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Bartending Continues To Be Unfulfilling And Frustrating
I broke a customer's thumb last week. I grabbed his thumb, and because he was too proud to say "ouch" or "stop it", I kept on twisting it until I felt it suddenly come loose in my hand, and moved with an unaccustomed, flimsy, ease. The noise it made was a mixture of a rip and a snap. I felt a mixture of nausea and pride - I've never broken anyone before.

I couldn't have broken a more deserving thumb. Keith Gardiner is as close as you get to a rapist without the sex act. His utter conviction that "women love it" is unassailable, even if you confront him with the women that he has groped, and get them to tell his that he is a repulsive old man. He simply smiles at them, indulging their vanity but safe in his own assurance that they are simply playing hard to get. By his own words, he likes "vicious women".

He grabs women with such a powerful grip (which he denies doing as he is doing it) that they often gasp out in pain before they have a chance to realise what is going on. It was after seeing this one too many times that I grabbed his thumb - more keenly than I intended - and broke it.

I certainly wasn't expecting quite as many congratulations as I got, and the possible legal cases, both civil and criminal, do not appear to be happening, as he came back into the pub the next day, clearly unaware that I had been trying to hurt him - it wasn't an accident. Sometimes, I despair.

Retentive Pager Woman Makes Offensive Paging A Chore
When I pay ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine pounds and ninety nine pence for a phone call simply to send a text message to a friend who is so poor and stupid that he uses a Pager, I expect courtesy and hushed reverence from my call centre staff. When I am sending this message;

"Quickly - it's urgent - everything's on fire and people are dying."

I certainly don't expect her to ask me if it's a joke, and then to tell me that it's not a very funny one, when I sheepishly confess. If I wasn't such a pathetic wanker, I would have said "When I want a critique from a woman who is so toolish in the head and fingers that she can't get a proper job in Data Input, I shall resume correspondance with my mother, thank you". As I recall, I didn't say much at all. I may have apologised, and made a mental note to write something nasty about her later.

Invasion Of Privacy Fails To Happen
My attempts to get someone to invade my privacy have failed, yet again. After a whole week of leaving the door unlocked as I sit on the toilet, no-one has walked in on me. I even maintained a welcoming smile to greet the intruder throughout my functions. My more elaborate plan, to become a controversial celebrity with a complicated sexual history, continues, although I am having trouble finding people to agree to have sex with me. A sordid history of compulsive masturbation might not be saucy enough for the popular press.

So, this week, I have started writing love letters to Princess Margaret, in the hope that she will see me as a young bit of fluff to walk around with and take to the openings of new countries and things. Here is what I wrote.

"Hello Princess Margaret, I am a terrible exhibitionist who, so far, has been cruelly limited to showing off in pubs and laughing outrageously at myself to satisfy my urge to be the centre of attention. However, if you would like to go out with me I would gladly take the heat off you in the press by being totally rude like Eminem and doing raps about the Queen being a lesbian or something like that. Please reply by return of post."

Also, if anyone wants to reply to one of those Spam Mails which start "Find Out Anything About ANYONE" (I get about three of these a day) then please use it to find out everything about me. I'll even put a secret link to a picture of my penis on this website. I'll do anything. Eur. Not that.

Improvised Comedy Makes Night Painful And Unamusing
Having seen Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and thinking that Improvised Comedy might be funny, I was put right tonight by an atrocious group of inexplicably confident dullards in the Nottingham area. Confidence without foundation, surely, is arrogance - and these people were ugly with it. Were they ugly, though!

At several points during the night (which I was powerless to leave, as I was working on the bar), I felt a very real urge to kick at them with my feet. My friend turned to me, with a very real pain on his face, and asked me, with all the innocence in the world, "Why are they doing this?" And I couldn't explain to him why they had chosen to embarrass themselves and ruin our night in this way. I couldn't stop his tears.

Don't let these people hurt my friend any more; boycott amateur improvisational comedy nights.