for extra mortgage money.
For several months Mine Host and his senior manager quietly congratulated themselves on landing such a versatile, hardworking and reliable person. She was competent at bar work, bottleshop, ordering liquor, all aspects of poker machine handling, making beds, kitchen work, and supervising of any part of the hotel. This lady had class and style. Nothing would go wrong with her. (We should have known better).
A couple of years after Jennifer started at the Wayside Tavern, it became obvious that all was not well with her domestic situation.
It all came into the open when on the same day she and the children moved out of the house, and she was caught "having it off" with a (long haired) dole bludger by several staff who entered a supposedly empty storeroom without knocking.
Single again, Jennifer's petticoats & singlets disappeared, her work shirts were no longer buttoned to the neck, lacy lingerie became slightly visible, skirts shorter.
Her slide into previously unsuspected depravity became complete when an obviously quite distressed staff member reported to Mine Host about midnight one night that "something" was happening in the car park.
What follows can only be described as beyond Mine Host's belief:
Quick questioning revealed that Jennifer had gone into the car park with a small group of customers, opened the drivers door of a car, sat down with her feet remaining on the ground, slipped her underwear off, over one foot at a time, then lifted her skirt up to her waist, placed one leg through the gap between the open door & the frame of the car, her knee on the rear view mirror, the other kneed placed on the hook of the seat belt.
With the group of customers forming a semi-circle around her, Jennifer was splayed in possibly the most vulnerable position a human can be in. Several of the customers would then come forward in turn to insert a finger. (One would hope here that the boys had been washing their hands)
After the exhibition Jennifer exited the car, dressed, closed the door, and returned to work.
Mine Host verified in person only the fact that Jennifer was absent from work, and that her time sheet did not reflect the unauthorised (and un-covered) "break". She chose on the spot to finish her employment voluntarily.
Far from being bashful about her activities, Jennifer was insulted and angry that her timesheet extensions had been detected by Mine Host and the Wayside Tavern would not now be paying her the barmaid hourly rate for the time spend engaged in such activity. Apparently the exhibition had been a regular event.
A former legal secretary, she was more than competent at most aspects of pub work. She was demure in behaviour, eager to work, wore petticoats and singlets, could handle almost any situation. She was working for extra mortgage money.
For several months Mine Host and his senior manager quietly congratulated themselves on landing such a versatile, hardworking and reliable person. She was competent at bar work, bottleshop, ordering liquor, all aspects of poker machine handling, making beds, kitchen work, and supervising of any part of the hotel. This lady had class and style. Nothing would go wrong with her. (We should have known better).
A couple of years after Jennifer started at the Wayside Tavern, it became obvious that all was not well with her domestic situation.
It all came into the open when on the same day she and the children moved out of the house, and she was caught "having it off" with a (long haired) dole bludger by several staff who entered a supposedly empty storeroom without knocking.
Single again, Jennifer's petticoats & singlets disappeared, her work shirts were no longer buttoned to the neck, lacy lingerie became slightly visible, skirts shorter.
Her slide into previously unsuspected depravity became complete when an obviously quite distressed staff member reported to Mine Host about midnight one night that "something" was happening in the car park.
What follows can only be described as beyond Mine Host's belief:
Quick questioning revealed that Jennifer had gone into the car park with a small group of customers, opened the drivers door of a car, sat down with her feet remaining on the ground, slipped her underwear off, over one foot at a time, then lifted her skirt up to her waist, placed one leg through the gap between the open door & the frame of the car, her knee on the rear view mirror, the other kneed placed on the hook of the seat belt.
With the group of customers forming a semi-circle around her, Jennifer was splayed in possibly the most vulnerable position a human can be in. Several of the customers would then come forward in turn to insert a finger. (One would hope here that the boys had been washing their hands)
After the exhibition Jennifer exited the car, dressed, closed the door, and returned to work.
Mine Host verified in person only the fact that Jennifer was absent from work, and that her time sheet did not reflect the unauthorised (and un-covered) "break". She chose on the spot to finish her employment voluntarily.
Far from being bashful about her activities, Jennifer was insulted and angry that her timesheet extensions had been detected by Mine Host and the Wayside Tavern would not now be paying her the barmaid hourly rate for the time spend engaged in such activity. Apparently the exhibition had been a regular event.
Just When I think I have Seen it All (part 3)
A violent incident has occurred in the street, one in which a young man has recieved a serious injury which will leave him carrying a lifelong scar.
Ambulance and police are in attendance.
Thankfully it is several doors down. Passing motorists will notice the next pub down as being the closest, and the Wayside Tavern shall not be blamed. (Always a nervous experience having an ambulance attend the premises, is very bad for business)
From the door of the Wayside Tavern I saw the entire drama played out.
Two young men had been standing talking, alcohol fuelled, it was difficult to ascertain if they were arguing, or merely having a boisterous conversation.
Police have coasted to a halt nearby, the situation looks to them as if they should keep an eye on it, which they do, from a range of 5 metres. The street is otherwise empty.
One of the young men is holding an empty beer glass, he raises it in a threatening manner, intending to do someone harm.
Suddenly and violently he brings the glass crashing down on his own head, inflicting a very long and jagged cut to the bone, causing blood to flow freely.
The police, as stunned by anyone else by this turn of events, call an ambulance. Young people nearby who claimed to have known the young man are perplexed as to the reasons for his actions.
Mine Host & gathered staff shrug shoulders & ponder yet again the merits to society of abortion being allowed from conception through to 23 years after birth.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
My Photo
The background does not give much clue to the location, but there is not much of the country where part-Percheron breeding is preferred in the steeds, and there is lots of roly-poly.
This fellow had a mouth like iron, & steered like a one-way plough. But he was a very smooth ride, and continually surprised me with the extent of his hurdling ability.
Full saddlebag, midday sun, fenceposts to indicate we are at a waterpoint, roly poly indicates the environs have been unstocked.
Does this silence all those who complain that I don't show myself on blog?
Friday, April 14, 2006
The Missed Flight!
Stewie was one of the most talented chefs to ever work for Mine Host.
Shaven headed, with tattoos front & rear of his neck (which being blood red, looked much like entry & exit bullet wounds). A most imposing sight he would have been, had he been a heavyweight instead of a bantamweight.
The tattoos and shaven head, while harmless personal choices of Stewie's, indicate an attitude toward societal norms which any employer, when hiring, is well advised to keep in the back of their mind.
One of the few chefs to serve the full term of his contract, Stewie then took holidays down south, after which he would return for a second term.
Mine Host gladly funded the return airfare south (one of the benefits to staff who actually complete their contract).
However on the day of return, Stewie did not disembark from the flight.
Shortly after came a phone call:
"I missed me flight, send another airfare"
"Return airfare was supplied, if you didn't make use of it then it is up to you to organise getting here. But be quick, you are late for work"
"Not my fault, the plane left without me, it musta been early or something" (Yea right - to use Stewie's own vernacular)
When Stewie arrived back at work (self-funded trip this time) he tried to spin some far-fetched yarn about how "Qantas was at fault".. how the flight had left before schedule, without him.. etc etc.
However the real story rapidly came to light: (facts can never be suppressed)
"Er... boss, I gotta be back in the big smoke on the 23rd"
"Like fun! On the 23rd you will be at work Sonny Jim. You just got back from holidays, no more time off for a while!"
"Er... I really gotta be there, I gotta appear at court, if I miss the hearing on the 23rd, there will be a warrant for me on the 24th....."
This is where the facts of the "missed flight" emerged:
Stewie had arrived at the airport still "half-charged" from his holiday bender.....
......had got into an argument with Qantas check-in staff. ....(Perhaps over his suitability to fly when already so obviously inebriated, but this is speculation on my part) ......
..... the argument culminated in Stewie taking a swing at a Qantas staff member.....
So when Stewie's flight departed he was in a paddy wagon on his way back into town.
Violence toward airport staff, at an airport, is a most serious offence. Stewie will be a very sorry little boy before the legal system has finished with him over this.
Shaven headed, with tattoos front & rear of his neck (which being blood red, looked much like entry & exit bullet wounds). A most imposing sight he would have been, had he been a heavyweight instead of a bantamweight.
The tattoos and shaven head, while harmless personal choices of Stewie's, indicate an attitude toward societal norms which any employer, when hiring, is well advised to keep in the back of their mind.
One of the few chefs to serve the full term of his contract, Stewie then took holidays down south, after which he would return for a second term.
Mine Host gladly funded the return airfare south (one of the benefits to staff who actually complete their contract).
However on the day of return, Stewie did not disembark from the flight.
Shortly after came a phone call:
"I missed me flight, send another airfare"
"Return airfare was supplied, if you didn't make use of it then it is up to you to organise getting here. But be quick, you are late for work"
"Not my fault, the plane left without me, it musta been early or something" (Yea right - to use Stewie's own vernacular)
When Stewie arrived back at work (self-funded trip this time) he tried to spin some far-fetched yarn about how "Qantas was at fault".. how the flight had left before schedule, without him.. etc etc.
However the real story rapidly came to light: (facts can never be suppressed)
"Er... boss, I gotta be back in the big smoke on the 23rd"
"Like fun! On the 23rd you will be at work Sonny Jim. You just got back from holidays, no more time off for a while!"
"Er... I really gotta be there, I gotta appear at court, if I miss the hearing on the 23rd, there will be a warrant for me on the 24th....."
This is where the facts of the "missed flight" emerged:
Stewie had arrived at the airport still "half-charged" from his holiday bender.....
......had got into an argument with Qantas check-in staff. ....(Perhaps over his suitability to fly when already so obviously inebriated, but this is speculation on my part) ......
..... the argument culminated in Stewie taking a swing at a Qantas staff member.....
So when Stewie's flight departed he was in a paddy wagon on his way back into town.
Violence toward airport staff, at an airport, is a most serious offence. Stewie will be a very sorry little boy before the legal system has finished with him over this.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Riots and street marches!
With wry cynicism Mine Host noted the "riots" of Cronulla.
Mine Host hasty formed the opinion that anyone who called cronulla a "riot" doesn't know what a riot is, as was proved when the same people who used the word "riot" whilst standing with a TV camera & notebook virtually in between the police & "rioters", had the sense to go no closer than a half mile or so to gangs of "men of middle eastern appearance" as they formed up & went on an actual mindless rampage of violence.
Noting how the cronulla riot consisted of several hours of loitering, followed by a few mad dashes hither & thither after one or two hapless swarthy people, Mine Host was of the belief that more than anything else it resembled the greasy pig chase at a country gymkhana.
Mine Host thinks back to his time at the Penang Commonwealth Arms, when a riot occurred outside the adjacent police station.
In marked contrast to how such an event would be (mis)handled by the well resourced police and courts of of the really good system we have in Australia, Mine Host now shares his observations of the inefficient and tactless developing nation customs of the Malaysian police and protestors.
Naturally a developed nation (ie. Australia) would have streets which one may walk free from random assault, mugging etc, and violent protests couple with attacks on police would not be tolerated.. Naturally......
Naturally a developing nation (ie. Malaysia) would not yet have advanced to the stage of peace quiet and brotherhood which Australians enjoy.. Naturally.....
Mine Host hasty formed the opinion that anyone who called cronulla a "riot" doesn't know what a riot is, as was proved when the same people who used the word "riot" whilst standing with a TV camera & notebook virtually in between the police & "rioters", had the sense to go no closer than a half mile or so to gangs of "men of middle eastern appearance" as they formed up & went on an actual mindless rampage of violence.
Noting how the cronulla riot consisted of several hours of loitering, followed by a few mad dashes hither & thither after one or two hapless swarthy people, Mine Host was of the belief that more than anything else it resembled the greasy pig chase at a country gymkhana.
Mine Host thinks back to his time at the Penang Commonwealth Arms, when a riot occurred outside the adjacent police station.
In marked contrast to how such an event would be (mis)handled by the well resourced police and courts of of the really good system we have in Australia, Mine Host now shares his observations of the inefficient and tactless developing nation customs of the Malaysian police and protestors.
Naturally a developed nation (ie. Australia) would have streets which one may walk free from random assault, mugging etc, and violent protests couple with attacks on police would not be tolerated.. Naturally......
Naturally a developing nation (ie. Malaysia) would not yet have advanced to the stage of peace quiet and brotherhood which Australians enjoy.. Naturally.....
The first example of developing nation inefficiency was the sheer numbers of police who turned up. (Don't they have any paperwork to do?) A seemingly never ending stream of black trucks disgorge platoons of officers. Another inefficient use of resources was the volume of equipment carried: Each officer has a shield, baton and helmet. Clearly the police procurement section had overspent on equipment. Perhaps they got them second hand somewhere, as the batons and sheilds appeared to have had significant previous use, though the helmets did seem to be unmarked.
Without recieving any loud orders or string of macho hand signals, the police stand in a formation. They just happen to have formed up in an "L" shape around the protestors, what a coincidence, if things turn into a fight, the formation the police are in will be very bad for the protestors. *tsk*tsk*
The demeanour of the massed police is very relaxed, it is almost as if it is a foregone conclusion that in the looming confrontation they will defeat the protestors. One would almost think from their manner, that the police have not only the power to stop the protest sharply, but actually intend to do it.
The waiting lines of police beat a tattoo on their shields with their batons. Perhaps they don't have pipes & drums and are making music to soothe things? (all the money spent on batons & stuff?). But the sound isn't very soothing, it is rather scary and there is a strange feeling in the air that the police are fair dinkum. Perhaps this batting on the sheilds is how the batons & sheilds got their "pre-used" look? Surely the police minister, prompted by tomorrow's outcry in the press, will reprimand the police situation commander for allowing his men to engage in conduct which intimidated and alarmed the protestors? Surely....
The protestors are not showing the courage and steely fortitude of their Australian uni student cousins. These Malaysian protestors are not talking sassy to the police. They are throwing palm fronds and hurling buckets of water at the police. Don't they know these things will not hurt a single police officer? Surely they know about ball bearings, caltrops, paint, rocks, bricks etc, Why don't they use these things?
Suddenly, the police without warning pop tear gas amongst the protestors. (Once again tomorrow's press outcry will cause political pressure on the police to give warnings and show more sensitivity). Surely....
There seems to be no emergency medical facilities on hand to treat any protestor who is overcome by the tear gas. *tsk*tsk* what an oversight by the police! Apart from that, the tear gassing (in a series of colours) is quite a crowd pleaser! (er.. not for the crowd of protestors however)
Strangely there seems to be no TV cameras on hand to beam these scenes into the lounge rooms of the nation. There are reporters present, but they seem to be playing down their presence, and are making a point of obviously not filming any police or anything.
The police charge into the tear gassed protestors. Not to render aid to those who are overcome by the gas, they seem concerned only with those protestors who are still able to run. (More sensitivity training needed for these police) The police run after the fleeing protestors, who seem to be trapped by the tear gas and the advancing lines of police. Rather good luck that the police just happened to adopt the "L" formation as they did. It means none of the protestors will escape.
In another divergence from Australian accepted protesting choreography, whenever a police officer merely touches a protestor, that protester freezes on the spot. They don't move a muscle, they are like players who are "tagged" in a schoolyard game of Tiggy, no longer in the match they just stand on the spot and casually watch the outcome.
Don't these people know how to kick and struggle with police? Why don't they do it? Don't they realise that unless a policeman is physically holding them down they are able to run away? Why don't they stand for a minute, then run away? Thus outsmarting the police? Who haven't even bothered to handcuff them or anything?
Another developing nation inefficiency is displayed when a stream of black mariahs start arriving. Clearly the police have overspent on these things, there seems to be lots of macho law & order toys. It is almost as if the misguided Malaysian government has resourced and tasked the police to arrest and lock up rowdy anti-social elements. (Clearly more sensitivity training required!)
Aha! The police have miscalculated at last! There were insufficient Black Mariahs to load all the captured protestors at the same time, multiple trips to the calaboose required!
The protestors who don't fit into the first load are told to stand in several groups and wait. Only a token number of police remain with them.
They seem content to wait, like kids on a school parade.
When transport arrived the protestors calmly boarded the black mariahs as if they were commuters onto buses. When the black mariahs are full, the police and protestors agree that the protestors can ride in the back of the open police trucks, should be easy to escape from there. Wonder how many tried it on the way back to the police station?
Don't the protestors realise that if they go limp, or kick and scream, that the police will have to work hard physically lifting each protestor into the waiting trucks. Don't they realise this will cause inconvenience to the police, who will get all puffed from having to lift so many arrestees? And that this is very hard on the police, as they then have to avoid the kicks and bites and spitting without retaliating, as the TV will be filming them. Why don't the protestors try biting, kicking, screaming and other tricks to annoy and inconvenience the police?
If the protestors did harass the police more, some of them would be able to escape. Escape may not be a bad idea, as the general opinion of the watching crowd is that the arrested ones are in for it, they are being taken back to the station, but not for a cup of tea, quick processing and release on bail within a few hours.
In another divergence from accepted Australian protest march choreography, no human rights activists walk among the arrested people giving cards or advice to them. Nor do lesbian looking women clad in overalls and hair bands, drive up in VW beetles, load some protestors aboard and spirit them away from police and into a "safe house". Gee, wonder why nobody does this? It would be so easy, the police are clearly outnumbered.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
How to negotiate a workplace agreement
One of the quirks of the Australian full employment economy is the novelty of a negative ratio of job ads to respondents.
That is: There are more job ads run by Mine Host than there are people who respond. Discussion with competitors reveals they have an even worse ratio.
In a stroke of luck Mine Host recently recieved a response to a chef ad. (Such event is INDEED a rarity). The fellow was in Sydney, out of work, couldn't get a job, and most importantly, was prepared to move to the Wayside Tavern.
With mild trepidation Mine Host hired the chef. He was a new Australian, almost impossible to understand due to very broken English (despite 35 years in Australia).
However, he was hired to cook, not read the news. Work is an essential requirement at the Wayside Tavern, language is not.
The chef seemed quite good, could actually cook and cook well. (there are plenty of chefs who cannot cook). He cooked the sort of food the Wayside Tavern customers perfer to eat, a contrast to many chefs, who prefer cooking to their own desires.
As expected the reason he was "out of work" in Sydney didn't take long to surface....
On his second week the chef fronted the office and wanted to discuss "his pay". The office staff reminded chef that Mine Host (boss) was away on business and would not be back for another week.
Within half an hour of Mine Host returning to the Wayside Tavern from an eventful two weeks abscence, the chef confronted him and demanded "fair pay".
Mine Host was unable to comprehend how above award pay was considered to be "unfair", on top of that the chef got full board and keep, and Mine Host had met the chef's costs of moving from Sydney.
The agreement was to increase pay after three months, if the financial performance of the kitchen improved, meantime the chef would work on the agreed above award payment. Mine Host has a dim view of people who break a deal
"I need $1,800 per week" <---- (translated from broken English) (This is more than any chef in Australia is paid, never mind for an off-the-street job in a pub) Mine Host was expressionless as he digested this, weighing up factors such as the excellent cooking, inability to relate positvely to kitchenhands, inability to control kitchen costs.... and that this fellow less than a month before had been long term unemployed.
Still grasping to cope with this demand, Mine Host almost missed the follow up:
"The $1,800 per week is backdated from when I started here, or I walk"
So.....
New chef required at the Wayside Tavern!
That is: There are more job ads run by Mine Host than there are people who respond. Discussion with competitors reveals they have an even worse ratio.
In a stroke of luck Mine Host recently recieved a response to a chef ad. (Such event is INDEED a rarity). The fellow was in Sydney, out of work, couldn't get a job, and most importantly, was prepared to move to the Wayside Tavern.
With mild trepidation Mine Host hired the chef. He was a new Australian, almost impossible to understand due to very broken English (despite 35 years in Australia).
However, he was hired to cook, not read the news. Work is an essential requirement at the Wayside Tavern, language is not.
The chef seemed quite good, could actually cook and cook well. (there are plenty of chefs who cannot cook). He cooked the sort of food the Wayside Tavern customers perfer to eat, a contrast to many chefs, who prefer cooking to their own desires.
As expected the reason he was "out of work" in Sydney didn't take long to surface....
On his second week the chef fronted the office and wanted to discuss "his pay". The office staff reminded chef that Mine Host (boss) was away on business and would not be back for another week.
Within half an hour of Mine Host returning to the Wayside Tavern from an eventful two weeks abscence, the chef confronted him and demanded "fair pay".
Mine Host was unable to comprehend how above award pay was considered to be "unfair", on top of that the chef got full board and keep, and Mine Host had met the chef's costs of moving from Sydney.
The agreement was to increase pay after three months, if the financial performance of the kitchen improved, meantime the chef would work on the agreed above award payment. Mine Host has a dim view of people who break a deal
"I need $1,800 per week" <---- (translated from broken English) (This is more than any chef in Australia is paid, never mind for an off-the-street job in a pub) Mine Host was expressionless as he digested this, weighing up factors such as the excellent cooking, inability to relate positvely to kitchenhands, inability to control kitchen costs.... and that this fellow less than a month before had been long term unemployed.
Still grasping to cope with this demand, Mine Host almost missed the follow up:
"The $1,800 per week is backdated from when I started here, or I walk"
So.....
New chef required at the Wayside Tavern!
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Humiliation
Careful observation of patrons playing any of the jukeboxes at the Wayside Tavern will uncover the basic thriftiness of people.
They insert coins one at a time, purchasing credits for songs, and when those tunes are played out, will insert a further coin.
Very occassionally someone will insert two coins at once, three coins at once is so rare as to not be worth a mention.
However at closing time, when the jukebox is switched off, invariably there is some Donkey who claims to have "just put thirty bucks in", and wants his money back.
Mine Host has long grown weary of the folorn bleating which results from a refusal to refund. The jukebox area is dominated by signs warning of the time the jukebox will be switched off, and clearly state that no refunds are given, so be careful feeding in coins near to closing time.
However people still seriously expect us to believe that in the full knowledge that closing time is in three minutes time, they went ahead and fed $30 into the jukebox.... HA HA HA HA....
.... Recently a local businessman, Peter Poonce, came out from the pub to accost Mine Host in the street, and followed me into the administration area, all the while stating in a very aggrieved manner that he had fed $16 into the jukebox and "no songs had played".
Tired of idiots, and particularly tired of Peter Poonce, (whose character is best described by the part of anatomy to be found between his buttocks) Mine Host pointed out that the jukebox was on the blink, and was Peter Poonce "really sure" he had fed $16 into it, as the jukebox was SWITCHED OFF....?
"It was switched on when I came in, I fed in money, never got any songs, & kept feeding it in, nuthin' played".
Peter Poonce makes a pretence of being of good character, largely due to having a father and uncles who are respected in business, and by virtue of being of an "old" family of the district.
Wearily Mine Host makes his way to the bar, where the only patrons are Peter Poonce's group. They all agree that $16 was inserted into the jukebox by Peter, and Peter goes ON and ON in a manner which leaves no doubt as to his feelings of being ripped off.
"Okay, I can refund that, I will have to get it out of the money receptacle inside the jukebox"
"You * blank * well make sure you do, yeah, good idea... I been waitin' more than an hour for me money already"
Turning to the jukebox, Mine Host conceals a wickedly mirthful grin, for when the jukebox had malfunctioned that morning, he had emptied the moneybox, and harboured serious doubts that anybody would have fed money into a switched off jukebox.
The jukebox was opened to an accompanying triumphant grin of evil mirth from Peter Poonce, which turned to red-faced humiliation when I upended the money tin on the table amongst his cronies, and ONE DOLLAR rolled out.
Their heads all swivelled to follow the roll of the single coin as it toppled onto it's side & wobbled to a standstill......
.......Then the fellows who had played no part in the saga looked up at Peter Poonce and began laughing very loudly and purposefully, and they kept laughing.
Gosh that was a sweet moment for Mine Host.
This is the same as being caught cheating at cards. And the story is too funny not to make it all over town.
Peter Poonce will never live it down, one of the consequences of being well established in a small community.
They insert coins one at a time, purchasing credits for songs, and when those tunes are played out, will insert a further coin.
Very occassionally someone will insert two coins at once, three coins at once is so rare as to not be worth a mention.
However at closing time, when the jukebox is switched off, invariably there is some Donkey who claims to have "just put thirty bucks in", and wants his money back.
Mine Host has long grown weary of the folorn bleating which results from a refusal to refund. The jukebox area is dominated by signs warning of the time the jukebox will be switched off, and clearly state that no refunds are given, so be careful feeding in coins near to closing time.
However people still seriously expect us to believe that in the full knowledge that closing time is in three minutes time, they went ahead and fed $30 into the jukebox.... HA HA HA HA....
.... Recently a local businessman, Peter Poonce, came out from the pub to accost Mine Host in the street, and followed me into the administration area, all the while stating in a very aggrieved manner that he had fed $16 into the jukebox and "no songs had played".
Tired of idiots, and particularly tired of Peter Poonce, (whose character is best described by the part of anatomy to be found between his buttocks) Mine Host pointed out that the jukebox was on the blink, and was Peter Poonce "really sure" he had fed $16 into it, as the jukebox was SWITCHED OFF....?
"It was switched on when I came in, I fed in money, never got any songs, & kept feeding it in, nuthin' played".
Peter Poonce makes a pretence of being of good character, largely due to having a father and uncles who are respected in business, and by virtue of being of an "old" family of the district.
Wearily Mine Host makes his way to the bar, where the only patrons are Peter Poonce's group. They all agree that $16 was inserted into the jukebox by Peter, and Peter goes ON and ON in a manner which leaves no doubt as to his feelings of being ripped off.
"Okay, I can refund that, I will have to get it out of the money receptacle inside the jukebox"
"You * blank * well make sure you do, yeah, good idea... I been waitin' more than an hour for me money already"
Turning to the jukebox, Mine Host conceals a wickedly mirthful grin, for when the jukebox had malfunctioned that morning, he had emptied the moneybox, and harboured serious doubts that anybody would have fed money into a switched off jukebox.
The jukebox was opened to an accompanying triumphant grin of evil mirth from Peter Poonce, which turned to red-faced humiliation when I upended the money tin on the table amongst his cronies, and ONE DOLLAR rolled out.
Their heads all swivelled to follow the roll of the single coin as it toppled onto it's side & wobbled to a standstill......
.......Then the fellows who had played no part in the saga looked up at Peter Poonce and began laughing very loudly and purposefully, and they kept laughing.
Gosh that was a sweet moment for Mine Host.
This is the same as being caught cheating at cards. And the story is too funny not to make it all over town.
Peter Poonce will never live it down, one of the consequences of being well established in a small community.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
"Stick 'em Up"
Making a routine survey of the main street just before midnight one Tuesday night, Mine Host was witness to a very rare scene. (Very rare in this sleepy part of the world)
A policeman was walking along the edge of the street. Mine Host recognised him as one half of the duo rostered to work the overnight shift this week.
The second policeman was walking in a line abreast with the first, but the other side of the carriageway.
When 2 policemen walk several metres apart, it is almost always serious.
"They are after that bloke in the singlet" spoke a bystander, the manager of the next pub (actually he was behind me, and the only other person present). Indeed, a careful squint revealed a figure standing under the awning of the shops on the next block, clad in singlet and jeans .
The policemen, from a distance of about 50 metres, told the mysterious singlet wearer to place his hands on his head, to move off the footpath & out into the middle of the street, then turn around so his back was to them, and lift his shirt.
As the "wanted man" did this, the two police officers moved into his 3 o'clock and 6 o'clock positions.
However the most dramatic twist was that both police had their pistols out and pointed at the "person of interest".
While one moved in and at arm's lenth patted down the stationary figure ( who was standing in a star-shaped position), the other remained back twenty metres with his pistol fixed unwaveringly on the singlet clad target.
Pat-down complete, the pistol remained fixed on the baddie, whilst the other policeman backed the paddy wagon up to a point some twenty metres distant from where the prisoner stood. The door of the padd wagon was then unlocked & left open.
Both police moved back to a 3 o'clock & 6 o'clock position, all the while drawn guns pointed at the wanted man.
The prisoner was then instructed to approach the paddy wagon under his own steam and to put himself into the cage. He was then instructed to move to the furthers point from the cage door.
One officer then approached the paddy wagon & locked it.
Only then did the other officer holster his pistol.
Many people have been arrested near the Wayside Tavern, but never before has the prisoner had to stand waiting in the middle of an empty street while a paddy wagon is backed up to him.
I & the other publican were the only people to witness the event. Neither of us know any more than what we saw that night.
A policeman was walking along the edge of the street. Mine Host recognised him as one half of the duo rostered to work the overnight shift this week.
The second policeman was walking in a line abreast with the first, but the other side of the carriageway.
When 2 policemen walk several metres apart, it is almost always serious.
"They are after that bloke in the singlet" spoke a bystander, the manager of the next pub (actually he was behind me, and the only other person present). Indeed, a careful squint revealed a figure standing under the awning of the shops on the next block, clad in singlet and jeans .
The policemen, from a distance of about 50 metres, told the mysterious singlet wearer to place his hands on his head, to move off the footpath & out into the middle of the street, then turn around so his back was to them, and lift his shirt.
As the "wanted man" did this, the two police officers moved into his 3 o'clock and 6 o'clock positions.
However the most dramatic twist was that both police had their pistols out and pointed at the "person of interest".
While one moved in and at arm's lenth patted down the stationary figure ( who was standing in a star-shaped position), the other remained back twenty metres with his pistol fixed unwaveringly on the singlet clad target.
Pat-down complete, the pistol remained fixed on the baddie, whilst the other policeman backed the paddy wagon up to a point some twenty metres distant from where the prisoner stood. The door of the padd wagon was then unlocked & left open.
Both police moved back to a 3 o'clock & 6 o'clock position, all the while drawn guns pointed at the wanted man.
The prisoner was then instructed to approach the paddy wagon under his own steam and to put himself into the cage. He was then instructed to move to the furthers point from the cage door.
One officer then approached the paddy wagon & locked it.
Only then did the other officer holster his pistol.
Many people have been arrested near the Wayside Tavern, but never before has the prisoner had to stand waiting in the middle of an empty street while a paddy wagon is backed up to him.
I & the other publican were the only people to witness the event. Neither of us know any more than what we saw that night.
Monday, March 06, 2006
I'm having the night off!
Irene lasted eight days at the Wayside Tavern.
On the 9th day she worked the lunchtime shift, (2 hours) and just before she was due to start the evening meal shift, telephoned to say that she had met someone, & would be having the night off to go out to dinner & drinks, however she would be "back to work" the following day.
The next day Irene showed up ahead of time.
However, it is impossible to be ahead of time when one no longer has a job.
Mine Host advised Irene to immediately vacate her room in the staff quarters.
A firm policy at the Wayside Tavern:
You don't turn up for work = You won't be turning up for staff perks either.
Irene had already been occupying her staff quarters for 24 hours longer than she had been staff.
Irene burst into a tirade about how "hard she has worked for this pub" and how Mine Host had "no right" to sack her, etc etc.
Not turning up for work is the opposite of hard work.
Other staff (ones who actually do work hard) having to do even more on a Saturday night to cover for you, is the opposite of you being hard working.
Later that night Irene's act of petty rebellion was to deliberately breach almost every rule of the boarding house.
The following morning was to be the enforced eviction. However during the night Irene had decided against confrontation, had cleaned out her room, and "gone".
Her pay owing was just enough to cover her room at commercial hotel rates for two days. Due to the clean room she recieved all of her bond back.
Since then Irene has held jobs at several other places in town. The eight days at the Wayside Tavern is the longest she has held down a job.
On the 9th day she worked the lunchtime shift, (2 hours) and just before she was due to start the evening meal shift, telephoned to say that she had met someone, & would be having the night off to go out to dinner & drinks, however she would be "back to work" the following day.
The next day Irene showed up ahead of time.
However, it is impossible to be ahead of time when one no longer has a job.
Mine Host advised Irene to immediately vacate her room in the staff quarters.
A firm policy at the Wayside Tavern:
You don't turn up for work = You won't be turning up for staff perks either.
Irene had already been occupying her staff quarters for 24 hours longer than she had been staff.
Irene burst into a tirade about how "hard she has worked for this pub" and how Mine Host had "no right" to sack her, etc etc.
Not turning up for work is the opposite of hard work.
Other staff (ones who actually do work hard) having to do even more on a Saturday night to cover for you, is the opposite of you being hard working.
Later that night Irene's act of petty rebellion was to deliberately breach almost every rule of the boarding house.
The following morning was to be the enforced eviction. However during the night Irene had decided against confrontation, had cleaned out her room, and "gone".
Her pay owing was just enough to cover her room at commercial hotel rates for two days. Due to the clean room she recieved all of her bond back.
Since then Irene has held jobs at several other places in town. The eight days at the Wayside Tavern is the longest she has held down a job.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Fair Trading
In response to a bar job ad, Irene arrived on the bus, with a huge suitcase, a big smile, blemish free complexion like polished yellow china, lovely hourglass figure, long blonde hair, however all of this is ruined by the blank eyes and coarse gravelly voice.
She is 19, has a 3 year old child who is in the custody of the father. (Clearly she was doing more than her homework when at school).
She works quite hard, has obviously worked for someone with exacting standards. However she exhibits no maturity, and Mine Host refrains from putting her on late night shifts.
Each evening when she finishes work, Irene goes around the end of the bar, and the first man who will buy a drink for her is "allowed" to buy drinks for her for the rest of the night.
No matter how scruffy, how dirty, how old, she will stick with this fellow, (provided he buys her whatever she chooses to drink). Quite a sight sometimes, unwashed mid-40's bloke with lovely blue-eyed blonde dutch girl.
Thus far the scenario is a familiar one for Mine Host: Hot young thing bats eyelids at unattractive older man, gets several hours of free drinks, then ditches him.
However Irene had standards. At closing time she never failed to go home (or somewhere) with whoever it was, to "pay for the drinks".
Mine Host cannot recall ever seeing such meticulous scruples from a young chick who sponges drinks from older men.
She is 19, has a 3 year old child who is in the custody of the father. (Clearly she was doing more than her homework when at school).
She works quite hard, has obviously worked for someone with exacting standards. However she exhibits no maturity, and Mine Host refrains from putting her on late night shifts.
Each evening when she finishes work, Irene goes around the end of the bar, and the first man who will buy a drink for her is "allowed" to buy drinks for her for the rest of the night.
No matter how scruffy, how dirty, how old, she will stick with this fellow, (provided he buys her whatever she chooses to drink). Quite a sight sometimes, unwashed mid-40's bloke with lovely blue-eyed blonde dutch girl.
Thus far the scenario is a familiar one for Mine Host: Hot young thing bats eyelids at unattractive older man, gets several hours of free drinks, then ditches him.
However Irene had standards. At closing time she never failed to go home (or somewhere) with whoever it was, to "pay for the drinks".
Mine Host cannot recall ever seeing such meticulous scruples from a young chick who sponges drinks from older men.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Jeg Er Dansker
On this day we all are Danish!
"Jeg Er Dansker"
(a paraphrasing of:
"Ich Bin Ein Berliner"
John F. Kennedy
President of the United States of America
26th of June, 1963
Location: West Berlin)
"Ich Bin Ein Berliner"
John F. Kennedy
President of the United States of America
26th of June, 1963
Location: West Berlin)
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Just When I Think I Have Seen It All (part 2 already)
An absolutely cute story :-) :-) :-)
Scene: Busy bottleshop in shopping centre.
Cast: Harried Staff x 1
Peripheral Customers x several
Korean Field Workers x 4
Props: Coldroom full of beer & stuff at rear of bottleshop
Action: Peripheral customer (elderly lady) asks Harried Staff (at cash register) for an item.
Harried Staff replies "You can find that inside the coldroom Dearie"
Peripheral Customer: "But I can't get into the coldroom, it is full"
Harried Staff: (Thinking) Gosh, it will be easier to go over there & get it for her than to explain, besides, wonder what can possibly be blocking the coldroom, I was in there only a half hour ago!
Scene: Busy bottleshop in shopping centre.
Cast: Harried Staff x 1
Peripheral Customers x several
Korean Field Workers x 4
Props: Coldroom full of beer & stuff at rear of bottleshop
Action: Peripheral customer (elderly lady) asks Harried Staff (at cash register) for an item.
Harried Staff replies "You can find that inside the coldroom Dearie"
Peripheral Customer: "But I can't get into the coldroom, it is full"
Harried Staff: (Thinking) Gosh, it will be easier to go over there & get it for her than to explain, besides, wonder what can possibly be blocking the coldroom, I was in there only a half hour ago!
(typical view inside a coldroom)
Inside the beer coldroom:
Several 30-packs of beer cans pulled out & arranged in a circle (like Stonehenge). Each of these "stools" was occupied by a Korean Field Hand, in the middle, perched on another 30-pack, are cakes and opened packets of biscuits, a thermos of tea, cups, sugar, etc.
Harried Staff: (Unable to believe her eyes) "Can I help you to get anything?"
Korean Field Hand: (The one with the most English, while the others smile and nod) "No thank you, not need anything"
Harried Staff: (Attempting to clarify a previously unconceptualised event) "Do you wish to buy anything?"
Korean Field Hand: "Oh no thank you, we have tea, biscuit, not need to buy anything"
Friday, January 20, 2006
Just When I Think I Have Seen It All (probably part 1 of MANY)
In this age of modern communications technology, a not uncommon occurrence is Mine Host "springing" one of the barmaids "texting" instead of working.
Usual outcome: A half hour (or on occassion an hour) being wiped from her timesheet by mutual agreement. Alternative to "mutual agreement" = the SACK.
One of the barmaids particularly resisted Mine Host having a quick glance at what was keeping her from filling the ever increasing number of empty glasses.
It transpired that she was getting men (barflies) to use their camera phone to photograph their genitals (whilst sitting at the bar) and send the photo to her mobile phone.
NO PHOTO WITH THIS POST
Usual outcome: A half hour (or on occassion an hour) being wiped from her timesheet by mutual agreement. Alternative to "mutual agreement" = the SACK.
One of the barmaids particularly resisted Mine Host having a quick glance at what was keeping her from filling the ever increasing number of empty glasses.
It transpired that she was getting men (barflies) to use their camera phone to photograph their genitals (whilst sitting at the bar) and send the photo to her mobile phone.
NO PHOTO WITH THIS POST
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