The Bartending Blues

The Bartending Blues

Ahhhh bartending - after several months of a government sponsored holiday, care of COVID, I should be happy to return to you. I mean.. you've provided me with so much joy over the year. All those times you've had me covered in piss scented beer from the drip trays, old cigarette butts from ash trays, and the beautiful brown crumbs of skidmarks that I've had to scrub off bowls with the frayed ends of old toothbrushes. Not sure why I did that, I mean nobody asked me to, I just felt that I'd save the cleaner some work. I mean what does a bartender do? I'm not saying anything new in that we're the part-time social workers, psychiatrists, kind ears and liquid magicians who are blowing your mind with tasty beverages when we're not fixing them with our ears and our words.  I mean, we may not be saving lives like nurses do, but there are times when having to listen to a customer tell you about their arsehole hair bleaching practices should result in a higher hourly rate.  However, bartending is doing largely what you're told by your manager to do. Which in my case is usually "Conor.. please don't be too harsh at all the dumb cunt customers." Really though?

The ones who lean on the fucking hatch that is clearly marked "please don't stand here". I mean it's not exactly like we need access to a bar floor covered in broken glass and vomit because some genius lost the ability to maintain a grip of his pint glass or his bowels after three redliners - that's when some clown chooses to infuse the silky smooth anaseed notes of a flaming sambucca with the spicey vingarette of tobasco because he's "such a lad". Usually, the same guy who comes in, looks at the badges on every tap, then the menu, then to me, so that he can ask.

"What do you have on tap?"

They're there. THEY'RE FUCKING THERE. I know it's a bit too much to ask that you have basic literacy skills when you come into my bar, but if you could read the labels, I wouldn't have to rub my two remaining brain cells together to give you the answer you could get with basic understanding of the alphabet.

"We have Heiniken, Birra Moretti, Guinness, IPA, PA a nice organic Cider.."

"Do you have Carlsberg?"

Did I fucking say Carlsberg?

Amongst those names that you heard me say, did I say fucking say Carlsberg? Do you see it on tap? Sometimes I just give him a pint of Heiniken and tell him it's Carlsberg. Same tasteless piss weak lager, he's not going to know the difference. I could just empty the drip trays into a pint and the bastard wouldn't have the tastebuds to distinguish it.

“No, sorry. We've got Heiniken, fairly si-”

“What's the strongest pint you have for the least amount of money?”

I stand there silently for a moment. Is he asking me to create an Excel sheet creating mean averages for percentage of beer vs its value in pound sterling?

“Ummm.. probably the Heiniken,” I say, kicking myself that I didn't just sell him the drip tray beer as Carlsber and hoping that whether my answer is right or wrong, it's enough to placate him.

That same guy will then tell me that because I'm Irish, I need to know that because his great grandfather was indeed from Dublin, that makes him, Mr centre-of-wit-and-intelligence-also-Irish. Then he springs on me something which completely utterly blindsides me. Something that makes me stare off into the distance, like my eyes themselves are searching for the higg-boson particle.

“Do you know where Dublin is?”

Do I know where Dub- The capital of my own country. DO I KNOW WHERE-

"Ah Dublin, is a good city," I say with a smile.

"Yeah it is, I was there on a stag do last year. Fuckin hammered haw haw haw." In fairness, I also went on a stag do and was hammered, but I'm not going to tell him that because the more I have to engage with this highly evolved amoeba cell the more I'm going to want to pour tabasco, then sambuca, then fire into my eye in the vague hope of ending it all.

That urge to hurl myself into a firey alcohol fuelled abyss is only intensified when he's joined by his dumpy female. Maybe it's his wife, maybe it's his sister, maybe it's his mother. Could even be all three. She comes in and your brain's probably already conjuring some fake-tanned crabalocker fishwife except, for me, that'd be nice if that were the case. Unfortunately for our handsome hero, this crabalocker fishwife is actually a pornographic priestess. Tall, curvy in all the right places, slim in all the other ones, perfectly angled cheekbones, clean bright white teeth which put my six coffees a day stained ones to shame and beautiful dark eyes, like two black holes that I could just fall into and the universe would cease to matter. She picks up the menu, peruses it for a moment, looks over my head at the spirits on the shelves for a moment, then, as if God answers my prayers, casts her gaze upon mine. As my heartrate soars to Tour de France cyclists going uphill levels, I somehow manage to forget that she's some deliverance style lover/sibling combo of this that is.. until she opens her mouth and asks that question I simultaneously prayed to Allah, Yah Weh, Vishnu and Satan pleading with them that she wouldn't ask. A question that, even if we could have the menu in giant fucking letters on a board behind me would still get asked. She could have vision so sharp she could read the bottom letters of an eye test three miles away and these words would still dribble out of her beautiful, sumptuous, wasted lips.

“What pink gins you got?”

The words ring out like a gunshot in my ear.

It's not even that I'm that snobbish about the venomess peppa-pig-coloured distilled muck that she wants to drink, it's not even that just like her brother/manthing she can't be bothered to process the obvious information in front of her, it's that she let's out those words with that Estuary accent which could make me want to put tabasco, sambuca into my ear and set it on fire, and this time, definitely in that order.

The illusion shattered, I decide to continue with the banal disintigration of those two poor, lonely, remaining braincells.

“We've got Beefeater Pink, or a lovely rhubarb infused one fr-”

“Do you have Gordons?”

“No.. sorry.”

“Well why not?”

Because it, like all pink gin is shite and we shouldn't be stocking any of that flavoured slime.

“I -uhhhh--- I'll ask the manager next time I see him. Beefeater is good.. I hear”

“Fuck it. I'll have one of them then.”

I go and pour the damn drink, knowing that she'll be complaining about the price and will impart the information that I so desperately seek – the knowledge that she pours much bigger measures in her house and then she hits me with that uestion. The one I'm not totally sick of answering every single time I'm making a drink.

“Are you Irish?”
“Aye.”

“Do you know Leitrim?”
“Not that well to be honest.”

“Well that's where I'm from.”

I can't help it, I'm doing my best to not swear or say anything too harsh, but the snark. The snark can't be controlled sometimes.. it just creeps out of my mouth.

“Great. How's that working out for you?”

She's offended. Deeply offended now.

“I want to speak to your manager.”

“Fintan..”

I call him over and mouth a sorry. He understands. A certain level of snark is needed sometimes. Like to the guys that go up to the live band and ask for a go on their instruments, because they can do a “great rendition of Wonderwall.” To the American tourists who wonder in at 11.30 at night to ask for Irish coffees on a Friday night when the queue is already three deep and then can't understand why the coffee machine has been cleaned and closed down. To the middle aged woman ordering a vodka and coke, who only tells you after you made the drink that they didn't want ice in it, because you were supposed to be euipped with your crystal ball and predict that this weird bitch would want her beverage exactly like this. I won't be getting writ up for this one.

Then they walk in. The big eared Kensington/Windsor/wherever-the-fuck-else crowd that love nothing better than treating me like the shit on their shoe, just because their shoes have a higher net worth than I do and that they bought their shoes from the pocket money Daddy gave them for not calling him a Tory cunt, all whilst this Irish peasant does menial work and has a funny accent. Don't worry, I'll do my best to be quiet and subservient and appreciative when he comes up to the bar. I'll just count to ten and breathe when exchanges like this happen. Maybe they'll be so kind as to buy me a shot if I just do exactly as they say. Preferably a shot of sambucca, which I'll top with tabasco and fire.

“Can I get a -”

Here it comes, here it comes..

“A pint of IPA, two Peronis”

“We don't have peronis sorry, Moretti OK?”
“Yeah that's fine.”

This might be OK. We can do this.

“A bottle of prosecco. A gin and tonic”

“Single or double?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry single or double?”
“Yes.”

“A double then?”
“No – single.”

“Ok, what else?”

“Can we have one of every cocktail on your menu?”
“Uhh yeah.”

“Oh and it's her birthday..” the big eared goon says with a point, as if I'm meant to know Camilla Parker-Bowles Jr. “Can we get a round of shots on the house?”

“Um, no sorry.”

“Ah gooo on. You're Irish!”

Yes, us Irish people have a long and happy history of giving stuff for free to the English upper class.

“Sorry. No can do.”

“But why not? Go on.”

“It's just not something we do here.. bar policy and that.”

“Right, well let me speak to your manager.”

I turn around, the poor guy has just managed to settle little Miss Self-importance. He's going to love this one.

“Finn-” I say with apologetic eyes for the second time in the night. I tilt my head, pointing him towards our new friend.

“Listen, it's Susan's birthday. We're spending a lot of money here. Any chance we can get a free round of shots?”

God I want to grab him by his big flappy Dumbo-fuck ears and slam his head into the puddle of piss-smelling pale ale he's created jostling to the John-Lewis-style cover of 'Purple Rain'. I want to elbow drop him like howTony Jaa does when he's fighting everybody in Ong Bak. I want to -

Breathe. Breaaaaaaatthhhhe. Count to ten.

“Right OK. What shots would you like?”

“Yes.”

“What shots? I'll tell you what, I'll give you a round of Irish whiskey..”

“irish whiskey! Bleh! Don't touch the stuff! What is it with you micks.. is it an Irish bar or something?”

“Well yeah, it is yeah.”

“Ok. Well fine. Whatever. Irish whiskeys will do fine.”

I let out a small sigh. One that is part due to Fintan's choice resolve the situation without hassle and part due to his willingness to just let it slide. I didn't want him this clown to win, but here we are again. I go back to shaking and stirring, pulling up bits of mint, garnishing fruit onto the top of the drinks. I am in my element, constructing them with pride and dilligence. They're all made up, beautifully presented, expertly made. If I could drink them, I would. I would down them and hopefully pass out within the hour so as to remove myself from the situation. I pass them over onto the bar counter in front of him, on bar mats no less. He starts passing them around his group of Made in Chelsea-rejects. He manages to drop one, meaning I'll be forced out to come round, sweep up the mess of broken glass, crushed ice and sticky liquid now clumped to the bar floor. Of course doing so means that despite my massive frame, I'll have to make myself more apparent, with a constant stream of “excuse mes” to the high-heeled harpies screeching about what Oliver got up to with Imogen in the jaccuzi last weekened.  I sort of thank the fact I wasn't there, otherwise I'd most likely be doing life for drowning them in their heated evervescent tank of even stickier body fluids.

I go back to the bar, print off the bill and present it to him, grabbing the card machine, readying it with the amount stated on the receipt.

“Oh and a pint of Guinness..”

No, of course not. Wouldn't be right for me to expect you to know the very simple rule that us bartenders have for wanks like you: order your Guinness first. So it can you know, settle.

I put the Guinness on and reprint the reciept, type the new number in the card machine and present it to him.

“Oh can we split it over three cards. 25% on one, 33% on the second, 17.5% on the third. We'll pay in cash for the rest.”

I pull out my phone and start doing the percentages, at this point, the bill could come to a round £100 and I couldn't rub those two brain cells together enough to create a spark of mathematical success. I take the first card, put the amount into the card machine, then the card itself, then hand the machine over to the Earl of Pissingmeoffdom. Or at least I try to, he's too engrossed in conversation with the Lady of the IPA lake to pay attention. After practically poking him with the machine, he gives his attention to me, with a look of “what do you want”, before the slow realization occurs that yes, I might need his pin number if we wish to proceed. The same happens with the next card. And the next one. Except on this occasion, it's Olivia and she hasn't bothered to move the money from her current account onto her Monzo card, because fuck you, that's why. Then Charles goes to pay his amount, lifts the bill and reads it, with a slack-jawed gape, almost like he's been stolen from.

"Listen, you, Mick. I don't think I should have to pay service charge on thse cocktails. After all, I've had to wait for a whole two minutes for you to make them.  Ridiculous."

"Yes sir, but you did order eight different cocktails, all with a multitude of ingredients and garnishes. Apologies for taking my time to make sure they are perfect for you."

"Well Juliette is allergic to corriander and there was corriander in her cocktail. She should have been warned about that.”

“It's on the menu. Corriander also has a distinct smell. Of corriander.”

“Well Marianne dropped her drink, so we shouldn't be paying for it.”

“Unfortunately sir, as the drink was in good condition when I handed it to your friend, what she chose to do with it afterwards is entirely her decision.”

“Well – the Guinness. It's not full. That's not a pint. Look at the shape of the glass.”

“Yes, it's settling. I will finish it in a moment. Guinness is poured in two parts. Industry standard.”

“Yes, well I'd much rather I only play the cost price. Even then it's too much."
"Oh that's fine. That service charge was only to be used to pay the extortionate rent I pay on the single bed broom closet your Father is so kind to rent out to me."

"Now now, there's no need to get like that. It's just that I will spend my money alot better than you would. You don't have the education..."

At this moment, my funny accent is gone. My willingness to be pleasant is gone. I go full Belfast, one of the few accents famed for being scarier when the speaker doesn't shout, but talks slower and quieter. An accent where its owner neither needs to swear nor make an overt threat. It's all in that fear and confusion illiciting subtext.

"It's like the philosopher, Friedrich Neitzche once said - he who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become the monster. When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."

"Oh right.. I never thought about it that way. Please. Have my money. Take a drink for yourself."

"Cheers.”

I wait with my hand out for Charles' cash to go into it. A hand he just ignores and instead, he places the cash in that big puddle of IPA, leaving me to scramble it out of there, suddenly feeling like I'm one of the lepers in the New Testament who's been suddenly transported through time to the Royal Albert Hall and being expected to play the grand piano. I pry the brass nuggets from the piss pool and put a drink on the bill for myself before I cash off, lightly flooding the till drawer with the moisture from the coins.

I pour myself a shot of sambuca and tabasco and angle the lighter ready at the surface. Maybe I'll stick it up my ass this time.

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..

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