Spare Me The Bullshit TJ

Posted on June 23, 2010 by Fraser

‘An easy shift’ you said, ‘a really easy shift’
No pots to wash at all, only boxes to lift,
6 hours-that’s it, perhaps a little tip.
Yeah, no problem TJ, since it’s ‘a really easy shift’

No pots to wash at all? None at all you said.
I was still washing pots, when I should have been in bed.
Relentless pots and no machine into which they could be fed,
I washed them all by hand-‘no pots at all’ you said.

6 hours, that’s all, 6 hours then you’re done.
I’d already laboured 6 hours before the hard work had begun.
An early start, a late finish-I didn’t even see the sun!
I can’t believe you ever said ‘6 hours then you’re done’.

‘Come to the office in the morning, I’ll even drive you mate’
You let me down, I had to sprint, I arrived a little late,
You’re breaking all your promises at an incredible rate.
You stayed in bed despite having said, ‘i’ll even drive you mate’

Spare me the bullshit T.J. spare me all the lies
I’m so irate I’m an angry man it’s you I now despise,
This horrible shift’s intolerable, so look me in the eyes,
I swear to you I’ll kill you if you tell more of your lies.

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One Chance to Shine (in a kitchen)

Posted on May 20, 2010 by Fraser
Potwatch Uniform

Potwatch Uniform

Once in a blue moon doesn’t come close,
I’d say scarcely or rarely, seldom at most.
Chances to shine are so exceptionally meagre,
That they’re as common as a bout of midwinter, hay fever.
Which is why, when they occur, one must do one’s best,
To jump at the chance to show-off and impress.
Grab the bull by the horns, make the most of your shot,
Carpe Diem-it might be the one chance you’ve got.
It was 9pm at night during a terrible shift,
That I got wind of a chance-a really good sniff.
A waiter came in looking out of his depth,
Mumbling and bumbling seeming vaguely upset.
It transpired he couldn’t communicate accurately,
With his guests, who were a problem linguistically.
Little did he know I have a linguistics degree
And I can speak French relatively problem-free
He breezed past my section, without a cursory glance,
Not knowing that I’d spent a whole year living in France,
His diners spoke French – to which he had no answer,
No mutual vocabulary and no lingua franca.
In the Hilton restaurant point and shout will not do,
That’s the sole reserve of a tourist with a tiny I.Q.
Rather they needed a translator, and I could be that man,
I’d acquire new hero-status and put down my pans.
I was temporarily lost in a sweet reverie,
Where I was the saviour and the chef respected me.
My daydream quickened pace-I was soon given a raise,
I was the man who received widespread, national praise.
The French couple would tell me that I spoke their language perfectly,
I’d travel the world with them and of course they would pay me!
I’d make the front page of all the papers, be revered across the land
I’d be a merchandising juggernaut-I’d be a household brand
‘I love Potwatch’ on your hoody, special ‘Potwatch’ crockery,
The housewives’ favourite KP star, the best-loved celebrity
Finally I broke away from this joyous contemplation.
Steadied myself and readied myself for a little French translation.
I approached this clueless waiter and prepared to strut my stuff,
Knowing my French was competent, sure I knew enough.
Tapping him on the shoulder, I was polite, amicable and modest,
“I can help you out here mate, I can speak French-honest
show me to the table I’ll translate with little fuss”
“Sorry mate” came the reply. It seems I’d missed the bus.
“the chef speaks French, he’s out there now, will you give this plate a wipe?”
And with that I’d missed the chance that could have changed my life!*

* most probably not

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Drip

Posted on April 22, 2010 by Fraser

Drip-Courtesy of GollyGforce

Work is only work and I refuse to let it get me down,
Only four more days of shit and then Friday comes around.
What’s this? You’ve come to bother me? Have you sensed that I’m upset?
The last thing I need right now is water trickling down my neck.
I was just building up momentum, finding my potwash groove,
And now these tiny water droplets are ruining my mood.
Don’t you know how hard it is to do this job all the time?
Without little drips and little drops dribbling down my spine.
You know exactly when to pounce, when to plunge for me,
I suggest you condense elsewhere or evaporate rapidly.
I need to load this dishwasher, I need to clean these plates,
Simply by being here you’re making me irate.
I’m angry as it is, I’m working an awful job,
And now to make things worse I have to deal with all these blobs!
I’m now trying to avoid the trickle, I know roughly where it falls,
But no matter what I do, it lands on my overalls.
I’m squirming when it gets me, wriggling with rage,
The ticker now points to dangerous on my temper gauge.
A rush of dirty crockery, comes my way from the staff,
Who just dump it on me, without any irony or laugh.
Turns out its not a joke, they just can’t be arsed,
I’m turning red, I’m cracking up, this shift might be my last.
I’m not just in the shit, with plates stacked up to the ceiling,
But I’ve a list of stuff to clean that, at best, is unappealing.
And to top it off, I’m getting wet, but it’s not a constant stream,
It’s comparable to water torture only this is more extreme.
There’s no way to prepare myself to keep right out of its way,
Instead I keep getting caught out by a little bit of spray.
What really grinds my gears is when the drips fall on my head,
Driving me insane, turning me an ‘anger-red’.
You could suggest I’m stressed and easily annoyed,
This type of carefree job ought to be enjoyed.
Yet I have to contend with the very worst of chores,
Proof of that is all the sweat that’s flowing from my pores.
It’s an ugly job for little pay, and this drip just makes things worse,
I think I was being mocked when told this work was quite diverse.
The only difference today is this pesky little drip,
It’s the kind of added stress that’ll make me want to flip.
Turn quite mad, lash out at chefs, walk right out the door,
But that’s the kind of attitude I usually abhor,
I’m better than that, I tell myself as the plates keep piling up,
And there I go again, falling back into my rut!

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Industrial Estate Fairy Cake

Posted on April 15, 2010 by Fraser
cupcake

Image courtesy of Volantra http://www.flickr.com/photos/volantra

Cake, cake. industrial estate?
That doesn’t quite work, is the whole thing a fake?
It’s not as I’d imagined, where are the little old dears?
You mean the fairy cake business is run by shark profiteers?

Men, men in blue overalls.
Cooking on industrial scales with industrial tools?
I’d pictured a woman with a farmyard pinny,
Who bakes for pleasure whilst drinking some tea.

Time, time, must work through the night.
Something is up here, something’s not right.
Budgets and deadlines, batches in tons,
But each one identical-no imperfections.

Cash, Cash it’s all for the cash,
For the love of money not the perfect ganache.
Fatties are found at the wrong end of the deal
There’s no love in the cake at the end of your meal.

Dough, dough only not the right type,
The boss is a greedy, fat-cat I don’t like.
Twelve-hour shift and it felt like twelve days
Forget the results, the staff need a raise

Cream, cream is the company name,
Sells cakes to the Hilton and Marriot chains
There’s no care and attention, or love of the job
Just baking in silence by a bored, tired mob.

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To me its just a pot (Villeroy and Boch)

Posted on April 13, 2010 by Fraser

Towering in the bleak distance

So now I’m working at the Hilton, amongst fine chefs and fancy food,
Where nothing is sub-standard and the waiting staff is finely groomed.
The kitchen is impressive, it stretches as far as my eyes can see.
Although I confess I am near-sighted, so not that far admittedly!
The Hilton is the landmark, but it’s called the Beetham Tower,
Standing proudly in the downpour of Manchester’s relentless shower.
And I’m inside washing pots for the paying clientele,
But since I’m working in the kitchen, I can never tell
Quite who’s creating all the mess and indirectly paying me,
Whether cash, or card they nevertheless fund my misery.
Now if I were a chef I would regard this as a promotion,
And cooking at this restaurant would elicit some emotion
But rather I’m impassive, since I’m only a kitchen porter,
And this kind of occupation should be man’s punishment for slaughter.
If I were a waiter, I’d feel I’d reached some heady heights,
I’d look forward to my evening shifts and rejoice in working nights.
Perhaps I’d fool myself into believing I’d reached the pinnacle of my career,
But I’m no waiter, I’m a potwash, and there’s no career ladder here.
Perhaps the customers feel special to eat in such a world-renowned hotel,
Act as if they’re famous and worthy of being treated particularly well.
But what makes this place so special? The food looks ok to me,
Is it that they are eating off Vilery and Boch crockery?
To them it’s that bit chic, superior and posh,
To me it does its job; it holds the clients’ nosh.
Gimmicks and pretentious food will never impress me,
So long as I’m the recipient of dirty crockery.
Signatures on plates have never changed the taste of food,
No scribble on a plate has meant the flavour has improved.
Why serve food on an ostentatious ‘NewWave’ range,
Would simple white plates be out-of-place or strange?
Clearly it’s a subtle thing beyond my potwash brain,
No doubt it’s an elegant touch that doesn’t merit my disdain.
But while you may eat expensive food, served on Vilery and Boch,
So long as I’m a potwash, to me it’s just a pot.

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Intro

Posted on April 10, 2010 by Fraser
introduction
It’s not a difficult job but it is difficult work. Once you’re in, you’re already at the top, which means no ups and downs in any long-ranging career but mere side steps from one one-rung ladder to another. Swallowing shit shouted at you by a chef younger than you. Cleaning dishes, that get dirty, then get cleaned then get dirty…

All this should already be clear to you. No doubt you’ve seen a Kitchen Porter at work before; sweating in his filthy blue uniform in some sorry excuse for a room. I’m confident no one has ever planned to become a KP at school, college or mid-way through a career in any other field. I’m certain no career guidance counsellor has ever suggested even the most illiterate, talentless, desperate, underperforming child chose scrubbing pots as a future. Nevertheless chefs and waiting staff cannot be expected to clear up after themselves, so there is a demand for some poor bugger to don marigolds and scrub, rinse and dry.

Finally, before all the ensuing hilarity in the subsequent posts, I need you to know I’m not here because I want to be. I didn’t make a decision to sacrifice my happiness because I felt it was a good ‘angle’ that would make for a great blog. I’ve simply run out of options and penning these poems exorcises the frustration, anger and stress that a shit job leaves me with.  Let’s start my therapy…

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