Life Behind Bars (2 page)

While this was happening the bar
was full to bursting with all the local neds, who had missed the action and
perhaps felt a little cheated; after all it was Saturday night and it wasn’t a
good Saturday without a good fight.  And they didn’t consider that to be a
good fight.

No blood, no stitches, only a
couple of broken chairs and the karaoke machine still intact.  (Average
life span of a karaoke machine in a town bar was six months.)

So round two was about to kick
off.  However, they hadn’t reckoned with me.  I was absolutely
spitting mad, dancing with temper.  When calm, I am a force to be reckoned
with, but in full sail and ready for action; more dangerous than a caged
cougar!

I studied the group for
approximately thirty seconds and they studied me.  Bearing in mind most
had double vision by now; I must have looked like a mob!  I moved in on
the ringleader, who was backing hastily towards the door, all the while making
wisecracks just to keep face.

Should I cut him off at the
pass?  Or just go for it?  The staff were waiting with baited breath,
ready to spring to my aid,
my
aid!  I don’t think so!  One
snarl, just one snarl, that’s all it took, bit of an anti-climax actually and
the bar was empty.  Disaster had been averted, well for us anyway.

Poor Tony the Chippie had the
remains of the birthday party and the neds in a face-off.  He lost a plate
glass window and his beautiful shiny red formica tables never stood properly
upright again.

Whys and Wherefores . . .

“Why a pub?  A pub? 
Why the devil do you want to work in a pub?  You’ve got a great life.”

My mother was appalled, she
couldn’t believe we would willingly give up ‘the company life’ for what she
called ‘going into service.’  My husband, on the other hand, was over the
moon; free booze for life and he wouldn’t have to leave the comfort of
home.  Those sentiments should have been a chilling warning for me.

David was never a good
drinker.  Oh, he wasn’t violent or aggressive, in fact, the complete
opposite.  He was a lovely drunk, lovely to everyone else.  He just
didn’t know when to stop and invariably was sent off to bed, or home early at
any party.  Not a problem in our previous life but every night was party
night in a pub.  Be careful what you wish for, it might just come
true. 

I have to say my mother was right,
we did have a great life.  David worked for the French Merchant Navy, had
a great job (took him away from home!)  We lived in a very affluent and
sociable village and our daughter was just about to go off to college. 
But I always resented the fact that all the profits we were making went to the
company and I couldn’t see why we shouldn’t make money for ourselves.  Our
first venture should have put us off for life but . . . always the eternal
optimist.

We had had our offer on a town
bar accepted.  We were over the moon and couldn’t wait to get
started.  For reasons I never discovered there was a hiccup with the
contract.  We were due to go off on holiday for a week and having a very
pedantic lawyer, she would not let us sign.  I was so disappointed and
actually quite annoyed at the situation.  I was sure we were going to lose
it and someone else would jump in and buy it from under us.  The present
incumbent had been trying to offload it for over a year but that didn’t stop me
from panicking. 

We arrived home late one Sunday
evening and there were literally dozens of messages asking us to contact the
brewery, the lawyer and God knows who else.  So first thing Monday morning
I dropped David off at work and drove past the pub.  It looked different
but I couldn’t quite figure out why.  I drove about fifty yards further on
and screeched to a halt.  There was no fucking roof!  No roof! 
What the hell had happened?

Well, unfortunately no one had
informed the ‘Drug Baron,’ to whom Mr. Seller owed thousands, that there was a
new sheriff in town!  Me.  Thank God the lawyer was as strict as she
was.  We would have had no insurance, no building and no money.

Looking back it was the biggest
favour anyone has ever done us but at the time it was devastating.

It was time to circle the wagons
and strategise; never really understood what that meant but it sounded
good.  There had to be a pub out there with our name on it.  I was
going to find it and I was going to make it work!  And I did, and it did.

Confused? . . . You will be . . .

Tea-time drunks are normally the
funniest, usually the least aggressive, but positively the most confused. 
They have no conception of time because they have spent the afternoon in a
warm, dim cocoon being cosseted by a buxom young filly, tending to their every
need.  Then they emerge into bright sunlight and are absolutely
baffled.  It should be dark, close to midnight.  So it often makes
for amusing antics.

In Tweedys we had two entrances,
(or exits,) which for one old geezer proved completely baffling. 
Staggering into the public bar for what looked like his tenth ‘one for the
road,’ I politely informed him he would not be served and sent him on his merry
way.  This reception is never met with good grace, after all “Who the fuck
am I to say he’s had enough?”  And this gent was no exception. 
Muttering the usual pleasantries under his breath, he headed for the next
hostelry, where he would surely be met with open arms and delight.

Instinctively I knew he would
follow the neon sign, so I nipped across the hall as he fell through the lounge
door.  Seeing me behind the bar came as something of a shock but he didn’t
argue, just about turned and fell back through the door.  By now his
bearings were completely off and he was like the ‘Bisto Kid’ following his
nose, and of course he was heading back the way he’d come. 

With the greatest effort he
carefully opened the bar door.  He was taking no chances; well he’d just
been refused in two pubs.  Drawing himself up to his full 5 feet, he walked as steadily as he could up to the bar with that look of  ‘nearly home and
dry,’ saw me and roared.

“For fuck’s sake!  How many
pubs have you got in this toon?” and promptly passed out.

We propped him up in a corner and
he slept almost through till closing time, probably the latest he’s been out on
the town for years.  When he woke he thanked us profusely for a ‘great
night’ and he would see us tomorrow.

I don’t think so!

Through the looking glass . . .

It was definitely a full moon
tonight.  Every eejit in the town had passed through my doors and each one
dafter than the one before; not causing trouble just plain, bloody
stupid.  I was looking forward to a large G&T and putting my feet
up.  Landladies have a sixth sense about customers and we can sense an
atmosphere quicker than ‘a rat up a drain pipe,’ and tonight it was okay. 
All the loonies had moved on or were baying at the moon.  I was sure I
could make my escape early, but I’d give it just ten more minutes.

We had a policy of not allowing
anyone in after 11pm unless I was very sure of them.  I spotted one such
buck who had been in earlier in the evening but had gone off to meet friends in
town.  He was somewhat the worse for wear but he was a good lad and always
full of fun.  Tonight, however, he was taking ages to come to the bar and
seemed to be getting agitated with someone standing at the fireplace. 

Watching for several minutes I
decided I should intervene as Billy was now becoming over-excited and several
other customers were unsure of him.  Although normally good natured, he
was certainly in a lather about something.  Approaching him cautiously;
he’s a big chap, he turned and grabbed me in a bear hug.

“Oh Kate, Kate, for God’s sake,
what the fuck’s wrong with everyone?  I’ve been trying to get a drink for
the past ten minutes and that bastard behind the bar is just taking the piss
and making a fool of me.”

“Don’t you worry,”
 
says
I,  “he’ll not be behind my bar again.”

Yes you’ve guessed, he was
looking in the mirror!

Taking care of business . . .

Serving alcohol comes with its
own problems, the main one being, people get drunk.  Having relieved them
of their wits and their money, any good publican will look after their own
drunks.  We never, ever look after anyone else’s.  This rule should
be tattooed on every member of staff’s forehead. 

Picture the scene; an extremely busy
Friday night, the bar absolutely heaving and the staff were working at full
speed.  One stunning but ditzy barmaid, Claire, was gesturing to me she
had to have a break.  This meant I had to leave my stance as bouncer at
the front door and take over in the bar.

As you have sussed by now, no one
gets past me!  I had spent the last fifteen minutes persuading a
well-known drunk that coming in for a nightcap was not a good idea.  He
had eventually moved on and was gingerly feeling his way home but was definitely
out of our radar.   Feeling it was quite safe to leave Claire to her
cigarette I took her place behind the bar.

Imagine my horror when I spotted
the idiot of a girl carefully negotiating her way back into the main body of
the kirk with the bloody man on her arm.

“He’s not feeling well,” she
mouthed to me.

“NOT FEELING WELL!  
You’ll
not be feeling well when I get out from behind this bar!”

Intent on ministering to him and
taking care of his needs, because the poor man had to be ill, after all he could
hardly stand.  Hardly stand!  Hardly walk; he was fucking
legless!  And we were lumbered with him.  But not for long, in the
flick of a barman’s apron he was up and ‘going for gold’ in the only way a true
drunk can. 

‘Head down and charge at the
gate,’ only it was our fruit machine that got it.   Everyone’s a
winner?  He was knocked clean out and the punters thought it was raining
pennies from heaven, only it was pound coins.

MY BLOODY POUND COINS

Guess who didn’t get paid that week?

Chucking out time . . .

During my career I have
frequently operated two or three outlets at the same time.  On one
particularly busy Bank holiday I found myself, yet again, over-extended and
short-staffed, hey ho! What’s new?

On this occasion I had two major
outlets.  Both busy as hell and both needing my full attention (which is
about that of a gnat!)  And both short-staffed on an extremely busy
Saturday.

I knew I could rely on a couple
of the commis chefs to get me through the lunch period.  On the promise of
double-time and a day off sometime, I managed to cover the Country Inn.

Tweedys was the most popular
venue in town and I would manage here on my own.  The queue began to form
at about11.30am and by noon the place was heaving.  I have to say,
personally I wouldn’t queue if Gordon Ramsay himself was frying the chips.

Anyway, usual Saturday, 250-300
lunches, and I have to say at the end of the shift, (actually any shift,) I
looked like someone had thrown the entire contents of the kitchen at me. 
I’m one messy cook.  I had no time to change; jumped in the car, off to
prep for the evening shift at the Country Inn, to feed another 250 starving
punters.

How I managed to get through that
day God alone knows.  But at the end of a gruelling twelve hours I was
absolutely done in.  So back in the car, leaving my husband and manager in
charge!  Huh!

If I was a mess at 2pm, you can’t imagine what I looked like at 9pm, absolutely appalling.  First stop
shower, second, a very large vodka and tonic. 

As I was turning the key in the
lock I could hear the phone ringing. 

“Bugger off!  I don’t care
who it is, I’ll get them later.”

Got to the top of the stairs and
a voice from below shouts.

“Phone David NOW!  There’s a
problem down the road.” For heaven’s sake, I’d only left them ten minutes
ago.  What the hell could have happened in ten minutes?

An agitated David was roaring
down the phone.

“You have to get back here
NOW.  There’s a crowd of bikers refusing to leave and demanding drinks in
the restaurant.”

Jesus! Bikers!  Every
warning bell went off.

“
Can’t you deal with
them?”

“No, they won’t move, it’s
causing a problem in the restaurant.”

This was serious, people don’t
come out on a Saturday night to become involved in, or watch ‘bar room brawls.
’  It had to be sorted.  And with great macho men, a woman is always
the one to get rid of them.

It normally took about ten
minutes to go from one place to the other but I think I broke the sound
barrier.  I stormed into the building, crashing doors, screeching at
customers to get out of my way.  Now anyone who knows me knows that
although I’m formidable, I never lose my cool.  Well this was an
exception.

No sign of hubby or
manager.  I marched through the dining room.  No sign of any
marauding hoards of leather-clad fiends.  I spotted a group of about eight
to ten extremely boisterous lads by the pool table.  No obvious clues that
they were bikers, but who knows?  They could be in their civvies. 
Well they were out, whether they knew it or not.

I marched up, lifted all their
drinks, of which there were many, and threw them on the bar.  Grabbed a
couple by the scruff of the neck and propelled them to the door.  Grabbing
the next two wasn’t so easy as the element of surprise had gone, but come hell
or high water they were going.

To say they were protesting is
putting it mildly.  They were shouting and jumping up and down and going
to smash the windows.  Anyway, I got the last one, who was snogging the
ugliest of ugly’s, (actually did him a favour,) and dragged him screaming to
the door to join the rest of his cohorts.