Is it just me or is it impossible to be trusted by owners of pubs, restaurants, bars, etc., and to be allowed to do the job as well as is humanly possible, and go a day without a criticism, while they work little or not at all, and never say thanks for all your hard work. You stand, or sit, at the bar drinking copiously while some of us work harder than Samson.

I repent of all your attitudes. Capitalism and greed breeds chatters, chains and clatters: I tried so hard to pitch myself but got summary defeat in exhaust repercussions. The human world is fake and it lies; it finds faults where there is naught.

When you have a plasterer come and work for you you don’t tell him how to repair a cracked surface: why is it alright in hospitality to undermine your skilled servants: the slave’s slave.

Fucking loud bastards at 2am: no respect for the righteous.

I woke up with a start at 9am to gather my thoughts post the chaos of a rambling mismanaged pub in Esholt: the only resemblance of reality me working my tits off. Packed my bags to exeunt right when this has run it’s course.

The smell of foisty dogs and the mess of the space above the languishing beer glasses, snoring patrons on bar below: I glance left and right and gather my strength to step over the threshold to the darkest of dark kitchens. And I am not illusioned and see piles of disregarded plates and dusty bread strewn surfaces: this is a carbuncle.

I plunge towards pomodorro and Bologna happiness but hesitate at unclean uncleven disaster zone. She, the mother of the clan, steps in at 10am and asks me if I am alright?

No, mess!
No, noise!
No, nitpick…
No, not for me.

She tells me ‘I won’t have you coming into my pub and telling me how to run it’
Fine, taxi to Guisley and then back to reality and a bottomless feeling of sickness.

Is this December? I really wonder if life is so banal that we just shop continually. The decadent masses we are become. And engorge our selves like slaves to a reality that hardly exists anymore. There is a reason I am sure but millions, billions even, know not why and yet I keep trying to be a part of this inherent truth. This flaw is over: it is my mission to escape; but not through conceited suicide.

At this time of year we need to look hard at that guy who came to save us all, but failed so so badly that we can’t see what this time of year is meant to be telling us (not that I think he came for any purpose or even came at all)