This morning I woke
up at 9:30am, had and went downstairs to the kitchen where I found
that my milk had been stolen and the walls had been written on. There
you go... that's a perfectly straightforward English story right
there. No frills, no bows, very little difficult language. For those
of you with shit to do today – the dishes, bathing, religious
ceremony – you can stop right there safe in the knowledge that what
you have just read fairly and concisely sums up the first hour of my
day today. For those of you with a few more stones in your belly,
continue on. Let's make an afternoon of it, shall we?
The last couple
weeks there has been a string of seemingly random food thefts
perpetrated by a shadowy, anonymous stranger lurking within the
annals of the hostel... last week I lost two tupperware containers of
lovely chicken-vegetable something that I had cooked and saved for
myself. Jean lost one as well, and a few other random items of
condiment or whatever have been reported missing from different
people's food stashes in the freezer or pantry. Needless to say this
behaviour is looked upon fairly unwelcomingly by the community and
before long people had started leaving long, sometimes eloquent notes
on their food to discourage the thief - my particular words were
along the lines of “don't touch my food faggot, go buy your own...
actually before you do that, kill yourself”. (I would like to say
that I have been the spearhead of this movement and maybe in the
eloquence department I fairly could, but plenty of other people have
had some rather colourful words attached to their shit – it's not
just me) Anyway... considering the recent string of mooch-crime it
sadly came as little surprise to me this morning when I trekked
downstairs after a shower (not in my favourite shower this morning –
it was occupied by a couple of Germans AKGH – but that's
neither here nor there) and found that my two litre milk was nowhere
to be found... wait that's no good. My milk, that I had found...
wasn't... find? Found. I couldn't find it... even when someone hadn't
founded.... ugh
Some dick had
stolen my milk... is basically what I'm trying to say here.
I've talked to
Bobby, the night manager, about checking the cameras in the kitchen
to try and pinpoint who the thief is and while there's been words and
times floated around the place, I was sure from the beginning that no
action would be taken in this crisis. Yeah sure there are cameras and
it's not so hard to switch on a TV and check them from particular
dates and times, but knowing the calibre of staff that operate this
place, even work which basically involves watching an extended
version of Big Brother until you see the bad guy is going to be put
off for as long as possible. Bobby ain't a bad dude... he's great in
fact. But he's never going to do it.
So then at around
10:10am when one of the other managers came out and said something to
the effect of, “yep, that's it, we've got em all on camera” in a
serious, big boy tone, my mind did backflips. “WHO IS THE
MOTHERFUCKER THAT STOLE MY FOOD? WHEN CAN HE BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE?
HOW MANY PUNCHES TO THE FACE DO WE GET EACH?” Real forgiving
shit... So that was at 10:10am, but before I go any further I need to
take you guys back to last night. Just real quick. Because it's fun.
It breaks up the main narrative. And adds dramatic effect.
Last night I went
and saw a couple comedy shows including one at Pugg Mahone's
(interestingly enough, 'pug mahone' apparently means 'kiss my ass' in
Irish soooo... there you go?) where Myrthe – a Dutch girl from the
hostel – works. Apparently I left without saying goodbye – a faux
pas that I was later chastised heavily for, especially because I
managed to squeeze a free drink (a squash though, let's be fair) out
of the lovely lady while I was there. I got back to the hostel around
eleven and found Ollie, the lanky German with the brilliant laugh,
back amongst the living after a week in Thailand. This is the guy who
suggested to Jean (who has hilariously small eyes) that we should
“have a competition to see who can open his eyes the widest and the
loser has to buy everybody pizza” so yeah... he's alright. Ollie
had bought a litre of Smirnoff back from the duty free store, and
Myrthe and Hannah (black English girl... sassy etc.) were down for a
drink. Simeon (looks 26, is 21) and Kieran (looks 26, is) joined as
well... and the next few hours writes itself really.
After a few hours
of these guys slamming down vodka and getting loud with me
vicariously enjoying their antics we turned our eyes to the wall
behind us which is covered in photos of people who have stayed at the
hostel at various times in the last few years partying and having
fun. The main problem that we could see with these pictures was that
they were not of us, and as such were ripe for alteration... so
ripe... top ten ripest. We set to work with a permanent texta rating
the people in the pictures out of ten: top angle looking down on
blonde girl – six. Fat girl hooking up with other guy – 2. Sexy
girl with black hair who is hot in three separate photos – 9.
Passed out dude with wack face – MONG. Etc... The real vandalism
started when Dutchy and Hannah got on their bitchy-soapbox tip and
started ranting about some guy they had both slept with who
apparently was “too slow” and “gave no orgasm” and “had a
lot 2 learn private lessons could have been 4 free bad personality
X”. They wrote it on the wall in thick, blue permanent and faced
the cameras blatantly. I'm on camera writing on the photos, which can
just be pulled down, but their hateful mural will have to be painted
over... silly silly... nothing good ever happens after 2am.
So anyway, that
happened last night, and to bring us back to 10:10am this morning,
the manager from the hostel had just rolled out the big guns, “yep,
that's it, we've got em all on camera”. I realized though, after my
initial hopeful fancy that it had been about catching the food thief,
that he was talking about the writing on the walls, and that my ass
could very well be on the line here. This was only a second after
vicious, bloodthirsty images of a lowly, broken bastard, tied to the
stake and gnashing his teeth, breath still smelling of my
chicken-vegetable something and staring down the barrel of an open,
running sewage pipe that was about to be blasted into his face.
Guilty as fuck and fucked for sure...
...and now that was
me. I was the one staring down the pipe and the sewage was coming
straight for me. I am, and it is. And as much as that
sucks, I brought it on myself. I did the stupid thing on camera, and
even if they caught my thief, his crime is really no worse than
mine... well marginally, but they are both shitty things. The photos
that I drew on can be taken down, and so too can my food be
replaced... the base transgression at the core of both actions is
disrespect. I didn't ask to draw on the photos, fagboy didn't ask to
take my food. In both instances, I'm sure the answers to the request
would have been yes – “can I have some food?” 'yes'; “can I
draw on these pictures of mongs?” 'yes' – but the question was
never asked. After last night I have been forced, as I seem to be on
about a weekly basis, to re-evaluate my position and rethink some of
the hasty thoughts that have sprung into my head. Simply reacting to
situations is only the clumsiest way of getting through the day and I
really have to stay vigilant on my snappy, self-indulgent thoughts if
I am ever going to make change. Ultimately, I guess I just have to
start making my food a little less obvious. I'm never going to find
the thief – sinful bandit fucker that he is – but at least I can
make my stuff a little less appetising for his grubby little
thief-fingers. Maybe then he will disappear forever, and I can
forgive him for his sins, and those two serves of chicken-vegetable
something that I miss so, so much.
Peace, Taco.
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