Tales from back of house (Cracked)

There is a certain brutality that comes with cooking for a living. When you are young, keen and full of energy it washes through. As a chef moves through the ranks and spends a lot of time in a hot pressurised environment temperaments change and the jade begins to set in.
Madness creeps up begins to embed its roots into the mind. A lot of young people seek the solace of drugs and booze to ease the pain. Some at this point don’t even realise they are in pain. It’s just business as usual and the hard working conditions coupled with hedonistic lifestyle burns in deep. Over the years I came out the other side and was saved from the brink of going full ball into a drug and drink fuelled life style. The ones like me begin to develop different quirks as we search for ways to channel the hurt.

I find myself running out of places to spend my money. There are certain places I will not go to due to my pigheaded scruples. I may well be missing out on something fantastic. In my head this feels way better than the gut wrenching feeling that I am lining the pockets of a twat. This can be anything from not going to a particular restaurant or bar even down to a triviality of not buying a “Big Issue” magazine.

My big issue goes back a number of years. I am fully aware of what the magazine represents and the homeless helping themselves is a great concept. Having seen a “charity” at work first hand I find it hard to believe that someone isn’t making money out of this. Some fat cat sending out an army of professional beggars to tug at the heartstrings. Fleecing often vulnerable people out of their time and money. However my issue is rather more trivial than this.
It all started casually one day as I walked down the street on the way to where ever. A man selling ‘the big issue magazine’ stood on the pavement plugging his wares. I had bought the magazine previously but never ended up reading it. It went into the bin for a good cause I thought. On this occasion the man saw me coming and tried to get my attention. I politely gestured that I was fine and did not want a copy. He then proceeded to block my path which felt strange. His resemblance to Bob from Twin Peaks was a little unnerving. He crossed his arms and began to bury his head into my chest trying to push me back whilst grunting like a pig. A little combat dressed human battering ram trying to push against double its weight. I remembered my child hood where a neighbour hood bully used to do a similar thing spoiling for a fight (he was slightly more scary than this guy).
The street was fairly busy and in a slightly panicked state I was not sure what to do. I felt like smashing his face in but held back. I was sure that beating on a homeless person (trying to help himself ?) in broad daylight would be frowned upon. I was afraid to touch him in case his soiled face and clothing held a more sinister virus or bacteria. I hoped to fuck his foaming mouth was not dripping saliva onto any part of my body. I moved my arm up to push him away and he fell back proclaiming I had hit him. I could feel the rage inside me begin to rise even more. Adrenaline pulsing through my body with nowhere to go except into my clenched fists. His snarling face and mad staring eyes were in a great position for me to unleash hell. I had, had a busy stressful week in the kitchen and this could be a great release of suppressed anger. I often have wounds on my hands either from cuts or burns. On this occasion they were fresh and aching at which point something in my head jolted me back into reality. I walked away with out a word. The dumb fucker screaming at me for all it was worth.
I often wonder what stopped me that day. The fear of being looked upon as a dick for beating a ‘defenceless’ person? Getting locked up for assaulting a homeless man ? Or not wanting to contaminate my body or mind with the guilt and dirt of a junkie? Could it have been the possibility this guy was just another angry chef who never made it to the other side?

What ever it was a little part of me was awoken that day. He paralleled a small snippet of the aggression in which charities conduct business.

Yowzer!

#newwriting #talesfrombackofhouse #cracked #escapetovictory

Skint Sam and the soup stone

During my trip up north a couple of months ago I enjoyed an open mike night. The amazing thing about it was the variety of musicians taking part. The age range was also pretty vast yet everyone showed respect and encouragement towards each other. During the event there was an older man who performed his set of songs relating to food. One that stood out for me was the soup stone song. It was a light hearted ditty with a serious underlying message.

The story goes that a boy lived with his family who owned a soup stone. Every time Mother made soup she added the stone. During rich times the stone was cooked alongside meat, beans and delicious vegetables. During lean times the stone may only be boiled in water with possibly a few vegetables if they were lucky. Yet no matter what the broth was always cooked with the same Mother’s love. In the boys head he could taste the flavour released from inside the soup stone. Enjoying the meat, beans and vegetables that weren’t actually there.

I found a poem in a drawer I wrote quite a while ago which reminded me of the song.

Maw’s soup is always the best

Gimme some of that tasty soup
I need to eat that unctuous goop
Gimme some of that tasty dish
None of that fuckin’ dishwash pish

Some of the stuff like Mum used to make
None of that shite that is thin and fake
Made with love the delicious bowl
The stuff I craved coming in from school

I don’t need other insipid gruel
To serve that up would be to cruel

When I get to sit and enjoy my festive dinner I will spare a thought for those soup stoners out there that aren’t as lucky as me.

Merry Christmas to one and all

Night swimming?

I had a dream the other night. Emotionally it felt so real that when I woke up I still felt its residue. In it my Dad came to visit. I was fully aware he was no longer with us but it did not feel strange. We were in some kind of holiday resort. It did not feel like night time but it was dark. My Mum, brother and sister were sitting out by a pool. All of a sudden fully clothed my siblings ran towards the pool and jumped in. I was trying to catch them as they had transformed back into children and I did not want them to destroy the clothing. They were too fast and I missed them and looked down at them from side. The water was fairly shallow but dug deep into the ground. I cut my losses and went to get my costume. Dad was ready and oddly wore a swimming cap that was rolled up above his ears. I said I would catch up and thought of what I would say to him when we got into the water. At that point I realised he was no longer there and began to sob uncontrollably. It only got worse when nobody understood why I was so upset and settled into isolation.
Two years ago my Dad spent pretty much the entire month of December heavily sedated linked up to a respirator. At the time I was dealing with the daily hell that was cooking for the festive hordes. The last words he said to me at that time were ‘Enjoy your Christmas.’ Little did I know that this would be the last thing he would ever say to me.
It is hard to remain unaffected by something like that. I was getting daily sometimes hourly up dates on my personal situation. Living in hope that at any moment some Christmas miracle was going to make everything go away. We heard positive news followed bitter disappointment as he fought for his life. Meanwhile in the kitchen I was trying to remain level headed when someone blew their top because the chips were ‘cold’. At work I began to feel rather numb. It was like my brain had switched to a different setting. Protecting me and others from the visceral anger taking hold deep inside. Apart from family I had no one to talk to. Work colleagues don’t want to hear your woes when there are mouths to be fed. It is not that they don’t care. There is just no time for you the person only time to get elbow deep in turkey. That sadly is the nature of the beast.
In relative terms it has been a fairly short period in the grieving process and I don’t think it will ever really go away. It now takes a huge amount of energy for me to face the Christmas onslaught. Even the tiniest mention of festive menus is enough to instantly drain my mental resources of a huge amount of power. I have started to try prepare myself for it. Mentally building up a barricade to deflect the festive bomb from exploding in my head. Instead it just lies there on the periphery waiting till I feel comfortable to detonate it myself.
I have decided it would be selfish of me to completely abandon the festive spirit. After all the most important thing is about giving to others and making them happy. And Dad has given me the permission to enjoy it.

Yowzer!

#festivespirit #ihadadream

Tales from back of house (Downtime Alley)

I don’t know why it bothered me so much. The fact that someone vile was encroaching in on my snippet of downtime was a contributing factor. I felt a pang of adrenaline surge straight to my gut.
‘Fight or flee’ they say. His mashed, junked up face snarling at me. Bearing his rotten teeth through his dirty spittle dried lips. The thought of having to fight theses two guys off if they attacked made me want to shower instantly. It was mid morning and I needed some fresh air from the busy hot kitchen. This aggro was not what I required.
“This is disgusting! ” he blurted out as he stamped on an empty cream carton lying on the floor. Picking it up he threw it as far as his wasted arm allowed. The cap was loose and it came off mid flight leaving a white trail in its wake. The cream spilling onto the tar splattering out like a lactose Jackson Pollock. The three of us were in the back lane of the restaurant where all the more functional stuff goes on. The daily feeding and ablutions of the trade if you will. Fresh produce and booze gets delivered in neat boxes. Residual waste gets thrown out in sacks resembling weighty body bags. Often in older urban buildings converted for the purpose of the restaurant trade, these back areas can look pretty uninviting. The facade opulent and full of promise while at the rear the potholed alley lined with garbage bins and other waste disposal units paddles in borderline dereliction.
It annoyed me that he found the used up receptacle disgusting and wondered if he had looked in a mirror lately. The glazed over stare must have clouded his judgement of his rather dishevelled looking buddy. In comparison I had rather taken a shine to the crushed plastic bottle now lying in the middle of the road. It must have fallen out of the bin as it was emptied earlier. The trash collectors to preoccupied with pushing mechanical buttons to bend down and pick it up.
He bounced over aggressively to bum a smoke off me.
“I don’t smoke.” I replied before he got any closer. I could smell him from this distance and did not want the guy to come within range of touching. Theses characters were plucked straight out of books like ‘Trainspotting’. Proper down and out junkies trawling the city. Keeping to the back streets as they slouched along in a continual, depraved stupor. Luckily for me they cut their losses and left mumbling to each other. I watched them turn the corner then walked over to perch myself on a pile of wooden pallets on the opposite side of the alley. Take a bit of a load off my already aching legs. Having found this spot in the lane the previous night our two desperadoes had rearranged some of the wooden frames to build a shelter. There was a extract fan directly behind the pallets which blew warm air. Although the air was a bit stale I’m am sure it provided some comfort during their stay. Luckily I looked down before I sat. The ‘Skanks’ had used the area as a shooting up gallery. I felt ill as I saw their used needles lying around on the floor and quickly moved away.

“What was it that you found disgusting you fucking twat?”

Yowzer!

#talesfrombackofhouse #downtimealley #downtonabbey #trainspotting #lactoseintolerant #jacksonpollock

Doggy paddling through Dystopia

I have always been a deep thinker. At least since my teenage days when I stopped my swimming career. Up to that point I was completely focused on getting into the pool and pushing my body to gain its full potential.
These middle years I believe are the major defining point in ones life. Before this I never really had a proper opinion and mainly moved towards what I was told to be. Luckily I had some stronger positive influences. I started listening to different thought provoking music like Pink Floyd ,The Doors, Bob Marley and Bowie amongst others. I bought into the dream of living life to the full and trying to experience as much as possible. Heavy drinking and mild drugs seemed like a good way to start. I began the search of myself working out who I wanted to be. The trouble is how can you find out where you are going when you can’t remember where you have been? I found myself hitting some rather low points and feeling a form of underlying depression. That is not a word we used in our culture so pressed on regardless. At the time the thought of artificial stimulants that made you feel good having a down side had not occurred to me. I decided my mind was not strong enough to cope with the depth of being at this stage. I continued with my love of mind expansive music but also consciously followed the trend of superficial thought. I stopped myself from getting hyped up by things that I could not control. I shunned any serious political debate and steered away from subjects that pushed me to feel angry. I think that’s why I relate to the Hulk so much. Cadging the rage when all you want to do is smash the system is a hard cross to bear. It stayed that way for a number of years and it has to be said I did feel a lot lighter and less burdened with life in general. Doing my bit to survive within my circle of influence. Those in depth thoughts never go away and eventually they resurface. Thankfully by this time I felt strong enough to feed off them without getting bogged down in the shit fight. I still look upon the superficial world created around us to keep us from seeing the truth and feel aggrieved at times. But I understand it better now and only let parts of it in. Like most people I buy into social media and use it for doing things I like.This may sound like some kind of conspiracy theory crap but I am not fearful of who may be watching as I have nothing to hide. I understand there is very little privacy once I post something so choose what I say carefully (Hmmm maybe that means I am worried and do have thoughts I want to hide?).
We are bombarded with a sensory overload of media, television and advertising. There are not many places a person can go to be free of it. Most of us carry a mind altering technological device in our pockets or bags.
If the world as we know it now is wiped clean of human life and our current systems will eventually cease to work. Nature would be left to take over and create a different civilisation. I wonder what a distant culture from space would make of it. Dropping down to earth to sift through the remnants of our human time on earth. Would they be confused by what they find? Would they see the small things like the love of a family and group of friends? Could they comprehend the pain and suffering people are capable of dishing out? Or could they only see the greed and chaos our leaders imposed upon us.

Yowzer!

#newwriting #iwanttobefree #hulksmash #hulk #doggypaddleingthroughdystopia