110%

Give it 110%. I mean, what my effort? Fuck this one gets me every time. Mostly because it's an assertion that effort has to be put in place. That I will, in order to succeed in whatever probably pointless endeavour, like becoming a successful actor, or attaining an exam grade, have to exert all the effort.. no. No, not all of the effort, more than my body and mind can muster. 10% more, not 20 or 500. Just ten . Maybe it's because of my distinct aversion to effort that my soul shrivels upon hearing hearing this or my resignation to failure in whatever goal I am pursuing is before I've even begun.

Dear Irish Americans

Dear Irish Americans,

I'm going to take a moment to thank you guys for the great stuff you've given to all of us Irish folk, like provide shelter for our refugees and economic migrants over the years, or funds to social causes like community projects and the RA, or the substantial amount you contribute to our tourist industry over the years. Hey, we even largely enjoyed the first Boondock Saints movie, Forrest Griffin, that one song by The Dropkick Murphys and that one song by House of Pain but there's something we need to discuss and it's not about you guys ordering Irish coffees after our bar staff have cleaned down the coffee machines, or the horrendously named “An Irish Car bomb”, I mean we don't order two B52s, set them on fire and call them the Twin Towers and if you can stop doing that, great but there's something a little bit more pressing.

I know some of you might even be surprised that I am on the internet, rather than on a horse and cart on a hovel in a bog, but we've the good ol' fashioned world wide web. So, when we see the confederate flag, as in the one adopted in 1905, some forty years after that racist little rebellion failed with captions like “Why aren't Irish Americans in an outrage? They were the first slaves. Bet most people don't even know that.' You see this quote here, it's wrong on so many levels. I mean, were we the first slaves ever? Because I'm pretty sure the Irish weren't even an ethnic group when some great great ancestor of all of us decided “shit, we could sure do with some free labour”. No, you see some Irish people were slaves, that is true. But we're talking about a tiny percentage of people, who got shipped off to the Carribean. Often they mixed with black slaves, such as on Montserrat, but a larger amount were indentured servants – a condition that by modern standards would be considered slavery but a condition that many Irish people entered into willingly, not always willingly and some were outright forced into it, but there were still significantly less Irish indentured servants than there were chattel slaves. Meanwhile, during the middle passage between Africa and the new world, an estimated 800,000 black chattel slaves died in transit, likely far more than the entire number of Irish indentured servants and slaves who survived the transportation process. As I touched on before, most Irish Americans who can trace their roots via genaology or DNA tests will likely only be able to trace it as far back as their ancestors being refugees from famine or British oppression, or as being economic migrants looking for a better life in the states. And yes, these Irish migrants often had it rough with landlords, jobs, local governments, restaurants and bars with policies that said “No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish”, they weren't still being legislated against as recently as the 1980s or 90s. They could also assimilate into white society by being that. White. And we are fucking good at it.

Now I could get super left wing and make some point about how after being the British boot for so long the Irish decided to lick some other boots by forming mobs like the NYPD but what I'm trying to dig at are Irish Americans who use this blurred lens of history to justify at best undermining the struggles faced by African Americans and at worst full blown white supremacy. I've seen other memes featuring Lucky the Lepprechaun as in the mascot for the sugary shit cereal Lucky Charms with captions like “Irish protest for the removal of the lucky charms lepprechaun because it's offensive. Just kidding, the Irish aren't offended by Jack because they're not pansies”. Somethings do offend us. LIKE YOUR FUCKING RACISM. We're not going to get annoyed by a badly voiced, poorly animated cartoon of a folklore character because that character isn't based on some “Magical Negro” Uncle Tom stereotype like Uncle Ben or Aunt Jemimah. And there's a ton of stuff the English do that we actually get offended by, but again, a cartoon mythical folklore character doesn't do much ot push over the edge. Why is it that you guys who come out with these memes are usually the ones obsessed with geneology and DNA tests to see if you were an Irish warrior or a Viking one, when the fact is, though they probably had very good cause, your ancestors ran away from something. And somewhere along the way, they received enough compassion to help them survive all the adversity thrown at them. Why don't you try giving some of that compassion back to I don't know.. Syrian refugees, Mexicans or dare I say it, black people. You see, your DNA might be of ethnic Irish heritage, but that doesn't mean it should be an excuse for bad behaviour.  Don't be the type that goes "Oh I drink too much and I call a spade a spade, because I'm Irish."  No.  Your DNA doesn't explain your behaviour unless you're genetically a sociopath.  So let me suggest you try something that we're doing. Like your country claims to do, here in Ireland trying to accept people making an honest go of it. 

See, we have racism here, I'd be lying if people of colour didn't get abuse thrown at them and I'm ashamed of my fellow countrymen who do that.  The rest of us though, we're trying different options.  Like south of the border, they even voted in a gay Indian man as their head of state, now they kinda want rid of him because just like in the case of being a straight white person, your colour of skin or sexuality has little to no affect on whether you're going to be a ball bag or not and our somewhat wary of the Catholic church rapidly secularizing state, we will give virtually anyone a shot. So I'm going to tell you something you really won't want to hear. My Polish and Nigerian mates, the ones who have lived and worked their asses off in this country for over fifteen years are more Irish than you second or third generation guys. Being American doesn't depend on you being ethnically American does it?  Otherwise only those with indigenous tribe heritage would be true Americans. Why would being Irish be any different?  So yeah, having your little plastic paddy fantasy is cute and harmless, like those people who dress up as Sonic the Hedgehog characters and have sex with each other But the fact is that just because your great great grandpappy had a pint of Guinness in Cork in 1873, doesn't make you more Irish than someone who has lived in this country most of their lives.

So be cool, Irish Americans.  If you can put a mask on and get that populist shitehawk president of yours to do a better job of handling the same pandemic we're all struggling with, we might let you come have a drink here when the dust settles.  Hell, I'll even let you buy me a pint and you can tell me about your great grandpappy's moonshine that made your dad lose his vision for a few days.   Just lay off the racism, mmmkay?

Yours Sincerely,

An actual Irish guy.

P.S. I swear to fuck, if I have to turn that coffee machine back on and start shaking whipped cream just because you want an Irish coffee at 11 o'clock at night I will politely show you the door.

P.P.S. You can of course be black and Irish.  This fella has done far more for our country than almost any of you plastics






I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..

My Paypal Link

The Real Bartending Blues pt 1

So in one of my previous posts, I concocted a short story about an Irish barman suffering all of the most common complaints someone in the trade is likely to experience. If you haven't read it and want to, here's the link:

https://charlto.blogspot.com/2020/06/the-bartending-blues.html

You can also listen to it here

If you have read it, you'll know my writing style is incredibly verbose. It's almost like I get off in using excessive amounts of words to over illustrate something that can probably be done in fewer words. I am not about tight word economies. If you're up for reading this article, you can expect more of the same. The previous post was a combination of fiction and non-fiction. That is to say that everything that happened in the story has happened to me or another bartender, just not necessarily on the same night or in direct succession. That being said, every place I have worked in has given me a story. This post will be about recounting them.

I'm not going to tell you abut every bit of flirtation or sexual tryst I've had during the bar career, because I'd like to at least attempt to play the gentleman card for a while yet. Kissing, or eating someone out until they squirt in your eye during prolonged clitoral stimulation and telling isn't part of the plan and besides that, I don't actually get laid from bartending as much as one would expect. Now of course, I get hit on. All bartenders do, regardless of whether they're physically attractive or not. I'm sure there are some psychological studies which might look at the power dynamic created between a patron and a bartender who controls the alcohol supply, or the fact that someone even remotely friendly when you're under the influence will appear more attractive. Without stroking my own ego too much, I'm not the ugliest or most socially awkward guy in the world, so numbers have been passed my way, however the people who hit on me whilst I'm working are typically at least a little bit inebriated at the time. If I were to go meet them after my shift finishes at some tender hour of the morning like two or three am, they're could well be drunk to the point sleeping with them could at the very least for them be regrettable and at the worst, be morally reprehensible, or straight up illegal. Texting them a day or two later will sometimes mean they don't remember you, or you have to begin the flirting game all over again. I've had beautiful women try to drag me home, but being that they were hammered, I politely declined, but suggested I we exchange numbers. The conversation the next day usually revolves around them trying to remember who I am, only to feel “the fear” that they had done something or said something that they shouldn't have. Maybe my “game” is weak, maybe I'm took picky. It is, as they say, what it is. So anyway, let's make with the good stuff.

Robinson's Bar, Belfast

Apart from doing the odd bit of waiting for the function suite of the rowing club my Dad belonged to, the first bar I ever truly worked in was Robinson's Bar. Opposite the most bombed hotel in the history of Belfast, Robinson's is a multi-storey pub that attracts loudmouth tourists and loudmouth locals. Seriously, I've heard genuine “bullshit-you-not” rumours that Robinsons was one of the first places that cops checked for those who had “escaped” from mental hospitals, from those in the charity sector as well as hospitality. I started there as a glass collector, or “bar back” as they're often known as. My duties were largely revolving around the simple act of collecting glasses as the name suggests, but would extend as far as cleaning tables, restocking the bar and cutting fruit. I hated the job from the interview. An interview which I had gone into with an LSD come down, which made had me accidentally walk into the wall behind me as I got up to leave my seat. The interview process, which was shared with a ditzy seventeen year old girl had us both stumble through the most basic questions.

“Why do you collect glasses?”

“To keep tables tidy. Prevent glasses from being knocked over. Glasses can be used as a weapon! Reduce chance of spillage!”

“Yes, those are good reasons, but what it the main reason you collect glasses?”

“GLASS IS A WEAPON!”

“You've given me that one. Hrmmm there's a more obvious one”

“No idea, sorry.”

“What do we serve drinks in?”

“OHHHHHHHH!!! Bottles?”

When I had started, I was not in a good frame of mind. My father had passed on not long before I started and a year prior, I had finished university, I was full of hope and expectation for a great working life, only to encounter a job market plagued by the global recession. Something we appear on the verge of in this COVID 19 governed society. It was a job that I was good enough at to say it was beneath me, but the attitude I displayed was one of the many reasons I wasn't given an opportunity to learn bartending. It probably didn't help that I'd be stoned half the time I was working there, or I'd drift out on my break and have two pints in Wetherspoons before returning to half ass my job a bit more. A practice I'd continue in some shape or form in various jobs for years to come, just typically with a lot less of that prick Martin's establishments. That, along with occasionally, covertly finding a bag of miscellaneous white powder on the floor and playing “sniff the mystery gear”, or you know, getting away with the fact I was doing as little as possible counted as the main perks. If I would loathe that feeling of subservience bartending sometimes grants workers, I'd really grow to hate it as a barback. It's a real “fetch me, bring me” job, you know, like on your first day where you're told to get a “long weight” or “some tartan paint” by some bartender eager to test your gullibility levels on your first day on the job. And yeah, I went and asked for that long weight, with an eyebrow raised high enough to challenge The Rock himself. That's not to say I didn't revel in that tradition for years to come. In fact, when I did it, years later, I was probably worse, praying on poor bar backs who didn't even speak English as a first language. Despite the haze of hangovers and mild substance abuse, barbacking had its odd notable moment – like myf irst physical confrontation in a bar, or the second one, which were a lot tamer than one would expect from the bar across the raod from the most bombed hotel in Belfast.

To speed service and get as many empties from the tables, I'd stack the collected empty glasses in towers of about twelve and sometimes carry two at a time. This is something which is probably fairly dangerous at the best of times but probably a lot more so in a bar with sticky floors, handbags and middle-aged cankles strewn about the floor. Despite that fact, generally nothing goes that badly, except for one occasion, when some clown decided to do the unthinkable. Any bar that I work in, I've known female staff to be harassed by sleazy prick patrons. I've offered to speak to the patron and warn them off, I've encouraged them to speak to managers, or doormen, but out of shame and embarrassment, they've chosen to avoid fuss and take the silent option. It saddens me that guys not only feel entitled to be grabby like they are, but get away with it. Then it would happen to me a few times with hen parties and I'd let a bum pinch from a rough looking oul doll slide because aside from making a quip about it, I didn't feel like it was worth my while making a fuss. When guys did it, it became slightly more of a big deal. Particularly on one occasion, when I had my two towers of glasses stacked in my hands and I felt a jab on both sides of my hips. You know that “electric shock” thing the primary school bully used to play on you as a kid? Imagine that as a grown fucking man doing his job carrying dangerous-when-broken-objects and some clown you've never met before decides that it'd be hilarious to stab you with his index fingers in the sides. I was, as you can probably tell, outraged. I quickly set down the glasses and tore into the grinning fool behind me, giggling like the little school boy bitch that this 30 something man seemed to think he was.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” I growled aggressively.

“I'm sorry!” he yelped nervously, still giggling slightly as he did.

“No you're fucking not. You clearly didn't think one bit about how that could affect me. Think about how dangerous that could have been. How I could have then had to spend another twenty minutes clearing up bits of broken glass because you thought it was hilarious to touch me. Who the fuck are you anyway? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I'm sorry,” he whined again.

“Don't be sorry. Don't fucking do it. Just sit there and have a good long hard think about how you fucked up.”

It felt GOOD. I hadn't had a blow out of steam like that on someone for a while, but I will always remember that as my moment of “I need to get the fuck out of this job.” A month or so later, I left the place and didn't look back. I think I've been back for a pint once or twice in the ten years since, but I'd rank it as one of my least likely venues to visit in Belfast.

In my last month or so, there was another instance where a bouncer had to kick two guys out. I got told by one of the bartenders to give the bouncer a hand. Whilst one bouncer had one aggressive customer on the ground, I simply stepped in to make sure that the other customer didn't try to interfere, or stamp on the bouncer. He cocked his hand back as if to throw a haymaker at me and everything went in slow motion. “I've got to block this, or move out of the way, even kick him with a front kick”. It was as if my years of training martial arts, actually was getting in the way, I had too many options, I couldn't decide and in my hesitation, was probably going to get clocked. Just as he went to throw that punch, up came another set of arms, a second bouncer descended on the angry prick and scooped him up from below the arm pits. Saved, by the bell. 

I don't remember too much else from working in that place, other than the odd bit of “fluff” but it made me come to the conclusion, if I was going to stay in the bar industry, I was going to do everything in my power to avoid working as a glass collector ever again and, jokes aside I would give a bit more respect to any good bar back that I'd work with.

Next week, I'm going to fill you in on the other places I've worked in.


I write almost entirely for fun and because I love storytelling, but if you're feeling generous and want to throw a coin or two my way, below is my paypal tipping address.  A fair amount of the money I spend these days goes on either writing classes or tipping other artists for bringing us cheer at this grim time, so I wouldn't say you're wasting too much if you do.   Christ that last sentence is even more try hard..

My Paypal Link