Riding the Six Thirty Bus with David Walliams

Working in the service industry isn't nearly as awful as I often make out. It's not ideal; the long hours of menial tasks, waiting on the general public's every whim for the government-dictated minimum wage (a pittance that I would like to see the politicians attempt to live on) are somewhat alleviated by the knowledge that the rag-tag bunch of reprobates you will inevitably end up working with will become like a bizarre second family makes for some hilarious and memory-worthy misadventures.

Some of the most fascinating people I have ever had the (mis?)fortune to meet I have encountered in the underbellies of hotels and restaurants throughout this blessed isle. From The Captain, the handyman at my current place of work; a septuagenarian who has been to every red-light district the world has to offer and now resides in a mansion once owner by Errol Flynn, to the toothless and illiterate Pablo; an erstwhile kitchen porter in Cardiff, who earned his name because his amigos thought he looked Italian, I look back on each with a macabre fondness.

Of course, I've also met some of my dearest friends in Hospitality, many of whom despite our long-formed separations on a global scale, the wonder of Facebook keeps us in touch.

No, the worst part about the service industry is the ungodly hours it demands we keep. Back in my early twenties, a fourteen hour shift on barely four hours sleep (admittedly often after the mandatory after-hours debauchery the night before) was a regular occurrence. Nowadays, however, the sleep and the hours simply do not mesh. As I sit on the bus at six thirty this rainy January morning, exhausted from a sleepless night (though this time through nothing more exciting than not being able to get comfortable!) I stare over at the bus driver, who looks remarkably like a Polish David Walliams, and wonder why the hell either of us have dragged ourselves out of bed...