The diary of a Scot in Amsterdam

Sometimes a thing happens which is so stupid that even if it is making you angry, it can be really hard not to laugh yourself silly, no matter how inappropriate that might be.

I was working in the Sláinte today until 6pm, and one of the small tasks that needed done before finishing was the refilling of the little metal bowls which have sachets of various sauces for people to put on their chips and so on. I was keen to get finished, and no special importance had been placed on this task before, and so I ended up doing it without perhaps the hugest amount of care and attention. I’m talking about wee plastic packets of Heinz ketchup and mayo, people.

All well and good, finished work and was enjoying a few beers, and had popped out for a joint; at this point Ruairi called me back in to explain that the sauces were not properly aligned, or whatever, and that I would have to do them again. To be fair I can’t really blame him for that, since Liv (the bar manager) would doubtless be on his case otherwise, but at the time I took it in totally the wrong way. I got really pissed off with the situation (I had already had to stay 1/2 an hour later than I was supposed to ‘cos Kerry was late), and ended up leaving the wee metal bowls not being too much neater than they were before. Still raging, I sat down and sipped my beer slowly, trying to calm down as much as I could.

Still in the bar a futher 1/2 hour later, and had again popped out for a joint in an effort to calm the nerves. Of course, fate having a good feel for the ridiculous, out pops Liv to ask if I could help filling up the fucking sauce bowls. You see, there is a proper order…

1. Fritessaus (mayo, sort of).
2. Mayo.
3. Tomato ketchup.
4. Mustard.

They must not on any account be mixed up. Apparently people might possibly then keep them neater when they are using them (although not so far as I have seen).

This time around I no longer felt quite so pissed off, but more as if I was in some strange, bizarre psychological experiment, or maybe an episode of The League of Gentlemen. Or perhaps in one of those churches where people throw their arms up in the air and start dribbling and speaking in tounges.

What I mean is, I just could not for the life of me see how anyone could find something like this even the teeniest bit important. We are not a fucking Michelin-star restaurant. We are an Irish pub that serves basic but tasty pub food at inflated prices to drunken British tourists. No-one cares about the bloody sauces.

The world is full of people like this, I am sure, for whom the most stupid, petty things have become the most important and serious part of their silly little lives. Kids are dying in their thousands from malnutrition and wars in Africa every single day, there is still no cure for cancer, and yet it matters how ketchup sachets sit in a wee steel bowl.

Grow up, for crying out fucking loud.