Barman's Words...

Body Language #1: Army

2006-04-16T23:02:00.000+01:00

The British Army used to have an officer recruitment advert on TV, where we see a situation literally from an ‘officer’s eyeview’. We’re in a desert in Africa, or somewhere hot like that, and we see a derelict well guarded by some warlord or other, threatening us with a Kalashnikov. A title fades up saying something like ‘You need access to this warlord’s water supply, what are you going to do?’ The warlord gets cross and starts shouting and pointing the gun directly at us. Then the officer’s hand reaches up and removes a pair of dark sunglasses from his face, that is, the camera. The warlord instantly calms down and welcomes us to the water supply. Another title appears saying something like ‘Army officers understand that making eye contact gets the best out of people’, but I can’t remember the exact words. Then you get the number to ring if you want to go and take the King’s shilling , or whatever they give you these days when you join up.

Anyway, I was reminded of all this because today there was a woman who wanted access to my wine supply, her inability to make even fleeting eye contact with me seemed like the actions of an aggressor, but luckily my musket was in an inconvenient spot on the wall above the fireplace. So she lived. This time.

Such is the life of this barman.

Other random comments on the world today:

Horrah for Doctor fantastic Who, and Booo to Harry bloody Potter. In the article from the Telegraph, we hear that some foreign models "read them [Harry Potter] to improve their English, they are very good for that." I agree that Rowling is adequate for practicing a foreign language, but that is all I'd ever read her for. (Please excuse my curmudgeonliness, I have a searing hate of the whole Potter phenomena, and it needs to be vented occasionally. Thank-you).

Finally, horrah for this old curmudgeon, who finally had his way with the pub that banned him - he just bought the place and set it to rights. I like.

Watch the skies

2006-04-01T01:14:00.000+01:00

The jets are up to something, I’m telling you. Today my gaze was drawn skyward by the unmissable sight of four airliners in convoy formation. While I can accept that my perspective may have been distorted by the thousands of feet separating me from them, I am sure the conniving buggers were actually doing some sly nose-to-tail aerobatics.

Any air traffic controllers reading this? What are you playing at?

Barman duties

2006-03-22T15:35:00.000Z

This is Bobbie. Actually this isn’t Bobbie, it’s just a photo of some Jack Russell who looks like Bobbie, pinched off the ‘net to use here. Bobbie’s anonymity, like my own, must be treated carefully. Because Bobbie, like me, doesn’t care too much for rules and duties. I won’t dig myself into a deep hole by saying exactly which pub regulations we regularly flout, but suffice to say that while I specialise in confounding our enemies through verbal sparring, young Bob is yet to learn such subtleties and likes to get right in there, get his teeth into a problem, you know.

The world is not yet in anarchy, however. Performing one’s ‘duty’ behind the bar, according to some of the Google searches leading here, does seem to have been on the minds of certain visitors to these pages. Maybe one day I will compile a list of ‘barman duties’ for those ‘net surfing defenders of civilisation – I will just have to use my imagination and perhaps cast my mind back to the last time I bothered paying real attention to anyone who deigns to call themselves my ‘manager’. Bobbie might even lend me a paw.

Until then, our mini-insurgency will quietly murmur along, leaving no mark on the rest of the world other than a few dented shins and a customer or two converted from belligerency to befuddlement.

We did indeed have a list of ‘bar workers duties’ pasted up behind our bar once. I apologise to those Googling for exactly that information, but the list seems to have disappeared now. It just might have been ripped to shreds by a small canine, I really don’t know. But at least now we have Bobbie’s photos pasted up there, and they fill the gap handsomely.

2006-03-20T10:23:00.000Z

Source: The Daily Telegraph, last week

He's not dead, he's just having a tricky regeneration.

2006-03-15T14:23:00.000Z

Slobodan Milosevic as 'Former President of Federal Republic of Yugoslavia' on trial.

Jack Nance as 'Henry' in Eraserhead.

Just what do you think you're doing, Dave?

2006-03-01T18:14:00.000Z

‘Barman’s Words is it, then?’ My big, fat friend did not look happy. He looked like he was about to lunge at me. How the hell did anyone find out? I frantically asked myself over and over.
‘Barman’s words! I’ll give you fucking words!’ He made a move towards me. Other familiar faces appeared behind him, all equally angry. I stepped back and then began running, all I could think was:
How much have they read?
Can I wipe all the old posts before they cut and paste it all?
and
Why the hell is my fat friend even bothered? I haven’t even mentioned him yet!

The dream ended with me racing through one of those old Bletchley Park-style computers, yanking out circuitboards and hurling them to smash them on the ground.

Traumatic stuff, this blogging lark.

(And I'll finish the police 3-parter when I decide how I can make it unrecognisable without being silly).

Police attachment: Part 2 - Nicked

2006-02-07T13:42:00.000Z

Here’s an extract from Frank’s blog http://www.confusedfrank.oopsyspot.com (with no excessive disrespect to Frank intended, I just thought he could tell the story better than me).

So we gets to the nick and they gets me out the van and they has me standing in a cage not properly inside the nick, like, and there woz two coppers and this geezer I dunno who he was, and he didn’t even say nothing, and then we woz just standing there for ages, the old bill has some fags but I don’t have one, I can’t cos my arms are cuffed behind my back innit. Anyway I says like have you worked it out yet, I don’t have a sub-machinegun on me and the old copper he says yeah, we worked that one out, mate, then I says like, can you take the cuffs off coz I can’t blow my nose but the copper wipes my nose with my jumper, they says they can’t take the cuffs off cos I haven’t been searched yet innit. Truthfully, I says, I’m not gonna do nothing am I, do I look like a nutter? but they just ask me like how are you now? I says my fucking shoulder blade hurts why did they get on top? And the old copper he just says oh sorry about that but I says yeah but it was fucking Esso nigh eeeen!! I’ll be honest with you that was well out of order by the way I wanna join the police but I won’t get in now will I? And yeah I’ve been in the army, but a fucking gun in my face, Esso nigh eeeen there was no need for it. He says so you’ve been in the army which regiment, the Royal Norfolk ‘n Goods regiment I says seventeen months, nah, seventeen and a half months, I’m not a nutter. The copper says did I work for London borough of Insult-upon-Injury and I says yeah how did you know? Cos it’s on your coat he says, I says you’re not gonna tell ‘em are you he says nah of course not, why would we tell ‘em? I’m really upset like and he says don’t worry you’re not gonna lose your job over this, this is nothing you’ll just get an 80 pound fine, oh, by the way what time are you meant to be at work in the morning? 5am I says oh shit he says never mind. 80 pound you’re having a laugh.

Anyway we gets into the nick and they says careful don’t touch the walls an alarm will go off and then we gets into this room with a tall bird behind a counter and we’re waiting longer, and that geezer he sits down and another police bird says like are you outta trojan then? I’m like whaaat? he says ummm but the other copper says go behind the counter this is all on camera, if it all kicks off they’ll be asking why wasn’t you behind the counter? I says don’t worry truthfully I’m not gonna do nothing I’m knackered aren’t I? The old copper says to the bird why I was nicked like, and then they’re asking all sorts again like what’s your name? I says I don’t have to give you my name and take the cuffs off pleeeeeze and they says no we’re not taking them off, what’s your name? Joe Bloggs I says how are you spelling Bloggs? she says, I says don’t worry about it. They get my credit cards out my pocket and the bird says right now we’ll see what your name is won’t we but I’m like no you won’t… cos… cos they’re not my cards innit, so there, and the bitch she says aaaah now there’s an admission, what a cow, then she says to the copper well aren’t you gonna nick him for that? he says yeah I suppose but she says well go on then and he looks at me and says you’re nicked for whatever and I say yeah yeah I know she just said. The old copper picks up a card and he says well at least Mr Poke will be happy to get his cards back and I’m like fucking hell can’t you read that’s Pike he says nah that’s Poke I says my name’s Pike you dickhead. The bird says can I remind you not to swear in here, dickhead ain’t swearing I says, it’s a proverb, that shut them up.

Then the bird she chucks a leaflet at me and she’s asking am I a nutter or not? do I have a learning something… whatever, do I need anyone to help me read and am I gonna do myself in? And they wanted my necklace but I says I have to keep it for religious faith reasons and she says you know we can remove it by force if we have to, I says no you can’t it’s for God and then the coppers wot nicked me, suddenly his radio is off and they bugger off I'm like what’s that all about then?

End of Part 2. To be polished off…

Police attachment: Part 1 - Out on the town

2006-01-26T00:27:00.000Z

I was fighting with lollipop-man coats and unusually heavy tank-tops and also some kit bags, trying to make myself comfy in the back of a BMW estate ‘zone car’ as we waited for automatic gates to release us from the police compound. Kev (‘father’ - driving) looked round his headrest at me. ‘The key to tonight, mate, is to enjoy’. Steve (‘son’) nodded. ‘Like everything with policing and when you start in the Specials, you have to remember … just enjoy it.’

I could’ve joined in here and admitted ‘actually, you know, I love a bit of chaos,’ but I decided that expounding on the pleasures of benign anarchy may be better left for a time when we were all better acquainted and not launching into 100 mile an hour sprints through 30 zones to counsel belligerent lovers, look at places where a burglar has just been, and other such demands as are made upon ‘response officers’. Now was the time to listen, observe, learn. And enjoy.

The approach to the midnight hour had seen a few of these domestic calls and the chasing of a phantom burglar, but nothing to provoke real consternation either in the officers or myself. Now another message had flashed up on the diddy little computer where the sound system is supposed to go. This time the Pcs appeared slightly concerned. ‘We’ll have this one’, said Kev, hitting the big red Nee Naw™ button. ‘This is probably a hoax, but you don’t know’. I leaned forwards to read the screen. Someone had dialed 999 giving a quite detailed description of a young man – in possession of a gun - seen walking around the town centre harassing random strangers. Before I could read further the CCTV control woman crackled over the radio, ‘apparently he has a sub-machinegun under his coat and he’s heading into the nightclubs area’.

‘The last time we were out in this car, we ended up in a commercial,’ Kev had told me earlier in the evening. The BMW had apparently enjoyed that attention, deciding to show off again by opening its boot at the peak of an intense burst of acceleration, and by the time Kev could stop ‘the bastard’, a trail of cones, bolt cutters, and general police detritus had scattered in an arc far behind us. The blue disco lights were left strobing over us as we scampered back and forth to gather everything up, losing valuable seconds in the epic race between crime and … what were we supposed to be doing again?

Steve explained that with such a mission, rather than racing directly in, we would have to make a date with other units, the idea being that the suspected gunman could then be tackled with the necessary co-ordination and minimal risk. Later, having made several orbits of the town centre, listening to the control-room woman updating us on the suspect’s worrisome actions but receiving no clear venue for the date, the officers were getting impatient. They decided something to the effect of ‘never mind the silly old rendezvous point’, and Kev brought us into a large carpark adjacent to the main shopping centre, aiming the car in the general direction of the reported suspect. We would wait and perhaps see.

On his mobile, Steve was warning a friend in town to keep away from the area (‘look, just start walking towards the train station’) when the radio crackled again at last ‘…he’s attacking someone outside Contemptible’s [nightclub]’. By the end of the word ‘attacking’, Kev was bringing us up to a fair old canter across the carpark.
‘Look, I’ve got to go’. Steve snapped his mobile shut. We ran out of carpark. Kev slowed and bumped us up onto the pavement.
‘Are you supposed to do that?’ I thought.
‘We’re not supposed to do that,’ he mentioned later, over coffee.
Now, do you know the opening titles sequence of the film Naked Gun, where the camera’s point of view is from the roof of a police car driving through progressively more ludicrous settings? (If I recall, it emerges from between a woman’s legs and goes down the hospital corridor, disturbs guys standing at urinals, etc. That sort of nonsense).

Well, we were something like that, weaving through the (thankfully deserted) pedestrian precinct. ‘Ah, bollards’, I thought, ‘we’ll have to stop here, then,’ and ‘they’re rather close together, these bollards, I really can’t see us making it through… oh, that worked’. Kev, I never doubted you for a moment. Seconds later, we discovered men thrashing around like apes. Zooming in on the huddle of bodies as they tumbled across the ground, it looked like an extreme version of Twister™ was spontaneously being improvised by Contemptible’s door staff. A hapless, tracksuited body was becoming caught up in this, arms flailing between the bouncer legs.

The two officers flew out. I opened my door. ‘Stay in the car!’, Kev shouted. Another pair of police cars lurched in from the opposite direction with not-too-bad timing, if I may offer my non-Met-trained opinion. Sub-machinegun wielding officers leapt from one. We hadn't been blown out after all! The bouncers hesitated and seemed to lose their confidence for a moment.

The armed officers raised their guns and edged towards the scrum, walking sideways, like crabs or something. The camp, theatrical tarts.

My officers just bundled into the melee. Co-ordination? Minimal risk? What?

Leaning forwards between the front seats, I peered through the windscreen at the writhing heap, the gun barrels closing in and taking over as the bouncers backed off. I might sound callous, but Harry Stanley and Stockwell tube station flashed through my mind and I was just thinking ‘here we go, then… well, are they going to?’

It’s strange how the media can pre-cook our perceptions of events. I mean, all these TV dramas and movies with people pulling guns on each other like it’s an everyday occurrence, and now here I was, seeing it in the flesh, but sitting in the back of a car, the basic difference being that I had a windscreen in place of a widescreen TV. My eyes were fixed on that screen, unable to look away. At that moment I was resigned to seeing life shattering violence, but nothing could’ve distracted me from taking the events in.

What of the quarry - or the lucky survivor, as we could call him? There was no police shouting, no noisy threats or warnings. I don't think anyone would've heard, anyway, the only sound being the persistent, unintelligible screaming of a young man who believed that incredible unfairness was happening to him, while people he’d never met made the first preparations for the next little episode of his life.

As the police van was slammed up, Kev joined me in the car. ‘Don’t ask me what that was all about mate, ‘cause I haven’t got a fucking clue’.

End of Part 1

The next episode is still in my head, but I thought posting this would help motivating me to get the hell on and write it.

'Hang on! Police!'

2006-01-26T00:23:00.000Z

Not long ago, the police said I could come out and be their mate. Shortly after the interview, though, one little bit of police wisdom was handed down to me, a piece of wisdom that has stuck with me for… ooh… at least two months. ‘During the interview,’ advised the more violent-looking of the two interviewers, ‘you were worrying too much about using the right words, like calling a shift a relief, and there were some other things, too.’ To quote him verbatim, ‘You’re not Throbbing Metropolis™-trained yet so don’t worry about the correct terminology.’ I thanked him and we parted on the best of terms.

If I understand this correctly, I’m not supposed to use specialist policewords until I officially come out as a player. I will try my best.

The next couple of posts will tell you a little bit about what I did next with the police, when the police from my local team showed me round a few times, made hot chocolate for me, and generally tried to impress in the hope that I will chose them and not their rivals across the empire border. Apparently they ‘need Specials’ around here.

If you don’t ask you don't get, and, as they say in my region by way of Friday night valediction, 'you're gonna GET IT!'

Let it drip

2006-01-15T23:04:00.000Z

Another surprise-attack from behind happened today. I had popped out of the bar into the kitchen for something and I felt the manager’s warm, annoying, patronising hand pressing onto my back. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you mind not blowing your nose in the bar from now on?’
‘Ah, right?’ Didn’t we used to have managers who cared about things that other people cared about?
‘And if you do, wash your hands.’
‘Right-oh.’ Erm, or I could just continue using a hanky like I always have done?
He took his hand away and straightened himself up. ‘Alright, my son’.
‘Oh, alright’, I said. Don’t you feel ridiculous calling me ‘son’, considering we’re the same age?

And life went on.

In a world of natural justice I would have screeched ‘silly you, fool!’ I would not have contained my urge to laugh at his face, and I would have slapped him with one of the many flappy fish that were readily to hand for such contingencies.

Blogs are awful

2006-01-12T23:22:00.000Z

This article makes a good case for despising blogs, which you may like to do, I really don't know. Speaking for myself, I'm with him all the way.

I consider myself afflicted with 'Aspiring Writer', but possibly with trace of the other maladies. You decide which ones, because you're really there, aren't you? I will you to exist. Oh just read the man's article.

Androgynous? Yes, I am

2006-01-08T23:28:00.000Z

I was clearing a table this evening when I felt someone's hands sensuously feeling around my waist. The experience didn’t last very long. The hands quickly slid down to my bum region, while gently trying to ease my body towards the table, so that the owner of the hands could get past me (I assume). But before it could get any steamier, I had instinctively looked around to see who it was. And the elderly, brave, and - may I say - rather optimistic chap, saw what I was. A guy, not a gal. And the look on his face was burned into my memory for ever more. But I’m still not getting my pretty ponytail cut off, no.

I am with him on one thing, though: I do wish there were more amazonian type girls of 6' +. He must have thought his wish had come true. Bless.

Doppelgangers

2006-01-03T22:48:00.000Z

Still on the subject of people who look like slightly famous people, one evening we had both a Harold Shipman and a Mathew Modine in the bar (but they weren't drinking together). I don't think the Modine look-a-like could help it, but Shipman had a choice. He could keep his serial-killer beard or just have a good shave and a new pair of glasses, but no, he had chosen to revel in the macabre and that was the choice he was sticking to, the stubborn git.

When there has been an allegedly famous person in our pub, it has been someone I've never heard of and didn't recognise anyway, because I hardly watch any television. My colleagues keep me in the know, praise them and their wisdom.

I would quite welcome Mathew Modine if he really came and turned out to be like Private Joker from Full Metal Jacket. I would certainly select Joker as my platoon commander/bar manager if I had the chance. Scrap that, I'd have the drill instructor. He would keep the goddamn fucking cocksucker shit for brains customers in their place. 'What the fuck is this in your footlocker, Private? A fucking half? Because you were thirsty? Get the fuck off my bar you worthless maggot!' Yes, the drill instructor would see us through. Anyway, I imagine Modine was just putting on all that Joker persona for the sake of the film and is nothing like Joker in real life. Does anyone know?

Previous look-a-likes I have served are military historian Richard Holmes, former Dr.Who Tom Baker (c1990s, after his curly hair phase) and that is all I can remember off my head. (Not that I am off my head).

I forgive Charlotte Gainsbourg-esque girl

2006-01-03T17:40:00.000Z

I’ve been working the nightshifts at a homeless shelter this week, and this involves coming into contact with many other volunteers. Some of them are nice young ladies. Anyway, what happened this morning, at the end of the penultimate nightshift, made me think about one of (many) things which generally annoy me about life and my place in it. The previous shift, I was working with a rather delightful girl, I don’t know how old, let’s say 20, and she’s a trainee socialworker. Many of the duties in the shelter allow for a lot of chat between volunteers (and our homeless guests, of course) and I found this girl very pleasant to get along with, very open but without pushing details of her life at me, and receptive to my thoughts. Physically, she looked very much like the French actress Charlotte Gainsbourg. Most pleasing to the eye. Most pleasant to be with.

At the end of the shift, as we walked out of the building and reached the point of going our separate ways, it felt natural to ask if she’d like to meet up in the near future to continue our chat. I thought we may be becoming friends. ‘Of course! Yeah,’ she said. Good, I thought, she seems chilled about it. Then she continued ‘Are you coming to the volunteers party?’ What’s the volunteers party got to do with it? I thought.
‘Probably not, I don’t really like parties.’
‘Oh OK, well then maybe you’ll join the volunteers drink at the end of the week’. Oh dear, went the bloody awful monologue I always have going on in my head, she’s just another freak who can’t tell the difference between a come-on and a friendly invitation.
‘Look, don’t you get it?’ I said. I actually said that! I did! In a friendly way, mind. ‘I’m trying to ask for your number so we...’ and that was as far as I got, because at that moment she went all funny, like her mind was taken over by a strange mind control force which blocked out my attempts to speak to her. ‘Oh, ha ha, ha. Right, ha, I’ll see you on the nightshift tonight then, OK? See you around. OK?’ Blah di blah blah bitch.

Stay gentle readers, stay, I don’t really think she’s a bitch. I just wish people would not freak out on me so. I would not be at all offended if a girl said, ‘sorry, I’m not giving you my number, you’re very ugly’. Why would that offend me? I have no reason to expect anyone to be attracted to me. All I know is that I am not as hideous as Joseph Merrick because most people can stand the sight of me, because it is proven every day, but beyond that I know nothing of my attractiveness. (Other than a niggly little feeling that it isn't up there amongst the greats, but never mind).

Neither do I take it for granted that my inquisitive personality and flippant view of life are necessarily anyone’s cup of tea. ‘You’re a bore and have a shade of the borderline psychotic. I’m not giving you my number’. I wouldn’t mind in the slightest.

And I know that some people are just too busy to know any more people. Or they could make up an excuse - how am I to know?

I just wish girls wouldn’t go all precious about being asked for their number, and could get over themselves a little bit. Not having this girl in my life doesn’t bother me all that much - like I said, she was pleasant, not vitally important. But from looking at her compulsive automatic denial of the situation as demonstrated through blotting out my suggestion that we exchange contact details, bloody hell, I think anti-socialworker would be a better career for her. (And I should know, right?)

Actually she was a sweet person but I just don’t understand. People - can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Oh yes, and I was looking after lots of the homeless, too, not to forget. I suppose I could write about them, too.

The glass is full, bastard

2006-01-03T16:39:00.000Z

I was just having a think about some of the pub customers who piss me off. ‘Wanton arseholes’, I was thinking. For example, there was a slightly posh* but wankerish women who complained, ‘excuse me, do you mind if I have a full measure of wine in this glass?’ I inspected her glass and the wine was touching, but had not actually passed the line we’re supposed to fill it to. Usually I pour it a touch past the line, and if I like the customer, I go way past the line because I’m not some sort of socialist prick who cares about wishy-washy fairness, but at this moment I was very busy and had made an honest ‘mistake’. Now, I am pretty fast to admit mistakes, in fact, I even claim many mistakes which probably aren’t mine, just in case I was wrong and it later turns out they were my fault, and also because it helps maintain my image of saintliness which you wouldn't expect if you only knew me from reading this blog, but I try to be reasonable and I don’t think this porcine princess really had grounds for such a stake to high dudgeon. What irked me was her tone, fucking ‘do you mind?’, cunting ‘I’d like a full measure’. If you just say ‘can you top that up a little? ta’ that would be fine, and I will never lose patience in trying to make everything just right for you, but why come out to a pub and treat the staff like we’re domestic servants? I know 'pub' means 'public house' but you're supposed to be a humble guest, not the Lady of the Mannor so sit down and shut up.

*Dutch has a better word for posh - ‘bekakt’ - which literally translates as ‘beshitted'... in the sense of ‘bewitched’, ‘bedeviled’ and other such English words. Dutch people have said I sound bekakt in both languages, so I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being posh, as such. In fact, it’s a positive thing, and I may explain why in a future post.

On the subject of pouring drinks in general, here's a cunt who's right.

UPDATE: I can't remember what the hell I was going to say about poshness. Dammit.

Mildly irritating thing #2

2005-12-27T10:35:00.000Z

It mildly irritates me when people spontaneously urge me to ‘cheer up’.
‘Cheer up mate!’
‘Smile a bit!’
And there is a more refined version often reserved especially for me, but which I believe carries the same general message of vacuous encouragement, ‘you look confused’. I never look confused. I just look like what people think ‘confused’ looks like. What I am usually doing is thinking. They should try it occasionally. Confused is what they are, only they will never realise it.

These people do piss me off somewhat. They don’t bother to find out how I actually am feeling, instead being content to draw assumptions from their flawed perceptions of my facial and body ‘expressions’, and giving ‘encouragement’ to improve their own self-image. What thoughtless bastards nice people are.

Bloody Homeless

2005-12-24T11:12:00.000Z

(No, I don't really think they're 'bloody homeless people', it's just a crude 'shock tactic' to encourage reading-on a little. Not that I'm saying it's worth your time, but ultimately the choice is yours).

One of London’s largest (and now defunct) indoor concert + performance venues, the London Arena, has been borrowed by the anti-homelessness charity ‘Crisis’. For one week the site is base for 24 hours/day volunteer-run services intended to improve the lot of the capital’s homeless and semi-homeless people. These range from a platter of basic services (the most basic of which are the feeding and relatively comfortable sleeping arrangements - and much, much more) to a buffet of services aiming for long term betterment, such as counseling and advisory services, yes I just used the word ‘services’ twice clumsily, educational services, medical facilities. Services. And I can’t think specifically what else there is at the moment.

I’ve just arrived home from the first nightshift of the week, and I’m too tired to do more than a couple of vignette thingies:

- without warning a random guy saw me randomly and thrust his mobile into my hand, asking me to give his mate directions for the London Arena from a random village in Surrey. I did my best.

- a woman asked me to kick a bloke out of one of the sleeping-tents because he was snoring. Right, so what am I supposed to do with the other 150 snorers in here? Huh? She settled down anyway.

- a fellow volunteer puzzled me with a well-structured but ultimately meaningless (to me) theory about reincarnation which she had devised over the year since we last met. I was delighted that she was willing to try explaining it to me, anyway. I like theories.

- another woman pissed freely.

And a question: is it morally acceptable for one to find amusement in the deadpan antics of a drug addict? This I have done. It doesn’t matter what it was exactly that amused me; I’m just wondering now if I find levity in perhaps a few too many situations. Oh homelessness, what a laugh.

UPDATE (can it still be an update if noone read the original version anyway?): Not all our guests are reaching us as efficiently as we would like.

Date with CRISIS

2005-12-23T09:24:00.000Z

...tonight at 10.15pm, to be precise.

It's Crisis Open Christmas, the annual reception for London's homeless and vulnerable people (but it's all rather more complicated than that...)

I don't consider myself altruistic, but having helped at this event last year, I realised you don't need altruism to become so interested that you just can't help wanting to help.

More information from BBC news (but I don't know where they got the '3500 volunteers' figure from. I would have guessed a couple of hundred, but that's by the by).

Anyway, I hope it's worth something to someone.

Date with Bill

2005-12-23T00:48:00.000Z

A sergeant at my local police station has agreed to have me join one of his shifts as an 'observer'. Apparently some forms are coming my way because they need me to sign away my life first (well, cover their backsides in any case).

Looking forward to it.

I am a beast

2005-12-22T03:11:00.001Z

For any bar aficionados drawn to this ostensibly pub-based blog I will offer my excuses straight-off, as this post, like most, has little to do with barmanning. Because of my recent application for the position of awesome (for me) responsibility that is a 'Special Constable' (part-time volunteer police officer), I've been thinking a little bit about some of the wrongs I may have commited in my involvement with people. Specifically, not always doing my best to get along nicely with them.

I used to be a librarian in a university library, and one evening I answered the ‘phone to a female student who said she wanted to renew her books, and from there went straight into a monologue, that her books were rather overdue already and, well, she’d probably got a bit of a fine (well, yeah, probably) and she’d been so busy and too important and her employer had sent her on a training course without much warning and she’d not had a chance to do anything (right, so they lock you up when you go on a training seminar?) and when, after what seemed like interminable minutes, she paused (I don’t know if it was to catch her breath or to see if I was still listening) I took the chance to move onto business. Keeping my tone of voice relatively bright and friendly I said, ‘OK, whatever, if you give me your student number then...’ but I didn’t get any further. There was a blast of squealing that stopped me dead. The squeal stopped as suddenly as it had come. I listened. And a little longer. Her voice came back, shaking with offence. ‘Did .. you... just say... "whatever" ?’

‘Umm, yes,' I tried to bring us back to the world of sensibleness, 'if you give me your borrower number I can bring your details up on the computer and renew...’ Again, my attempt floundered.
‘It’s true!’ she screamed, in a manner that made the 'I care about your needs'-region of my brain quietly shutdown like a life support machine in a powercut. (And no, it doesn't have an emergency generator - that's reserved for the 'fuck you, idiot!' brain region, which is always active. Now I come to think of it, I have no idea what the hell she was claiming to be 'true'. I'm not proud).

Now, I had no wish to be taken as a librarian-hardcase. In fact, I usually tried to act as though the customer was always right. Even the ones who were wrong. It just seemed like the polite thing to do. But there was one moment where I had to be true to myself.

When this girl tried ordering me to ‘apologise’.

I don’t like that.

Slowly, taking my time to relish each consonant, vowel and fricative as my lips formed the sounds I said something which I sense may have pierced the wafer thin armour of her soul. I deeply Whatever'd her and this time, I meant it.

The rest of our chat passed in a happy blur. I gathered that she wanted my name, which I gave, although she didn't seem very sure of her intentions. I tried to help by offering the name and e-mail address of the library manager, because I always enjoyed sitting down for a chin-wag with him or one of his coterie. For people who rarely ventured out from their offices they had a surprisingly detailed knowledge of 'best practice' and how these 'procedures' should be carried out by the librarians dealing with the students.

I even made one last attempt to get her student number so we could renew those nasty overdue library books, but she seemed rather distracted and I think someone else needed the phone. In any case, she stopped taking up my not-so-valuable time.

I conclude that I am patient, but not that patient.
I enjoy arguing with my superiors. What? 'Superiors' ? Fuck off!
I believe that some people are just asking to be wound-up.

Can I make use of these qualities in the modern police? The interview panel didn't mention it, and I didn't think to ask in the heat of the moment.

There are some who suggest that the police are cunts. There is part of me that would like to agree - it may make it easier for me to get along in the service. Although it is probably nicer if the police are seen as trustworthy servants of the community, which I shall of course present as my official view. We shall see.

Steaming hot in winter

2005-12-17T13:45:00.000Z

We’ve had followers of the inspirational Scaryduck in our pub. And I think there must be something about my own demeanour showing me to be a fellow disciple. In the wake of a less than successful Christmas meal, a distinguished sounding gentlemen emerged from the bogs to approach me and boldly announce that someone had done a poo. His voice trembled with pride. In the toilet of all places! Would I care to inspect? A regular, although not owning up directly, did agree that there was indeed some impressive forensics on the scene. Please, would I care to inspect? At least we don’t have a Masonic handshake.

Run away!

2005-12-12T23:15:00.000Z

Bystander recently commented on the British public’s rubbishness in the face of the omnipresent threat of random, mindless violence. (I paraphrase somewhat; see his original post for a more lucid appraisal of the situation).

As a fit - but I think not predatory - young man, I would like to be able to offer myself as a small part of the solution. If there’s some random, mindless violence on your street, you should be able to simply whistle, and lads like me will come and send the thug packing.

But to my shame, I am also afflicted by exactly the impotence that Bystander speaks of, and possibly worse.

His father’s generation were hardened by their National Service background; these men weren’t shy of a little fisticuffs, and knew how to handle themselves in a scrap.

Bystander himself at least has the will to win, but not the means.

As for my generation… some of us are the thugs, yes. The rest are the ones walking head-down, hands in pockets, trying our best not to become prey for the packs of feral teenagers and other worrisome people that come out at night.

I can’t speak for others (although I will probably take it upon myself to do so at some stage in this blog…) but my own rather feeble attitude to low level harassment and intimidation was formed by experiences at school.

There were countless scenarios rather like this: another kid would be annoying me for the fun of it. Kicking me under a table. Stealing my things from under my very nose. Grabbing my testicles (yes, it really happened). I would passively endure it for ages (not the testicle incident, mind), but eventually my restraint would break. I’d send him sliding on his arse, or whatever I could do to stop the kicking, theft, perhaps groping. Then a teacher would intervene. Typical reaction: ‘Say sorry, now!’ Of course there was no point in telling them what happened first, no notice was ever taken. If I’d expected the teachers to do anything about it, of course we wouldn’t have reached this stage in the first place. The only teacher who openly shared my sense of justice/belief in self-defence, or at least was close enough to retirement that he had not succumbed to the fluffy-hugginess edict, was an old, ex-National Service man.

Since becoming ostensibly a grown-up, with the exception of two incidents, I’ve succeeded in walking fast enough, and with my head down far enough, that almost noone has bothered me. In the two violent incidents that I failed to escape, the police (the teachers of the grown-up’s world) were absent.

What does worry me is that if one of my juvenile fights is re-enacted one night, on a grown-up scale, and the police happen to see me in the latter stages of my defence, who will be lifted into the ambulance, and who will be bundled into the meatwagon?

It’s not simply a case of what can we do in our defence, but what are we allowed to do? Pre-emptive strikes? Do we try not to whack too hard? Or do I have to behave the same as I did at school, and let myself get stabbed a little bit first? Bystander suggests that we have only to learn how to defend ourselves or others for a few minutes, just long enough until help arrives. I find that rather optimistic. My own experiences, limited though they are, have taught me not to expect help. I don’t know if others’ apathy is a malady of our modern times, or have there always been fools like those teachers, loading guilt onto victims and defenders? I share Bystander’s desire to do something - I can feel my residual testosterone being pathetically stoked-up inside me as I write this - but when the thug and I are dusting ourselves off, will it still be clear who’s who? Will I be made to ‘say sorry’ ?

Last night a stocky, jumpy little guy made an aggressive move against me while I was waiting to meet a friend. I don’t know what he wanted and I wasn’t waiting to find out. He was articulate in a nonsensical kind of way, and the scary thing was his attempts to move and stay within stabby stabby range. I skeddadled pretty sharpish. Technically speaking, I was rubbish. All I achieved was to pass a potential assault/robbery/stabbing to someone not so quick on their feet, like playing pass-the-parcel with a time-bomb, and it will keep on happening until he’s locked up, disabled or killed.

Previously I have phoned the police after being in or seeing incidents like this. They didn’t come. The guy isn’t going to be locked up, and we’re not allowed to disable or kill people.

The young, fit men may have the means for defence of themselves and others, but I, for one, am locked in indecision.

As I scampered for safety, I had to laugh inwardly at myself. The reason that Bystander’s post moved me to write all this is that I’m interested in joining the police. In the light of my reaction last night, and Bystander’s writings, I have been asking myself what I may be getting into… my application to join the Specials is now under consideration. I hope their selection panels and trainers are much wiser than me.

Mildly irritating thing #1

2005-12-11T22:44:00.000Z

Being called 'sonny’ or ‘my son’ by peers and juniors, well, by anyone really. It's not so much the overbearing attitude of the users that irritates me, but rather their own cringe-inducing efforts to be taken as a certain sort of geezah who's alright ya know wha' I mean?

The latter phrase, instead of being actually 'spoken', is more often breathed at me through the speaker's phlegm.

I never said anywhere that this blog was going to be a fascinating read.

Dunces (mostly)

2005-12-09T23:58:00.000Z

I’ve just returned from an evening at the barface. Tonight we catered for a party of 35 teachers. They were one of the rowdiest crowds to grace our little institution in a long, long time. What could have been a set-piece public relations exercise - professional, respectable and well-behaved teachers coming out for their Christmas-do and my goodness, they're not such freaks after all - was reduced to barely more than an orgy of uncouth merry making and revelatory physical desires. 'Nice one', you may think, and so might I, if it hadn't been for one female teacher in particular doing her best to have me personally take her as an ill-mannered, crude and charmless slut. I appreciate the thought, Miss, but why don't you wait until the France trip or something? Then you'll have plenty of time to get off with a random boy, rather than getting kicked out in 10 minutes when I call time.

Although there are a number of teachers I admire for their cynicism and honestly expressed bitterness, tonight has only gone to reinforce my general pitying contempt for those that take up this child-warping profession. They had 12 years of compulsory schooling in which they could have shaped my opinion differently, but look what happened.

In their mitigation, I would suggest with an education system as silly to the core as the UK's, what can we expect? It's silly, silly, silly.

I was never expecting a gold sticker for this blog anyway.

Low Flying Jets

2005-12-06T19:21:00.000Z

Listen. No, what I mean is... just listen. You’ll have to get down on the floor first, though. There’s something I want to tell you about. It’s something I found when I was on the floor. I quite often nap on the floor, simply for the sake of convenience. Sometimes, when I awake, I just luxuriate down there on the carpet, finding that once one is liberated from the domestic tyranny of a mattress, all laying positions are equally comfortable. Sometimes my ear comes in contact with the floor itself, or is pressed against my arm, which in turn touches the floor, like a spy listening with a glass held to the wall. And you know what I’ve heard, down there in the earth? Aircraft.

Can anyone else hear them?

If we can find an explanation, I will post it in this blog.

Catastrophe

2005-12-04T16:05:00.000Z

This Christmas, for the first time in 18 years, the red red robin will be able to come bob bobin’ this way without being slaughtered. Our senior cat, a brown-black bonsai tiger, is no more. It happened on Friday afternoon. The only witnesses to the death were myself, and the two junior cats. It was that time of the afternoon where I should have started to think about heading off to work. But when I heard from the kitchen the sound of last breaths being exhaled, of course I went to spectate... I mean see if I could do anything.

Cat was spread-eagled across two floor tiles, and had released visceral fluids from both ends. More bloody cleaning. There were also spasmodic shakes. It was 'catatonic'.

Breathing appeared to be the main difficulty, so I wondered if I could clear Cat’s airway. ‘Ah ha, recovery position!’ was my first thought. I never liked touching this cat anyway, so I grabbed an ovenglove to use, but then had the disappointing and rather heuristic second thought: ‘is it anatomically feasible to put a cat in the recovery position? Not with my veterinary knowledge, no.’

The heir to the Senior Cat throne was still watching, so rather than humiliating us both, I decided to let Death take its time. Which was 25 minutes, give or take. And I admit that I knocked a few minutes off by mentally urging it to hurry up, lest I be late for work. A sort of 'catalyst', if you will.

There wasn’t time for a proper disposal without the risk of leaving men beerless, so I scraped it up with a shovel and laid it out in the garage-of-rest to deal with later. A small funeral was conducted the next morning.

A bit crude but there you go.

Philistine gets foothold

2005-11-24T17:56:00.000Z

A couple of posts ago I brazenly referred to the establishment where I work as ‘my pub’. It is not strictly true that the pub is mine. In fact, it absolutely isn’t. A disagreement over an executive decision was once resolved by a face-off in which my opponent, unable or unwilling to tackle me on the level of abstract reasoning, stooped to the level of plain-as-mud fact and screeched ‘look, I own the pub’. Well, why didn’t you say so earlier? My carefully constructed line of thought based on sound experience would’ve collapsed immediately.

Yes, the true owner is that sleek leather jacketed 50-something who rolls up from time to time in semi-crashed 4x4s, drifts behind the bar where I am busy serving, bantering with customers, and generally helping to leach their hard-earned cash, and then blankly says things like, and I quote: ‘oh, what are you doing here?’ Yep, me again, behind your bar. Clearly six years continuous presence is not quite long enough to have established who I am and what exactly I do. God help the dozens of ephemeral washer-uppers and kitchen helpers. I dread the day that I am ordered to set the dogs on them as suspected intruders.

Well, when I am working there, if I can’t technically own the place, I do like to think that I am at least ‘borrowing’ it for the duration of my shift. I think it’s good if there’s someone working there who feels responsible for a smooth ship. Making sure the building doesn’t burn down. That we don’t accidentally start pumping out hardcore ‘house’ music to a bar full of over-60s. Paying attention to those little details, you know. ‘Cos no matter how much I want him to add smoothness and ship-shapeliness to proceedings, I can see by now that’s outside the remit of our current manager.

As with any form of borrowing, beggars can’t be chosers. But like most of the beggars I’ve encountered - and through volunteering last year, I can promise you I’ve encountered 600 of ‘em in one building - I reserve the right to make crass, impotent complaints.

I was talking about little details, so what started all this? Well, in my pub we now have these little cardboard advert thingies scattered across the tables, promoting the delights of such traditional favourites as ‘WKD Blue’, ‘Smirnoff Ice’ and whatever the other teenshit is that people are drinking these days. The mad thing is that we don’t even sell these hangovers-in-a-bottle, unless the other barstaff are in conspiracy and unlocking a hidden stash when I’m not there. Or our manager could be moronic, but I wouldn’t like to say. But for the love of old English oak beams and large dogs of ambiguous breed laying by open hearth fireplaces! Call me adverse to change but I can’t see the advantage in having ads which are (a) ugly (b) for booze you’d have to go to another pub to purchase and (c) which drag our interior décor down to the level of such McPubs. Come on, this is a 17th century tavern we’re running here! The next time you’re at your local ye olde inn, take a shredder.

OK, I’ll give it a rest for the moment.

Visitors

2005-11-21T00:47:00.000Z

I just looked at the visitor counter and was surprised - I know it sounds stupid - to realise that a few people have actually looked at this site. I'm sorry. I hadn't really imagined that happening. It was just theory. I hope it hasn't been too wanky self-indulgent so far. Feel a little worried now, but I don't really know why. Maybe it's normal for rookie bloggers?

Going Solo

2005-11-21T00:23:00.000Z

I know it’s nice to have space to yourself. I know it’s refreshing to enjoy certain moments and places without the potential distraction, danger, annoyance, funniness, fussiness, deviance or arrogance of your fellow man.

I have, even with my relatively limited experience of the world, known, just for example, the pleasures of reaching a mountain top. Alone. And being there at the peak. Reveling in the nooneness.

In the days before it became a fortress, I was left by myself briefly to luxuriate in the House of Commons, as my tour group wended its way through the Palace, minus one wistful tourist. And noone minded.

Staying up all night to help a friend doing a Uni project, filming London’s abandoned landmarks and tourist hotspots. I wandered off for a moment. I loved the loneliness.

Situations with noone to bother, and noone to be bothered , are perfection.

One thing, though: don’t even think about doing that in my pub. Yes, you may be pretty awestruck at nearly-closing-time when we might be practically empty. Yes, you are the last customer. You didn’t need to ask me, just take a good look round.

I’m the one sitting at the bar fidgeting with a large bunch of lock-you-out keys. Did I mention arrogance? Well yes, here I am. Yes, you can finish your drink. No, I’m not serving you another.

Go home to your family, please. Go climbing and be awestruck in the mountains – they’re outside. Toddle off into the unlit country lanes. Leave me. Alone.

Endless opportunities for busy-body nosiness...

2005-11-17T19:10:00.000Z

...is one of the things I like about bar work: every shift, hundreds of little human interactions play out for my delectation, like performance art with the bar as my personal theatre. Another thing I like is when we, the staff, ‘spot something’. On this particular occasion, a girl had been spotted, and muttering was going on amongst the kitchen staff. The unattractive Dessert-maker Boy was blushing. Malevolent Female Cook’s malevolent eyes searched the crowd of punters.
Rumour filtered through to us, the bar staff.
‘I didn’t even know he ever had a girlfriend!’
‘What, him?’
‘Apparently that’s her over by the fireplace.’
‘That thing?'
‘Ex-girlfriend it turns out.’
‘Which way is she facing?’
‘Don’t turn around right now’
sort of thing. We’re a sympathetic bunch, really.
Seizing a quiet moment I stalk out from the bar under the pretence of glass collecting. So far, so good. Punters must’ve shifted round a bit - can’t match the description to anyone. ‘Any empty girlfrie... err, glasses?’ goes my internal monologue. Suddenly, a tap on my shoulder. Angry middle-aged mother woman faces me.
‘Yes, THIS,’ she jabs at daughter, ‘is Dessert-maker Boy’s ex-girlfriend, have a good look now!’
In a dreamlike flash the scenario plays through my head where I actually do have a good look and award her marks out of 10 because I’m a cheeky devilette like that. (2, by the way). But then I might not still be here to write this now. Thank the gods for self-preservation - but damn them for psychic customers.