BIBLOCAFE IS VEGAN AND VEGETARIAN FRIENDLY.

WE ARE NOT A VEGAN OR VEGETARIAN RESTAURANT.

WE BELIEVE IN ACCOMMODATING ALL TASTES IF – IF – YOU LIKE BOOKS.

OUR COFFEE IS EPICALLY GOOD.

That is all.

Now I have my favourite.

The Biblocafe (aka is that a bible cafe?) AGM. I thought maybe a few people would show – not including the staff, both past and present, who will go anywhere for a free drink – and so was, frankly, stunned at the turnout. We had to empty the milk fridge to chill all the fizz, everyone brought a bottle (or case – thank you John!) and cocktail paraphernalia appeared as if by magic; there were ballgowns, tuxedos, cravats, and a small child in her dancing gear; Tiff flew up from London to beautify me, do The Axle Dance and charm everyone in the building; Hattie and Katherine rocked up in their party finest to verbally abuse me in the tradition of old; KAREN WORE A SKIRT!!

I only have a few photos as I spent too much time ensuring that my guests glasses were filled *cough*, but the neighbours were warned, the chairs were stashed and the playlist was set…

 BEFORE

Should be enough, right?

...to soak up the booze...

...a spurious attempt at 'clarsy'...

DURING

...the rest of them are upstairs, pre-gaming...

...the mixologists at work...

...why do they *always* congregate in the kitchen?

AFTER

Well, I'm not clearing this up...

...do the Fandango...

...the Boston Stomp, at 2am, just as it started snowing, to the strains of the Dropkick Murphys. The police waved; Dad would be proud.

Although the numbers thinned at around 2.30, there were people banging on the door until we left, begging to join the fun. My personal favourite was the 4 hopeful lads (one of whom was at a 45 degree angle at the back), clutching an empty yard of ale.

Me: do you have any beer?

Them: Yes??

Me: Liar *shuts door*

One of them (through the letterbox): can I have a job, then?

I’m still considering it as we’ve got cases of booze left and none of us want to open the morning after the night before again…

More photos will surely be posted on Facebook as people sober up enough to work a computer…

UPDATE:

• Liz rang Ross to check that he’d be up in time for his 10am shift. At 4.29am…
• OJ went AWOL after going home to let a flatemate in. He woke up, face down on his kitchen floor, to a raft of missed calls (…we thought he was still on the hunt for Triple Sec and wanted to finish making the margaritas…)
• The appearance of the 2 bottles of Robinsons Sugar-Free was finally explained: someone thought it was a suitable substitute for fresh lime…FYI? Not.
• EVERYONE WHO WAS WORKING THE NEXT DAY WAS SOBER, PROFESSIONAL & A CREDIT TO THEIR EMPLOYER.
• We lost the till keys. I eventually borrowed a spare off a very bemused man in KRK. Two hours before close I found our keys under a coffee cup on the machine.
• I have had a raft of text messages asking things like, “how did I get home?”, “where’s my shoe?”, “I think I headbutted the washing machine”.

You have to be your own cheerleader; you will routinely need to summon vast amounts of enthusiastic self belief; you may well vent to trusted ears but – in the end – the agonising doubt is yours to bear alone.

And then…

…you get an inkling.

Let’s face it, no-one – not even your nearest and dearest -  is going to be absolutely blunt about how you are viewed by the general public. I mean, unless it’s some sort of intervention, there is unlikely to be anyone willing to sit you down and tell you, face-to-face, “You’re a twat. No-one likes you. You have no friends and you smell like sewers.”

But if the gods are smiling, once in a while, you are given a little hint; a sign that could, optimistically, be interpreted as a positive review.

So, to all of those who contributed to my birthday gifts (including Neil who stopped E in the street to hand her cash. Side note: I’m thinking that we are wildly under-utilising her charms…) thank you. Even for the kettlebell. Honestly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. You have totally made my decade. I can’t express how touched I was that I clearly am doing something so right that you weren’t chipping in for concrete boots…

For example, I don’t read novels of literary acclaim, I prefer well-plotted examples of cliched masculinity, or traditional subterfuge; I don’t watch award-winning films that portray the infinite pain of emotional constipation, I prefer violent distraction. And sometimes, on a split shift (due to time constraints), these leisure pursuits are one and the same.

In the same vein, when it comes to weekly publications (as I don’t recognise 90% of the article subjects in UK editions) the National Enquirer is a staple on Tuesdays, and my wind-down after a day of throwing coffee in my shoe involves a couple of beers and pure, unadulterated gossip in web form.

Nevertheless, despite what I think is a finely honed appreciation of the absurd, some shit just leaves me cold. I get that this new form of media is, by construct, a mixed bag, but WTF? I understand that this crap is probably written by her husband, and it’s clear that this is a way for her to become relevant/command appearance fees/earn a living without resorting to actual labour, but…but…

She’s not the only one.

So I guess my problem is that – despite the high volume of choice, and the fact that I clearly have low-brow taste – I’ve run out of beer and there’s nothing on TV as all the shows I like are on hiatus until the new year.

‘Dear Santa,

Please could I have a winning lotto ticket for Christmas this year. It doesn’t have to be a roll-over or the biggest win in lotto history; just enough that I can buy a duplex (with roof terrace and clawfoot tub) in an area that has cable coverage so that my evenings are not spent waiting for the vomitting cavalier to start barfing because I am still up watching re-runs of NCIS and therefore don’t care about the Shanks Duet echoing down the communal pipe.

Thankyouverymuch.

Love and kisses, Lou.”

By The Skin of Your Teeth

Actually, ‘charging’ is a misnomer as I walk faster than I jog but R, gods love ‘im, is nothing if not observant so after the second time of looking around only to see me 400 yards behind and failing fast, he gave up the effort to increase my heart rate and settled into a sort of low speed lope, with me staggering along in his wake.

Apparently only fit people sweat (whereas I thought it was only done by a pool, holding a mojito) so the strange aubergine hue is thus a sign that I need to do something about my deplorable lack of stamina. Mind you, I’ve been considering ‘doing something’ about my deplorable lack of stamina since I opened Biblo in 2006 but until now have limited any attempts to increase the number of situps to a brief barf by the Kelvin in 2008.

Enter R.

Admirably enthusiastic about such things, R decided that I would be a good guinea pig for his theories on fitness and I, in my weakened decaf state*, thought that fast approaching 40 was a good time to relive my imaginary days of slender health…

Things I have learned from this misconcieved plan of weightloss:

1. shouting ‘squirrel!’ and trying to hide behind a bush doesn’t work – R is impossible to distract.
2. lying in a puddle and refusing to get up only extends the punishment – R simply considers this time a rest period and adds it onto the end of the hour.
3. NikNaks are a dietary must – deciding to enter into the spirit of things by having a banana and water for breakfast rather than 3 cups of tea, 2 cigarettes and a packet of Nice ‘n Spicy only leads to me throwing up behind a tree.
4. pretending that I can’t hear the doorbell is a waste of time as R will simply lean on it until C gets pissed off and kicks me out of the house.
5. going to the physio for a knee injury is an awkward 45 minutes as the physio trys not to say ‘we see this a lot in people your age who decide to lose the fat’ and I try and blame the damage on an imaginary career as a high ranking kick boxer. Plus, I will come out of the session with a cricked neck.
6. it hurts. A lot. And R refuses to negotiate on repetitions.
7. I can fuck with the relationship between trainer and ‘client’ by saying ‘no’ and wandering off but as I am generally curled in the foetal position, sobbing, I don’t get very far and shouting ‘squirrel!’ and trying to hide behind a bush doesn’t work as R is impossible to distract…

People always say that they always feel great after exercising, but I could get that feeling of euphoric release by stopping slamming my skull against a wall. Or – and here’s a wacky suggestion – I could feel great all the time by simply not hitting myself on the head with a hammer.

Just a thought.

* The Staff colluded and put me on the decaf as I was, by all accounts, getting a little agitated. For three days I thought I had mono but, admittedly, now sleep much better. The only problem is that their success in subverting my wishes means that I am now only allowed caffeine before 1pm. When did this place turn into a democracy…?