No rest for the wicked

I need a holiday [Crete, 19th May. Can't come soon enough!] I've worked all weekend and I'm knackered.

I worked all day Friday and "moonlighted" on Friday night.

Saturday was our first meeting with our "Float Manager". The pub has a float in this year's Gay Pride. This ran the usual course and we ended up getting pissed around Soho. I also "moonlighted" on Saturday night with massive post-pissed depression, not good.

Sunday, "moonlighting" again. Viasakhi festival in Trafalgar Square. I'd had about six hours kip in 48 hours and not in the best of tempers.

Most of the early problems were sorted out... early and I was just having a reviving coffee when one of the stewards radioed me and said that the Police wanted to speak to the chief stewards, NOW! All sorts of things run through your mind and you immediately fear the worst. I shot across the square to find a gaggle of "London's "Finest".

"Whats wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, I just wanted to say hello and let you know that we're goint to be here all day, if there's anythinh you need....."

Then I saw the SC above his shoulder number. A bloody "week-end warrior" [Special Constable]. Looking around, his three cohorts were the same! Fuckin' marvelous. Normally, I don't mind Specials, but I don't want to be running around at their beck-and-call. Anyway, the day went off reasonably well. We didn't need the Old Bill and probably just as well too! Eight Specials [the one of whom, I'd..... put right... by the end of the day] and four PCSO's. London's Finest my arse.

One of the Stewards, Simon, supposedly

managing the queue. Scratching his balls

by the look of it.Four happy shoppers, sorry, PCSO's trying to

figure out what's going on.

Things then went from bad to worse because I got home just in time for cabaret. Consequently I got pissed and went to work today with the mother of all hang-overs.