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Ever been to a restuarant, you know, not the places reserved for special occasions like anniversaries and birthdays. Just a regular little hole in the wall where the waitresses are missing teeth and the waiters refer to you as “bru” or “china”. You know, a place like The Spur. Unless you’re a lowlife bastard scumbag who considers a supper at the local Spur a treat.

No this isn’t a dig at the Spur, before the lawyers among you get itchy fountain pens, I’ve simply used a place familiar to most of us, a point of reference even.

So you’re about to tuck into your meal, when out of the corner of your eye you notice an eyelash, staring back at you from the bow of your sirloin steak. At this point you have already formulated a plan of action: “I’m get up going to get up out of my seat, spin around, kick the waitress carrying the tray with the large strawberry milkshake, the two Jalopy burgers, a skewer of semi-cooked beef, 3 baked potatoes, a side of onion rings and half a baby chicken for the freak in the rugby jersey. Punch the fucker that delivered this abortion in the first place, in the throat, before dragging his ass to the manager demanding apology.

Of course no normal human being would allow themselves to be subjected to this travesty of fine dining. You’d want someone to take it away and return with a freshly cooked meal, sans eyelash. Although this may be the stuff of fairytales, since all Greg the waiter is going to do lightly whisk the eyelash from your plate with a brisk blow, with little or no regard for your personal hygiene.

It is for this very fact that I have taken to the following extreme measures.

I don’t send the plate back, I call Greg over, catch him squarely in the eye and I eat.

I eat it all, I revel in the fact that not the waiters nor this fine dining establishment have been able to fuck with me. I’m unstoppable.

This unsettles them. Defeated they return to their chores, I leave without tipping.

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