You Pay Peanuts, You Get Monkeys!

YOU PAY PEANUTS, YOU GET MONKEYS

“Things are not looking good lads.” Said Seamus Monkey flicking through the pile of bills on the table in front of him.  “We can’t possibly pay this lot.”

“Hmm. Yeah.” Said Norman, not really listening.  His inventions were not selling very well, even though he had started his own shopping channel on you tube.com, The Norman Channel.  Heaven help us…

“Norman are you listening?” Seamus threw the pile of bills down in front of him.  “Because the first one of these was due to be paid three weeks ago and we have scarcely a fiver between us.”

Raffles walked in from the lounge, his little birdie, El Greco, perched on his shoulder.  “Don’t worry about it too much Shay, I still have a few fifteeners you can borrow.”

Seamus huffed.  “They are illegal, Raffles, they aren’t even real money.  The front is a tenner and the back is a fiver.  And the queen has a love bite on her neck.”

“Well what do you want me to do about that?” Raffles was indignant.

“Look lads..” Seamus called the lads closer.  “We are going to have to get real jobs.  Now the hotel La Gibbone is looking for new people after all their last lot of staff were sent back to their own countries.”

Norman and Raffles uummeed and aahhed.

“They pay peanuts apparently.” Seamus mentioned.

“Well why didn’t you say so lad?”  Seamus’ word was good enough for them.

The next day the three of them got showered and changed into their best cardigans and bow ties and went down to the hotel; La Gibbone.  The front was huge, made of pure marble with brass door knobs.  The porters wore bright red jackets with gold lapels and shiny black shoes.  The three Monkeys walked in the front door, feeling very out of place.

They announced themselves to the lady on the desk who called them in to see the top man, Antoine de la Gibbone, the General Manager.

They sat down on chairs facing his huge desk.  Mr Gibbone was a tall, smartly dressed man who spoke very clear cut  English.

“So I understand you three are looking for work.  Have you had any hotel work before?”

“Not as such, although we are all keen and willing to learn.” Said Seamus, the model diplomat.

“Do any of you have any kitchen experience?” Asked the manager.

“Actually I do.” Piped up Norman.  Seamus gave him a sidewards glance.  Norman had more experience of destroying their kitchen than anybody he had ever met.

“Yes, I can cook rather well, I am an expert on local and foreign foods and wine.” Said Norman, grinning.  There was nothing you could teach him about how to open a packet or to use a microwave.

Seamus added “I am very polite and clever and I am very hard working.  I have excellent guest service skills.”

The manager nodded, thoughtfully.  “Good, good.  Now does any of you have a driving licence?”

“Yes I do.” Raffles spoke and sat up.

Seamus and Norman looked at him in amazement.  They didn’t know he could drive, they had never seen him drive a thing.  Was he making this up?

“I have experience of driving all kinds of cars and motor transport.”  Raffles was a master at selling his skills.

Yeah, none of the cars you asked permission to take, thought Seamus.

“Well that’s excellent then.” Said the manager. “Seamus I am putting you to work in the restaurant, where you will be serving people and taking orders.  Norman, I want you in the kitchen, where I am sure your culinary expertise will serve us well.  Raffles -”

Raffles was sat picking his nose.  He suddenly sat us, a bogey hanging from his right nostril.  “Yes sir.”

“You will be working on the Porters desk.  You will be helping carry the bags, parking the cars and showing the guest around.  Any questions gentlemen?”

The Monkeys shook their heads.

“Well that’s fine then, you can start first thing tomorrow, be here for nine o’clock in the morning.”

“Thank you very much sir.”

The three Monkeys quietly left the office, high-fiving each other.

Bright and early the next morning, they arrived at work.  Surprisingly they were clean and fresh smelling, with clean shirts and bow ties.  Except Raffles who insisted on wearing his red neck scarf.

When they arrived they were split up and taken to their working areas.  Seamus was put in a bright red jacket and shown to the restaurant that would soon be open for lunch.

Norman was outfitted with a clean white chef’s jacket, an apron and a white cap and shown through to the kitchen.

Raffles was given a red porters jacket, that buttoned up the front, right up to the top of the neck, which he found very uncomfortable.  He was taken back to the lobby and shown his own desk, which had all the leaflets for the attractions of London, and a large map for directing people.  He also had a big brass trolley for taking people’s luggage.  Several guest were due to check in that day, including a famous hotel critic, Pierre Montserrat.  A hotel critic is somebody who says there to tell people what it is like.  Sometimes they say good things, sometime bad.

The first guest arrived bright and early.  The head porter took the mans bag, and gave the car keys to Norman to park the car.  Norman sat in the drivers seat and looked around.  Hmm, it was a bit different to the cars he had driven before, this one had an automatic gearbox.  It didn’t have numbers 1,2,3,4 and so on, it had letters. N,D,R,P.  Well Raffles wasn’t sure which one to use so he picket the letter R because his name also began with R.  He pressed the pedal with his foot and the car lurched backwards with some force.  “Wooooaaaahhh there!!”  He hit the brake and the car skidded to a halt.  The head porter stuck his head out of the hotel’s front door and looked on in horror.

“Sorry boss, think I have got it now.”   Grinned Raffles, a bit embarrassed.  He put the gears in D and lurched the car forward, a few metres at a time.

Seamus was being showed around the restaurant.  The tables all had crisp white table cloths, and shiny cutlery and glasses.

Norman was in the kitchen, feeling a bit bewildered.  He couldn’t find a microwave anywhere.  The kitchen staff were all in a hurry, and cookers and ovens were massive, with pots and pans you could have a bath in.  It was hot and steam was everywhere, and it was all noisy.  He thought the head chef didn’t like him, he was always shouting, but then he shouted at everybody.  Norman was set to work peeling carrots.  Not one or two, not ten or twenty, but a hundred.  Norman groaned, knowing this would take him all day.

Outside the hotel a new car pulled up.  This one was a bright red Italian sports car, very expensive and very very fast.  As it arrived the head porter, next to Raffles, gulped hard, it was the hotel inspector.  

“Mister Montserrat, how are you today, welcome to the hotel La Gibbone.” Said the head porter, taking the mans bags.  Mr Montserrat was a tall, bald man in a sharp tan suit.  He didn’t say anything to the Porter, just walked straight past him and in the front door.

Raffles got into the driver’s seat.  Remembering his mistake last time, he put the car straight into D, which stood for Drive, he assumed.  He pressed the accelarator.  The wheels spun and smoked, the engine revved and roared like an animal, but the car did not move.  He checked around. Aha the handbrake was still on.  He released it and the car shot forward into traffic.  Now to get to the hotels car park you had to drive all the way around the block on the one-way roads.  Raffles managed it last time, no problem.  So this time shouldn’t be any worry.

“Norman, get me some frozen yoghurt, immediately.”  One of the chefs called.

“Right, where do I get that from?” Norman asked.

“I said FROZEN!  Try the freezer, you nugget.” The chef yelled.

“Oh, right.”  Norman blushed and went off in search of the freezer.  He thought it would be a little cupboard freezer, but no it was in fact a whole room, frozen, and as large as his kitchen at home.  He walked in, and began searching for the frozen yoghurt on the many shelves.  Just then the door was shut from the outside, oh no!

Seamus was enjoying his job so far, he had cleared up after breakfast and laid the tables with fresh linen and new cutlery.

Raffles was half way around the block in the red sports car  when he had to stop at traffic lights.  While he waited he decided to have a quick play with the car’s posh stereo system.  It went really loud.  The lights went green and off he went again, when suddenly a black cab pulled in front of him .

“Oi Fart face!  What do you think you are doing?!” He yelled,  Oh damn, he had missed the turning now.  He took the  next left turning with the idea of turning left again.  But the road would only let him go right.  So he went right.  Now the way back to the hotel was..  First left, second right?  Or was it the other way around?

Norman banged on the freezer door, yelling for help.  It was really cold in here, he could freeze to death if nobody found him.  His last hope was to phone Raffles on his mobile, which he always kept on him.  The reception was bad, but he typed in the text message.  RAFFLES I AM STUCK IN THE KITCHEN FREEZER, COME AND GET ME OUT URGENTLY.  NORMAN.  He then pressed send and hoped for the best.  The words MESSAGE SENT came up on his phone straight away.  Phew, all he had to do now was wait and try and keep warm.

Raffles was still driving around London, hopelessly lost when his phone chimed.  He looked at the message from Norman.  Oh no!  He had to get back right now.

He pulled the car into a tight turn, skidding round in the middle of the road, directly into the path of a double decker bus.  He dodged it with the nippy red car and darted down Oxford street.  The wrong way.

The head porter at this time, was showing Mr Montserrat his master suite on the top floor.  The man didn’t look very happy, but then he never did.  He looked around, snootily, at the modern room.  “I will have lunch at one o’clock pm, make sure my table is ready.”  No thank you, then

The head porter nodded and ducked out of the door, glad to be away from the snooty man.  He phoned the reservation down to the restaurant manager.

Meanwhile Norman was shivering away in the darkness when the freezer door suddenly opened.  The head chef stood there, looking stunned.  “Norman, what are you doing making phone calls in my freezer?  Get out of here and get back to work right away.  And don’t forget your frozen yoghurt.”

Norman grabbed the yoghurt pot and dashed back into the kitchen before the chef could clip his ear.  He passed the yoghurt to the angry chef who snatched it off him and went back to his carrots.  Ninety seven to go.

Raffles turned off Oxford street and onto another road, saving time by weaving in and out of the bus lanes.  Straight past two police cars.  Officer Jones and Muffin lit up their blue lights, fired up the siren and gave chase!  Neee--nawwww…

Raffles saw the flashing lights behind him and knew he had really done it now.  He couldn’t let them catch him, it wasn’t even his car, and he had to get back to the hotel before Norman froze to death.  Which way now?  Raffles took a right into what looked like a hotel yard.  Nope, the red coated guards scattering in front of him indicated this wasn’t a hotel at all, this was Buckingham palace!  “Sorry lads, wrong turn!”  He called to the guards as he skidded out of Buckingham palace front court.  The police were closing.

Seamus had just served the starters to table twelve and was about to get their main course when Mr Montserrat walked in the restaurant.  The manager was taking an order so Seamus went over to greet him.

“Howdo Cocker, have you come for some grub, like?”  Asked Seamus.

The man didn’t respond at first, just looked down his nose at the monkey.  “I have a reservation.”

“Rightio, just let me have a quick look at the book.  What room number please?”

“One hundred and twenty.  Montserrat.”

Seamus ran his finger down  the list.  There he was, 1pm, Montserrat, room 120.  Ah, and someone had written in red biro underneath, HOTEL INSPECTOR, look after him!  Okaydokey.

“Right, then sir, please follow me to your table.”  Said Seamus, suddenly realising he didn’t have a clue which table that was.  What about the one right by the kitchen door?

He handed him the menu.  “Now sir, today’s specials are a melon salad with a raspberry coulis.  The special main is prawns in a garlic butter cream sauce, and the dessert is jam roly poly.  An English classic I think you will agree.”  Seamus was very pleased with himself, there was nothing you could teach him about up selling.

The guy snatched the menu off him.  “I want a bottle of your best white wine, and make sure it is chilled.”

“Rightio cocker.”  Seamus grinned, his best fake smile.

He went off to the fridges and came back with the best he could find.  A bottle of the 2007 Lambogini, fizzy white wine.  He went back and presented the snooty man with the wine, then he tried to open it.  He got a cork screw and screwed it into the bottle, as hard as he could.  At first it was hard, then the screw pushed straight through.  He didn’t know it was a screw-top, like a bottle of coca-cola.  He yanked the screw back out with all his might and accidently slapped the man  in the table next to them with his hand.

“Opps!  Sorry mate, didn’t mean to.. Yeah, sorry.”  Seamus said, totally mortified.  He poured the man’s wine and went off to the kitchen to get the man’s starter.

Raffles swung around the corner, making good time in the sporty little car.  It cornered really well, maybe he should get one of these for himself one day.  He turned right, onto Westminister, and shot past the houses of parliament  at full pelt.      He aimed towards Tower Bridge, the police in hot pursuit.

Norman was on his 99th carrot when he heard an order coming through for a starter.  He would be in charge of the mans main course when he had finished the starter.  He had no idea what he was supposed to do with all these pots and pans and all these fancy ovens.  Then he had a bright idea.  He got his mobile phone out and ducked behind the fridges.  He went through the phone book and found just what he was looking for.  He dialled the number.

“Hello, Speedy Ali’s kebabs, can I take your order?”

Seamus went back over to Mr Snooty Montserrat and cleared his starter plate.

“Was everything to your satisfaction sir?”

“Not bad.  I am still waiting for my main course though.”  The man sighed, his nose raised up towards the ceiling.

“I’ll get it for you right away sir.”  Said Seamus.  Git, he thought.

Norman was stood nervously by the kitchen door.  He heard a knock and there was a man in a crash helmet there, holding a bag .  A moped was parked up on the drive.

“Thanks mate.  Four quid?  Keep the change.”  He took the bag and scurried back to his work station.  He undid the bag, took out the kebab and threw aside the pitta bread.  Then he decorated the kebab meat with a bit of salad and a few uncooked potatoes.  Gordon Ramsey, eat your heart out.

“Main course please, table four.”  Called Seamus, happy with how things were going so far.  Another year of this and he could go for trainee manager.

Norman slowly carried the plate over and placed it on Seamus’ tray.  He covered the plate with one of those big round silver plate covers.

Seamus carefully carried the tray out to the restaurant and carried the plate over to the table.  He placed the plate in front of the Mr Snooty and removed the silver cover with a flourish.

“Your main course sir.” Said Seamus, and topped up the mans glass with wine.  Yeah, he could get used to this job.

Raffles was cut off now, the police had mounted a road block on the road ahead of him, and the two cars behind him were gaining fast.  His last option was to turn on to Tower Bridge itself.  Now if you don’t know Tower Bridge, it is a big bridge over the Thames with a huge tower at each end.  It looks wicked.  It’s clever bit is that it can raise the road at either side, like a draw-bridge so the taller ships can pass underneath.

As it happened a rather tall ship was due to pass through Tower Bridge in a few minutes so the operator set about closing the bridge to traffic and started to slowly raise the bridge.  Raffles saw the bridge lights turn red as he bashed his way through the barrier.  He gained as much speed as he could.  He floored the accelarator and shut his eyes.
The Sporty red car shot up the ramp and on to the bridge proper, as it raised halfway.  He shot off the edge of the bridge and into the air…………….and landed on the other side of the ramp with a gentle thump.  Woah! Raffles felt like the Dukes of Hazzard!  He screeched down the other side and round the corner.

“Waiter!  Can you come here and tell me what is wrong with this lamb dish?”  Mr Snooty called from over the other end of the retaurant.

Seamus left the guest he was dealing with, a nice old lady, and went back over to the man.  He took a deep breath.  “Yes sir, can I help?”

“Can you tell me what on earth this is supposed to be?”  Said the man, holding up a piece of Kebab meat.

“That, sir, is exactly what you ordered, the lamb fricasse with new potatoes and vegetables.”  Seamus stuck his nose in the air, in imitation of the man.

“I know what I ordered, and this godforsaken pile is nothing like it.  This meat is bland and grey.  I demand proper lamb, with proper cooked potatoes.”

“Now sir, I assure you there is nothing wrong with the food in this establishment.  My collegue, Norman, formerly a trainee of Jamie Oliver, is one of the best chefs in the country.  And he has -”

“You can’t tell me a decent chef would serve this gunk!  Get him out here, I want a word.”  The man was red with rage.

Seamus went into the kitchen to get Norman, knowing for sure this would lead to trouble.

Norman was just finishing his 100th carrot when Seamus waved over to him.  The rest of the chefs were busy with the other tables.  “Norman, I need a word mate, we have a bit of a complaint.”

“Why what’s up?”

“Well the guy on table four reckons your Lamb special is a pile of sheep poo.  I don’t know what to tell him, do you want to have a quick word?”

Norman huffed, full of anger.  He had been peeling carrots all day and now people wanted to complain about his cooking!  Well, ok, the takeaway’s cooking.  But that was besides the point.  He went out into the restaurant.

Raffles had given the police the slip for the minute.  He turned yet another corner, and finally saw something he recognised.  A sign said Hotel La Gibbone, next right.  Phew!  He turned right.

Norman and Seamus went over to the mans table.  “Good day sir, I am Norman Monkey, executive sous chef of this hotel, how may I be of assistance today?”  He said, in his most official voice.

“Well, you poor excuse of a chef, can you tell me what this is meant to be?”  The man said, throwing a small piece of meat at Norman.  He bristled with anger.

“That sir, is my specialty of the house,  The Lamb Meat Ali special.  Two for one Monday nights after seven.   It took me two years to learn how to make that dish.”

“Well you Monkey idiot, I suggest you take a couple more years to learn how to blimmin’ cook.  You are worse than awful!”


“Now hang on one minute!”  Said Seamus, very cross that this man would speak to his best mate like that.

“Don’t you dare say another word, you stupid Monkey!  I have been insulted enough by your terrible service and even more terrible cooking.  Now I am leaving and I do not expect to receive a bill.”

“Fine, stuff you then, but before you go mate I suggest you tie your shoe lace.”  Said Seamus with a wink.

“What?  Oh, right.”  The man bent over.

And with that, Norman kicked him hard right up the the backside!  The man fell over.  Seamus came up behind him.

“And don’t forget your dessert sir.”  Seamus threw a plate of jam roly poly over the man.  Then he poured the custard down his neck.  The man stormed out in a deadly fury.

Seamus and Norman were called into the managers office and given their marching orders.

As they sat on the pavement outside the hotel a bright red sports car came barrelling up the road at silly miles per hour.  It screeched to a halt in front of the hotel, tyres smoking.  As the messy Mr Montserrat left the hotel he threw his bags into the back of the car and snatched the keys off a sheepish looking Raffles.  He then sped off in a rage.  Four police cars shot past the hotel in hot pursuit of the car.

Raffles spotted his two best mates at on the kerb and went over to talk to them.

“Norman, blimey, lad, I thought you were stuck in the freezer.  You thawed out well, then.”

“I got out on my own, no thanks to you.  Where have you been all day?”

“Oh you know, taking in the sights, road testing that sporty little red car. What was that guys problem?”

“You don’t want to know, just a nasty bloke that got us all sacked.  Never mind, eh?”

“Yeah never mind.”  Said Raffles.  “Anyway by the time that lot catch up with him the only hotel he will be fit for reviewing will be the Gray Bar hotel, better know as Parkhurst Prison.”

The Monkeys laughed and slowly made their way home   Chaos, confusion, panic, their work for the day was done.

THE END