Friday, 24th August 2001.
Smelly waiter

We found a restaurant on Fleet Street (an Italian joint called the Moaner from Verona or something like that) and one of the waiters showed us to our table.

First things first - this is Fleet St in Dublin I'm talking about. And we is Charmari and I. Why are we in Dublin? Well all will be revealed! Tastefully, though!

Ok, so we're in this restaurant, and a different waiter brings us a couple of menus. As he left, we were overwhelmed by some Mighty Powerful Body Odour. Struth!
"When we place our order, let's try to get the other waiter," suggested Charmari. I agreed.

This bloke's BO was industrial strength. He collected some plates off another table and again we were gasping for breath.
"Somebody has to tell him!" Charmari said, fanning herself.
"Well it ain't gonna be me!" I said.
"Well no, but the other people who work here - one of them should say something."
"What would they say? 'Listen mate, you stink'?"
"No, but the manager or someone would have to have a word with him about..."
"About having a wash, using soap? And maybe some deodourant?"
"Shh! Here he comes!" He collected the remainder of the plates from the table behind Charmari.
"Crikey," I said, "he could knock out small animals."

Once the food arrived we stopped bitching about our smelly waiter. After dinner we walked down the street to the pub where we were to meet up with Niamh and Colin.

That's right! Niamh, the Irish girl who foolishly allowed me to stay with her last time I was in Dublin. Colin reminisced about the time he forced a pint of Guinness down my throat. Alas, our evening was curtailed because Charmari and I had to get up bloody early the next morning. Why? Well, if you stopped asking questions I'd tell you!