Dublin in January
you know it's cold here, two pairs of socks weather, but i was in town on tuesday night. came outside - baltic conditions - so i headed to centra and got a cuppatea and a mars bar. THE best combination since morrissey met marr. was great, standing waiting on the bus, one glove off, getting sticky caramel on my lips and washing it off with bewleys breakfast tea. Dublin in January. i should have been freezing, but i used my sally and i was warm and cosy. i got one up, i was winning. winter you cunt, fuck off!
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The one Ronnie
Ronnie O'Sullivan's back story is well known.
But we learnt something new about him last night. There have been hints. In interviews, both in print and on tv, he does not read a script. Answers are not in his head. His feelings speak.
Often he is blunt. He can be offensive. Too spicey for some. Amongst the genteel dawdlings of snooker, he comes across as a rebel. But seen objectively, he is merely an honest man. With himself and with others his assesments can be devastating - usually, they are accurate. The only time he seems to miss the mark is when he plays well; he doesn't know how to say it.
Instead he chooses to be humble, to pass praise to his opponent, or to play down his talents. Crowds gasp, Ronnie shrugs. Yeah I cut a woman in half - so what? The implication to his nonchalance is always that he knows more about snooker than us, so if he doesn't tear off his waistcoat and dance on the table after winning, neither should we.
Fair enough - we can't claim to be better judges of snooker than he. But we do know humility when we see it. We know what affection, maturity, and empathy look like. And we saw it last night.
Ronnie won the UK Masters, blowing his 19 year old off opponent Ding Junhui off the table. All that's in the papers.
What they didn't find the space to write was the dignity Ronnie showed in victory. He shocked Ding, pummelled him, mauled him. Ding was so devastated he thought the match was up to only up to 9. He went to shake Ronnie's hand, looking weak, despondent, on the verge of tears. But the execution wasn't over - the match was up to 10. Ding had just run a marathon with a boulder on his back. And now he was expected to keep going.
Ronnie put his arm around Ding and explained the situation as they walked to the dressing rooms. They looked like brothers at a funeral. Ding's confidence was in a coffin. Ronnie was would soon return and lower the rope.
The next frame was a formality. Ding stood up, bent over, took his shots. But he had nothing left. The crowd, boisterous, aggresive, partisan - unusual in snooker - were fed up. Some got on his back. His eyes rimmed red, his towel squashing periodically to his cheeks, Ding sat and watched Ronnie finish while some in the crowd moaned. They had just seen what Dennis Taylor dubbed 'one of the finest displays of snooker' he had ever seen and still they weren't happy.
Ronnie told them where to go.
"Listen mate," he said, walking around the table, facing down the bigmouth, "if you don't like it, go home." The big brother taking on the bully, and all in that cool, urbane cockney accent.
"If you don't like it, go 'ome."
The crowd roared their approval. A few more shots and the frame and match were safe. Ronnie just had to clear up. Another loudmouth. Ronnie faced him down too. This was Keane Viera stuff, wonderully prickly, exciting sport.
After the match Ronnie went straight to Ding and embraced him. His concern was genuine and warm, it was apt. It was a one guy saying to another - listen mate, I know how it is. Keep your head up.
But we learnt something new about him last night. There have been hints. In interviews, both in print and on tv, he does not read a script. Answers are not in his head. His feelings speak.
Often he is blunt. He can be offensive. Too spicey for some. Amongst the genteel dawdlings of snooker, he comes across as a rebel. But seen objectively, he is merely an honest man. With himself and with others his assesments can be devastating - usually, they are accurate. The only time he seems to miss the mark is when he plays well; he doesn't know how to say it.
Instead he chooses to be humble, to pass praise to his opponent, or to play down his talents. Crowds gasp, Ronnie shrugs. Yeah I cut a woman in half - so what? The implication to his nonchalance is always that he knows more about snooker than us, so if he doesn't tear off his waistcoat and dance on the table after winning, neither should we.
Fair enough - we can't claim to be better judges of snooker than he. But we do know humility when we see it. We know what affection, maturity, and empathy look like. And we saw it last night.
Ronnie won the UK Masters, blowing his 19 year old off opponent Ding Junhui off the table. All that's in the papers.
What they didn't find the space to write was the dignity Ronnie showed in victory. He shocked Ding, pummelled him, mauled him. Ding was so devastated he thought the match was up to only up to 9. He went to shake Ronnie's hand, looking weak, despondent, on the verge of tears. But the execution wasn't over - the match was up to 10. Ding had just run a marathon with a boulder on his back. And now he was expected to keep going.
Ronnie put his arm around Ding and explained the situation as they walked to the dressing rooms. They looked like brothers at a funeral. Ding's confidence was in a coffin. Ronnie was would soon return and lower the rope.
The next frame was a formality. Ding stood up, bent over, took his shots. But he had nothing left. The crowd, boisterous, aggresive, partisan - unusual in snooker - were fed up. Some got on his back. His eyes rimmed red, his towel squashing periodically to his cheeks, Ding sat and watched Ronnie finish while some in the crowd moaned. They had just seen what Dennis Taylor dubbed 'one of the finest displays of snooker' he had ever seen and still they weren't happy.
Ronnie told them where to go.
"Listen mate," he said, walking around the table, facing down the bigmouth, "if you don't like it, go home." The big brother taking on the bully, and all in that cool, urbane cockney accent.
"If you don't like it, go 'ome."
The crowd roared their approval. A few more shots and the frame and match were safe. Ronnie just had to clear up. Another loudmouth. Ronnie faced him down too. This was Keane Viera stuff, wonderully prickly, exciting sport.
After the match Ronnie went straight to Ding and embraced him. His concern was genuine and warm, it was apt. It was a one guy saying to another - listen mate, I know how it is. Keep your head up.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Any tips?
Tipping
Tipping in bars and restaurants is expected in America. Workers are supposed to supplement their wages through the generosity of customers. But notions of generosity are in fact inaccurate. Most restaurants will indicate that they expect a certain percent 'gratuity'. Some even offer to work it out for your convenience. One friend of mine, a cockney - though no less inclined to tip for it - was given the option of paying 10, 15 or 20% gratuity, and the restaurant kindly worked out for him on his receipt what 10, 15, or 20% of his bill would be. His gratuity was not 10, 15, or 20% of his indignation, which still bubbled weeks after this most patronising occasion.
Ireland is not a country that has thought me to tip. Good service is expected. I am grateful for it, but a kind word of thanks is not worthless. Sometimes I tip, sometimes I don't. It's my choice.
Obilgatory tipping is a strange system indeed. People in favour say staff 'work harder' because they are rewarded with tips. But if the tip is listed on the bill as 'added for your convenience', there is no incentive for any waiter or bar person to work harder. Instead of being rewarded for merit, there is a fair chance they will be rewarded for mediocrity. In a place where a tip is not guaranteed, it is much more likely that the staff will work harder. The difference being, of course, that in such places, no employer would ever get away with paying staff three Euro an hour. Employers need something to justify low wages. And tipping is just that.
Despite what I think is a quite logical explanation, there is a feeling of guilt attached to leaving without tipping. In Ireland it should be easier to ignore because we at least have a minimum wage that guarantees regular income to a person. But in America this is not so. Staff genuinely rely on customers. But I knew this girl, from Spain, who ordered a lasagne in a bar. And it looked like it had just been pulled from a cows stomach - it was a horrible, stodgy, lump of pasta drowning in salty red sauce. She couldn't eat it. A companion, an Italian with an innate knowledge of these things, was offended by what he saw on the plate. All agreed it was bad food.
She payed for her food but didn't tip. And I said that a well-paid chef cooked it, and that by not tipping, she was effectively punishing the waitress. She refused to buy into the idea that it was her responsibility to pay the staff a fair wage. And I suppose that's what it comes down to - we know whose job it is to cook and to serve, but who should pay the staff? You or the boss?
America, land of consumer choice and the free market, does not afford you the option of tipping. It is obliged, 'part of the culture'. We should tip because workers are poorly paid and without our tips they can't survive. This is true. Many waiters and barmaids earn about three Euro an hour. But it's also emotional blackmail by proprietors. They are telling customers that, though you might not eat more than a spoonful of dinner, it is mean not to tip.
This is not true. Paying your bill without paying another 10 or 20% is not mean. Three Euro an hour is mean. It's not me, the honest bill payer who is deserving of dirty looks - it is the person who offered somebody a job for such a scant wage, plus tips.
Tipping in bars and restaurants is expected in America. Workers are supposed to supplement their wages through the generosity of customers. But notions of generosity are in fact inaccurate. Most restaurants will indicate that they expect a certain percent 'gratuity'. Some even offer to work it out for your convenience. One friend of mine, a cockney - though no less inclined to tip for it - was given the option of paying 10, 15 or 20% gratuity, and the restaurant kindly worked out for him on his receipt what 10, 15, or 20% of his bill would be. His gratuity was not 10, 15, or 20% of his indignation, which still bubbled weeks after this most patronising occasion.
Ireland is not a country that has thought me to tip. Good service is expected. I am grateful for it, but a kind word of thanks is not worthless. Sometimes I tip, sometimes I don't. It's my choice.
Obilgatory tipping is a strange system indeed. People in favour say staff 'work harder' because they are rewarded with tips. But if the tip is listed on the bill as 'added for your convenience', there is no incentive for any waiter or bar person to work harder. Instead of being rewarded for merit, there is a fair chance they will be rewarded for mediocrity. In a place where a tip is not guaranteed, it is much more likely that the staff will work harder. The difference being, of course, that in such places, no employer would ever get away with paying staff three Euro an hour. Employers need something to justify low wages. And tipping is just that.
Despite what I think is a quite logical explanation, there is a feeling of guilt attached to leaving without tipping. In Ireland it should be easier to ignore because we at least have a minimum wage that guarantees regular income to a person. But in America this is not so. Staff genuinely rely on customers. But I knew this girl, from Spain, who ordered a lasagne in a bar. And it looked like it had just been pulled from a cows stomach - it was a horrible, stodgy, lump of pasta drowning in salty red sauce. She couldn't eat it. A companion, an Italian with an innate knowledge of these things, was offended by what he saw on the plate. All agreed it was bad food.
She payed for her food but didn't tip. And I said that a well-paid chef cooked it, and that by not tipping, she was effectively punishing the waitress. She refused to buy into the idea that it was her responsibility to pay the staff a fair wage. And I suppose that's what it comes down to - we know whose job it is to cook and to serve, but who should pay the staff? You or the boss?
America, land of consumer choice and the free market, does not afford you the option of tipping. It is obliged, 'part of the culture'. We should tip because workers are poorly paid and without our tips they can't survive. This is true. Many waiters and barmaids earn about three Euro an hour. But it's also emotional blackmail by proprietors. They are telling customers that, though you might not eat more than a spoonful of dinner, it is mean not to tip.
This is not true. Paying your bill without paying another 10 or 20% is not mean. Three Euro an hour is mean. It's not me, the honest bill payer who is deserving of dirty looks - it is the person who offered somebody a job for such a scant wage, plus tips.
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