Life Behind Bars (10 page)

Most of us publicans lived with
the fact that sometimes someone else was a bit busier.  But there were
those who would go to any lengths to capture your punters and to sabotage your
livelihood.  One such scumbag almost ruined my whole Christmas
trade.  I have always been the trusting type, not so now.  And when I
first began serving evening meals one such gent set about stitching me up. 

Our evening trade was limited to
eight tables in our small dining room.  It meant therefore that it was
booked out very quickly and when we advertised our pre-Christmas menu,
literally within two weeks we were fully booked.  Unlike nowadays, no
deposits were taken and confirmation was merely by telephone.

The first evening we were to
serve Christmas fare we had thirty six bookings and only four turned up? 
Now this was completely unheard of.   As I said we were famous for
our food and although I was angry I did not smell a ‘turkey’ at that
stage.  The following evening, again we had thirty six bookings and this
time no one appeared.

I was devastated until I looked
into the bar and there with a gang of his cronies was one of the worst
publicans in town who seemed to be having a whale of a time.  I’m nothing
if not quick-witted and I was bloody sure he wasn’t going to know his plan had
worked.  I made sure that the dining room door was closed, turned the
music up full blast, made the chef bang as many pots and pans around as he
could and look busy.

The girls were barging in and out
of the room as if they were run off their feet.  That bastard wouldn’t
laugh at me and get away with it.  He was astounded.  How could I be
busy when they had filled the place with fictitious bookings?  Of course,
they couldn’t ask.  The bar was filling up with the usual Friday night mob
and he had to get back to his own place but he was determined to find out what
was going on.

We closed the side door so he
couldn’t see in and had staff stand immediately behind the door wearing paper
hats and waving crackers around.  I appeared as harassed as any busy,
successful owner would be.  We got away with it.  But how to get
through the rest of the month with virtually no bookings?

Well, as I said, we were the
busiest and best place around and there are always people who don’t book who
were delighted to be accommodated.  We got through it with no major
losses.

  As for him, well my time
would come and he’d better watch out.  But just as a little taster, the
weekend before Christmas I phoned the brewery which happened to be the same as
mine, and cancelled most of his order. 

You try getting supplies at that
time of the year—shame!

Surf Rider

Theme nights used to be all the rage
and I loved them.  I would have the bar decked out for whatever theme it
was, and the staff were always game for a laugh.  We had Oscar night,
Mediterranean nights, Thanksgiving, you name it we’ve had it.

One of the best was a Caribbean
night which nearly cost me my pub and I’m sure we are still missing a customer
or two.  A major drinks company was looking for venues to launch a new
rum.  Well, I was always there with my hand out first.  But to be
fair, we were known to do things in style.

The deal was that they paid for
most things, decorations, prizes etc . . . (music to my ears.)  Their
downfall was in not giving me a budget!  I took them at their word and
decorated the bar as a Caribbean island (we even had sand, not the best
idea.)  We had limbo dancing, fire-eaters (big mistake) and I had hired a
surf board sideshow.  Now I had never actually seen this, only a picture
in a magazine, and it was like a bucking bronco, but a surf board.  I had
had lots of conversations with the people who were hiring it out.

The bar in which this event was
being held was exceptionally long, not very wide, and in three sections. 
The section the Surf Rider was to be erected in was between the toilets and the
main bar.  Everything was set up.  The DJ arrived early which was a
first, and people were pouring in.  I had ordered a hundred coconuts to
serve drinks in, but one of my stupid staff had pierced each end to get the
milk out and of course, having spent most of the afternoon sawing them in half,
couldn’t work out why the punch was spewing out the bottom.  However, not
deterred, we used them to serve the food in.  It was bloody awful but
after the amount of rum the buggers had drunk, no one noticed or if they did no
one said anything.

All my staff were game for anything
but the two I could always count on to get things going were working on the
‘Meet and Greet’ table.  I have always worked on the principle of ‘never
assume anything’ so I should have known better.  When they asked if they
could have a couple of drinks to get them in the mood I should not, of course,
have assumed that that was what they would have.  Everyone who came in was
given a fairly potent Caribbean Cocktail, featuring the new rum.  Guess
what?  These two buggers had one along with them.  Half an hour after
the party started they were under the ‘Meet and Greet’ table, out for the
count!

The limbo dancing competition was
brilliant but was won by a fifteen year old girl who was promptly thrown out
for being under age and I saved on one of the prizes. 

The fire-eater would have been
good, if he hadn’t set most of the decorations on fire and some idiot then
tried to put the flames out by throwing the punch over them.  Christ it
was like an inferno and we were lucky the whole place didn’t go up, but most of
the punters thought it was some new pyrotechnics, and part of the show. 

The Grand Finale was to be the
Surf Rider and people had been queuing most of the night.  I knew as soon
as I saw it we were doomed, but the two eejits in charge had also been on the
rum punch and they didn’t know if it was New York or New Year and despite my
protests, continued to inflate this fucking great monstrosity. 

Oh, it fitted in the space
alright, completely, absolutely.  No one could get in or out.  Those
in the toilets were there for the foreseeable future and those who weren’t, had
to dance cross-legged for quite some time.  God alone knows what had
happened but the valve had stuck and it could not be deflated.

Well, I had about ten customers
trapped in the loo and they were getting antsy.  The main door was blocked
and I nearly had a bloody riot on my hands with drunken teenagers wanting to
have a go.  Have a go?  I’d bloody have a go at them!

The eejits had retired to their
van and I could see only one way out.  I let everyone on, stilettos, the
lot, and within five minutes it was deflated.  So were the eejits when
they realised they weren’t getting paid and the Surf Rider had ridden its last
wave.

Everyone thought it had been a
fantastic night.  The drinks company were delighted at the amount I had
sold.  Then they got the PR bill and I think that took the edge off
it!  I nearly had a nervous breakdown and the two ‘meet and
greeters?’  We all forgot about them and at 2.30 in the morning I had to go back to the pub and let them out when they set the bloody alarms
off. 

See what I mean, check
everywhere!

Striking Terror . . .

I have always picked staff for
their personality rather than ability or experience.  I can always give
them ability and experience.  All my girls were lookers; lookers with
attitude.  They could handle themselves in the bar and give as good as
they got.

The guys, well they shouldn’t
have attitude but should certainly be able to handle themselves.  Everyone
had to have fun while working and make the experience for the customer so good
they wanted to come back.  Now that’s what it says in the manual. 
The reality was, yes, they were all good looking but the attitude always seemed
to be towards me.  What the hell did I do?  Except give them a job.

They squabbled and bitched about
everything.  One had cut too many lemon slices, one had not cut enough
lemon slices.  One collected the last glasses, no the other had collected
the last glasses; that drink was for me, no it was bought for me, and so on and
so on.

For all the back-biting and
squabbling, believe it or not they were all good pals and socialised together
regularly.  Not a good situation for me, if one had a hangover, they all
had hangovers.

But we did have some memorable
nights out. We must be the only people to be barred from our country’s capital
city.  It wasn’t our fault really.  How were we to know that all the
soldiers and police officers weren’t practising for the Edinburgh Tattoo?

We had been on a city tour; the
one with the Ghouls and Ghosties when we decided we’d had enough history and
would rather go for a drink.  Some bright spark said they knew a short cut
through the castle and off we all trotted. 

Now the obvious thing to do when
taking a short cut through the main tourist attraction in Scotland is to dodge
from pillar to pillar, pretending to be Ninjas.

I am sure the security guards
were being extra vigilant, for gawd’s sake how many terrorists dress up in
stilettos and short skirts?  Mind you, that was the guys, you should have
seen what the girls were wearing. 

We were having great fun and yes,
we did hear public announcement messages but paid no attention to them, after
all we were just taking a short cut.  Right in the middle of the
esplanade, all the security lights went on; it was like Wembley at a ‘Take That’
concert.  There were police, soldiers, armed vehicles and half a dozen
fierce-looking dogs.

“Hit the ground!” screamed a big
guy with a loud-hailer.

“What the fuuuuuuuuck?”

“Hit the ground” 

“Fuck off ya nutter!” shouted one
of the girls “Ah’ve got Dolce Gabana jeans on!”

“We’re just gaun tae Deacon Brodie’s!”
shouted another.

“Hit the ground, NOW!”

“Hit the ground or we’ll open
fire!”

“Ya fucker, he’s no jokin’”

It seemed they really did want us
to ‘hit the ground.’  So fifteen of us did and were immediately surrounded
by half the country’s armed forces.  It’s amazing how quickly you sober up
when some big bugger shoves the barrel of a gun up your nose.

It appeared that the Queen took
great exception to a few of her subjects carousing through her castle and
playing hide and seek on the esplanade.   Miserable old trout. 
What harm were we doing?  And no one,
no one
could think for one
moment that any self respecting terrorist would go out terrorising, dressed in
D&G jeans, fake Laboutin shoes and a brand new Louis Vitton bag bought from
the market that day.  Fucking idiots!

Well, we were ceremoniously
shoved on the number 44 Port Seton bus and told not to come back.  So we
are the only people I know to be barred from Edinburgh.

I will say that when I have to go
shopping in town, I fool them.  I take the train to Glasgow and then back
to Edinburgh, just in case!

Life's a Bitch!

“She’s got too many shifts next
week.” 

“I can’t work that many shifts
next week.” 

“I don’t want any shifts next
week.”

“Can I get away early tonight?”

“She got away early last night!”

“I’m not working tonight!”

“Can I borrow your car tomorrow?”

“She borrowed David’s car last
week!”

“I’m learning to drive!”

“Can I get an advance this week?”

“She got an advance last
week!” 

“Why haven’t I got any wages this
week?”

“I want to go on holiday this
week.”

“She went on holiday last week!”

“Why can’t
I
go on
holiday?”

“COS YOU’RE A FUCKING
CUSTOMER!!!”

I’m a Celebrity . . .

Dennis billed himself as the TV
chef and no matter how many times we told him, that no, he was a just a chef
who had been on TV, we couldn’t change his mind.  Or alter his star
billing.  Actually he had appeared twice on TV.  The first was as a
contestant on the Weakest Link and how he got through the interview baffles us
to this day.  He is thick. 

 As any one knows, to go off
first in such a competition is most embarrassing, and guess what?  Dennis
not only went off first but was voted off by every single contestant including
himself, another first!  He wasn’t on long enough to be insulted by Ann
but that was no deterrent to our boy.  Oh no! He’d been on the telly and
was now star struck.  He knew he was ‘a natural.’

This took place around the time
that TV chefs were becoming the new ‘A-listers,’ and Dennis saw himself up
there alongside the Gordon Ramsays and Jamie Olivers.  If the truth be
told he looked more like Fanny Craddock than either of these two but they were
no better nor worse chefs than him.  And you know the old saying ‘God
loves a trier.’  Dennis was certainly going to give it his best shot.

He had a plan.  What was
it?  Simply bombard every single show about to be recorded with applications,
and he did.  His tenacity got him a slot on a new show called ‘Wife
Swap.’  Absolutely nothing to do with his cooking skills but putting his
wife and family under the microscope.

Dennis was certainly not a ‘new
man’ nor a ‘metro’ one as they were being called then.  Deodorant was for poofs
and his wife was there to do his bidding. 

The theory behind the show was
that two families swapped the heads of the households (the wives) for two weeks
and the show would pinpoint their shortcomings.  Their shortcomings? 
In his case there were nothing
but
shortcomings.  He didn’t appear
to have one redeeming feature.