This morning I got an unexpected phone call from Mini SbH, who had just finished deep cleaning his entire kitchen.
‘I’ve had a catastrophe’ he said balefully, ‘I’m just standing in the middle of it now’
‘Oh god. What is it?’
‘A bottle of wine.’
‘It fell out of the cupboard when I was putting something away. It’s red.’
‘It’s all over my white shirt, all over the floor, the fridge, the cooker, the kettle – everything I’ve just cleaned’ he wailed.
‘Oh dear’ I said, ‘Well don’t worry, a bit of hot soapy water should do the trick’
‘Yeah.....I think I’m just going to open another bottle of wine now’ he said sadly, ‘And slowly drink it as I work.’
‘I think that sounds like a fine idea’ I said. ‘Never mind, darling’
It’s mid-season deep clean week. Or, in seasonaire lingo ‘Another excuse to get completely shitfaced’. Oh the horror. That familiar feeling after 1 hour’s sleep, when you know only a bottle of vodka is going to get you through breakfast service.
The Minions are being forced to do some real, actual work in the form of cleaning every last inch of their chalets, every speck of dust. They must defrost the freezer and disinfect the fridge, scrape burnt grime from the inside of the oven, de-scale the kettle, pull hunks of slimy human hair, skin and refuse from plug holes, scrub between bathroom tiles with a toothbrush and polish every surface to a mirror shine and (threat of terrifying threats) will have their ski passes confiscated if it ain’t done proper.
Of course, the law according to St Bastard ensured it was Bill’s (of Bill and Ted) birthday yesterday. Right smack in the middle of the toughest week of the season. The week where the HO-Bots will be visiting and poking their nose into every nook and cranny of every property.
I could really do without him being in a permanent state of banjax to be honest, but sometimes one just has to give in to the inevitable and manage things tactically.
By the time I spoke to him about his guests ski passes at 9am yesterday morning he had already been plied with a timely bottle of champagne (swiped from the store room by Ted, no doubt) and a round of breakfast shots and was barely able to complete sentences. Well not linear ones anyway:
‘Passes. Passes for zzze ski. Refund...’
‘Ummm, Bill? Are you ok? You sound a bit spangled’
‘I’ss....fine....REFUND! They want REFUND!’
‘Are you serving breakfast to your guests in this state?’
‘S’Fine... their Danish’
‘Bill I can’t do refunds. You’ll have to tell them no’
The next time I saw Bill it was 4 am and he was crowd surfing.
I couldn’t quite deal with the thought of this grinning, booze-soaked buffoon serving breakfast to a family of six in barely three hours’ time, so I did what any responsible manager would do ...I shut him down.
I bought him a seasonaire’s nightmare.
That is a very special birthday pint of anything the barman cares to combine, into a cocktail so putrid and heinous it is guaranteed to render the drinker unconscious, if not brain-damaged.
This one contained gin, sambucca, coke, wine, beer and some kind of toffee cordial. Bill gave new meaning to the words 'blind drunk.'
Call this damage limitation.
You see, after drinking that I know without a shadow of a doubt, without even checking, Bill didn’t make breakfast service this morning. And quite frankly, that is fine by me.