It's 4:05pm and I have work in less than an hour. Which is a damn shame as I have a strong desire to sit here and rant. I have Bill Hicks' "Filling up the hump" playing on my media player and there's a strong joint in the ashtray. And what do I have to do? I have to go and sell alcohol to pensioners. It's not right.
Not only do I have to sell alcohol to pensioners, I'm forced to listen to music that would make any sane person throw grenades. Fortunately I'm not sane, and I have no grenades. Yet... It kills me. The problem is that the music played on a typical saturday night is the type that gets played on an accordian by someone that, by law, must be bearded, cardigan wearing, a pipe smoker and be overweight by at least 100lbs.
The worst thing is that I have caught myself joining in with the songs on occasion. The type of songs that only ever get played in scotland. Songs of lost loves, riversides and roads of differing altitude that lead to a place I'm already in.
As I have worked there for almost six years I know everyone in the place. Including the musicians. One of the musicians that plays at the club is a guy named Duncan McBain who plays tunes that are so old that he has to pay Moses royalties for the privellige. I once, in a moment of insanity, walked past the stage and shouted out "Stairway to heaven man, go for it!" and walked away laughing. I laughed for hours.
I wasn't laughing a fortnight later when I walked over the dance floor and he began to play "Stairway". It almost snapped my mind. Stairway to heaven should NEVER be played on an accordian. The look of sheer fright on my face was amplified when I noticed that the oldies were getting off their seats to dance to it. I'm not ashamed to say I ran away like a little girl.
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