I feel an immense sense of shame for having sniggered so callously at those goons on The Apprentice. Granted the producers do have a knack for attracting only the most pompous of sycophants with an uncanny ability to portray themselves as utter pillocks in a 5 second VT. It is nonetheless crushing being fired. While my experience was slightly less humiliating than that of the poor contestants, I have been left wallowing in self-pity for the past eight days. That’s right, eight days of unemployment. Fortunately I wasn’t the only victim of my boss’s wrath, my friend and colleague was also dumped, dejected, discontinued…
My initial reaction was, quite understandably, to drink. And drink, we most certainly did (any excuse to be honest). Off to the blissful comforts of the Bon Vivant we shuffled, our tails tucked between our legs. Nestled in the depths of Thistle Street, this bar/restaurant is the perfect haunt to drown one’s sorrows. Blackboards and naked ladies adorn the walls, long wax candles drip down old bottles of vino; nigh on symbolic of the pace and atmosphere of the venue. So relaxed, so chilled out.
You could tell instantaneously that the staff were good chat. I caught a glimpse of the till interface which listed SuperMario Bros. characters instead of forenames. We were being served by Yoshi, who was as friendly and helpful as her pixelated character. Despite it being a Saturday night we managed to find some cosy seats at the back; for drinking one’s troubles away requires both copious amounts of alcohol and a decent perch. The D.J turned out soulful hits after funky jams, at a civilised volume to have a nice chat (which consisted of bitter murmurings of how we were better off rid of the place). While my co-pilot and I were quite obviously the youngest of the clientèle, in our tender early twenties, the place has a great vibe about it, catering for the young professional and the student who can only really pretend to love Drum & Bass once a month.
We decided to go all out, on this the eve of our unemployment, and spend like we were rolling in the Benjy’s! I can’t recall who proposed this genius tactic, but it certainly shrouded our perception. We fell into a drunken daze, blissfully ignorant of our impoverished fate. The crumpled remains of credit card receipts survived as evidence of our bender.
A bottle of Pinot Noir, their mid to high range wine set us back £20.00; and after foolishly deciding to set up a tab, we then consumed four Long Island Iced Teas, three double Tanqueray & tonic and three 8 year Havana Rum & ginger. The tab came to £48.00, hefty enough for an unemployed student, but worth every penny.
I woke the next morning to a pounding guilt-flavoured hangover, a dose of chewing-sawdust-dry-mouth, and that all-encompassing need for a fry up. It just goes to show, whether your poison be Buckfast or Bollinger, you still need bacon.
Written by special_k, University of Edinburgh