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:
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!”
“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.
“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
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