I’m going to open this on a very brash, yet honest statement. “I’m a failed actor that doesn’t have any money”. Now because of this, instead of taking acting classes and perfecting my voice and physicality, going to as many auditions as possible and networking with other creatives, I spend most of my time working at race courses serving the very rich, very mediocre food, whilst being shouted at by managers that wouldn’t look out of place in Hitler’s backroom cabinet. However, I do pride myself on trying to give the best service possible. One such occasion I spent an entire day slaving away with a group of menopausal women that drank Prosecco like it was Channing Tatum’s nipple milk. I did everything I possibly could for these women. I supplied them with drinks, food and a day filled to the brim with humour. I even had one of the women’s shoes fixed by running to Halfords and having the shoe glue gunned back together. They worshiped me. They called me Darling. “Ohhhh darling!” they’d cry out every time I approached the table. Begged me to take their daughters on dates. One asked for a date herself. Minx. I kissed every single one of them on the lips!!!
One of the girls won big, like I’m talking £490 on a horse. They were ecstatic. WE were ecstatic. Honestly, I was made up for her. I phoned my mum. “Mum! Julie’s won big on ‘Hoof Hearted’” (Say it quickly, you’ll get it). “Who’s Julie” mum replied! I slammed the phone down and smacked a sloppy kiss onto Julie’s lips, again. It was amazing. Well, it was. Until the day came to an end and we had to go our separate ways. One by one, the girls sheepishly headed towards the door, heads down, no good bye. Nothing. I knew what they were doing. They weren’t going to tip. I could smell the shame steaming off them. It was either the shame or the sweat from my pits after running three miles to Halfords to fix Susan’s shoe. These women were about as generous with their money as Katie Hopkins is with UK Visas for a Syrian orphan Girl that’s witnessed her mother and father be obliterated by an RAF barrel Bomb.
Not to worry though. I’m not bitter. I thought, “Oh well, at least I’ve got my cheese and pickle sandwich to look forward to on the two hour coach trip home… I hate pickle. I really hate pickle. Oh what’s the point? I left everything out there today? Gave it my all and it’s still not good enough. What is the point? Is there another race? I might just copy Emily Davison and throw myself in front of the Kings Horse. I’ll hold a sign that says, Tips for Ryan! I’ll make a statement. I’ll leave a legacy. Ryan’s all over the country will be tipped fairly because of me.” And as I was standing there, thinking terribly dark thoughts, just like magic, as I had lost all faith in humanity, to my surprise one of the women came up to me and handed twenty English pounds. That’s more tips than I would earn in a month working in the catering industry. I couldn’t believe it. It was the greatest moment of my life. Honestly. Better than Leicester winning the league, better than opening the letter to tell me I’d achieved a first class honours degree, better than a standing ovation in a sold out theatre. TWENTY POUNDS!
But then I heard him, “What’s that Ryan?” It was the supervisor, Adolf Hitler. “Nothing it’s just a used betting slip” I replied. “Go on, show me what you’ve got.” He was onto me the bloody Nazi! He was goose stepping towards me, “Is that a tip?” he said. “Yeah, it is twenty quid.” I’d lost. “Ohhhh lovely, well, put it in the jar and we’ll share it out between the team at the end”. He held up this sorry little tip Jar with a few quid clattering around the bottom. “Come on! In the jar.” He stood there, in his mustard shirt, comb over perfectly in place, swastika on his arm, holding out this bloody jar. What could I do? Say “Listen Adolf. I earnt this. I ran to Halfords. I twisted my ankle. I kissed eight sixty year old women on the mouth all day. Why do you deserve this? What’ve you done Adolf? Because I’ve been watching you all day and you’ve done nothing!” Instead, I swallowed my pride and the left wing socialist in me thought, “Yeah, why not? Let’s share the wealth. Even though Sophie hasn’t lifted a finger all day. Even though the tarty girl from Wolverhampton and the chef have quite clearly been sneaking off to the toilets for a bit of hanky panky. Even though Adolf has been as much use as a chocolate teapot. Let’s share.”…
We clocked out and Adolf divvied out the tips. I thought, “You know what, maybe everyone else has pulled their weight after seeing what I contributed. Maybe we’ll all get a fortune.” I started thinking what I could get with the money. Maybe I could get out of the catering industry for good. Focus on my acting career. Spend some time working on ‘ME’. Use the money to plan for the future and all that…
I got a two pound tip and four ‘Ladbrokes’ betting pens. I’d been shafted. Hitler had stitched me up. Undercut me. F*cking Hitler. Well, the actor in me exploded and in a rage I shouted out, “OH F*CK OFF! All of you just f*ck off! I literally put hours of effort into that table while the rest of you just sat around looking at your f*cking phones, you useless piles of shit.”
It was a long coach trip home.
F*ck the catering industry. F*ck Theresa May and F*ck Adolf Hitler (The actual Adolf and the one in this story).
And the morale of the story is…
Work hard and be nice. And if all is fair in life, you’ll get what you deserve. Unless there is some power hungry Nazi above you who’ll sell you out.
Have a nice day.
I’ve been RKB, you’ve been an audience.