Life Behind Bars (13 page)

Unfortunately, that was the last
shift she was ever allowed to work.  We all missed her, but maybe her
liver wouldn’t have stood much more!

All bets are off . . .

Over the years we’ve had several
staff with drink problems. Let’s face it the last place someone with a drink
problem should work is a bar.  But it’s a bit of a chicken and egg
situation.

We had one dishwasher who shook
so badly we had to give her a half lager before she started work just to cut
down on breakages.  She’d come in half an hour early and we’d give her her
drink with a straw as she couldn’t hold the glass without spilling most of
it.  By the time she had consumed her drink, at 8.30 in the morning, she was on the road to recovery and the dishes were fairly safe.

Then there was Marilyn. 
Marilyn had worked in nearly every bar in town and been sacked from most of
them, but she was a fantastic barmaid.  She was stunning and was the
epitome of a barmaid.  Tall, blond, voluptuous and had a way with her that
made husbands drool, but strangely, wives liked her too.  Probably because
they felt sorry for her.  I actually never knew how drunk she was, till I
met her sober! 

She had a following and I
mean
a following.  Wherever Marilyn was working, there her fans would gather;
and they could spend, never any trouble, just party night every night.  Of
course I knew her background and was loath to take her on, but she was such a
lovely girl and of course, she promised me that this time it was different. 
Of course it wasn’t.

Rumour had it that she’d start
the day with a large port and brandy.  A lethal combination at any time,
but with cornflakes!  This was her livener for the day.  After that
she could put on her slap, get dressed, and believe it or not, drive.  She
would always arrive at least fifteen minutes before her shift was to start and
she’d have the bar set up to perfection.  Nothing was left to chance and
she checked and checked she had everything.  I have to say I found it a
bit OTT.   Absolutely everything was within arms reach.  When
this was done, she’d have a strong black coffee with a large brandy in it,
(this one took a while to suss out.)  She was ready to face her
public.  

Most pubs are fairly quiet in the
mornings but we served food from breakfast onwards, so everyone had to be on
their toes and Marilyn was good, up to a point.  She would batter through
lunchtime, serving drinks, taking orders, making up bills and because she had
everything to hand she was on top of her game.  For exactly four hours.

Then, like a switch being thrown,
the booze would either kick in, or wear off and it would all go to hell. 
If the lunchtime crowd lingered we were well and truly fucked.  People got
charged twenty quid for a bowl of soup and others who were paying for four
lunches and drinks got charged two pounds.  She usually finished off her
cabaret by plunging head first into the cellar while carrying a full tray of
drinks.

No matter how many times she fell
down there, she never broke as much as a finger nail.  She seemed to have
the ‘Drunk Man’s Roll’ down to an art form. 

While all this was going on the
other staff and the customers would cover up for her.  How did I not see
this?  Well, I was stuck in the kitchen frying fish or some other
delicacy.  Sure I would hear commotion but seldom got free of the fryer
quick enough to find out what was going on. By the time I was cleared up
Marilyn had finished her shift; the till was cashed up (by someone else) and
she had had a large brandy to calm her down.  So, a bit like Lily’s
husband, I never really sussed out what was going on.

However, things were getting to
the point where guys were coming in just to see her perform.  Her
gymnastics were becoming legendary and there was a book being run on how long
she’d last—5/1.  When she’d break a limb—10/1.  And the big one; when
she’d take someone else down with her—33/1.  Hell mend the buggers, they
had to pay it all out on one day and what a fiasco that turned out to be.

The only way I could tell how
drunk she was, was by using the lipstick test.  When she was sober her
make-up was perfect.  As the booze wore on, she would re-apply her
lipstick, mirror free and just purse her lips.  But as she got more and
more pissed, her aim got worse and worse and she ended up looking like
something from Billy Smart’s Circus, with lipstick from nose to chin.

The day she finished off, the
amateur bookmakers started fairly quietly.  She had obviously been
hammered the night before and the hangover was kicking in as she skittered
round the bar getting it ready for the onslaught.  I should have noticed
that her coffee had been poured as soon as she came in and by now she was on
her second and it wasn’t doing the trick.  The crowds started piling in
and very soon she was in a mess, orders all over the place, wrong drinks and
general mayhem.

Although the customers and the
staff loved her, when you have only got half an hour for lunch she lost some of
her appeal.  She had already fallen down the cellar twice and instead of
sympathy she was getting abuse.  One guy had seen his pint disappear three
times and he was not the most patient of men. 

The other girls were trying to
help her but she had got herself in such a muddle that it was nigh on
impossible.  It had got to the stage that customers were having to put
their hands up when someone called out what was on the plate.  Some were
so hungry and desperate they were claiming anything just to get fed.  This
was causing arguments in the bar, where more than half a dozen diners were
almost coming to blows over a steak and kidney pie, which promptly landed on
the floor with all the pushing and pulling.

Then disaster struck. 
Barrel needed changing; she opened the cellar hatch and promptly fell down
it.  Didn’t tell the other girl working on the bar;
she
went down
like a sack of potatoes and the pot lifter followed suit.  Christ there were
more bodies in the cellar than in the bar.  To this day I don’t know how
someone wasn’t killed.

The clever buggers had to pay out
on all bets.  One, she’d broken her little finger; two, she’d taken two
staff with her and yes, she was sacked.

Okay, we missed the extra income
from her following but given the number of glasses she broke in a shift we
almost broke even.

Bare faced cheek . . .

Next door to the pub was a very
stylish hairdressing salon, owned and run by the most flamboyant person I have
ever met.  Clive Eastwood: known to everyone as Tint.  Tint, his
three top stylists, Perm, Clipper and Tina the Tranny treated our bar as an
extension of their salon.  It wasn’t unusual to see a lady, head full of
perm curlers, sipping on a G&T.

Tint almost defied
description.  He looked like a cross between Jimmy Saville and Dolly Parton. 
He was six feet tall with long blond tresses, more gold than the National
Reserve and clad from top to toe in a white leather jumpsuit. He was
magnificent.

Now, Tina the Tranny
wasn’t.  She wasn’t a tranny.  But she definitely looked more butch
than the other three and because she was such a big girl, was always mistaken
for a man in drag, especially given the company she kept.  Perm and
Clipper were just mini replicas of Tint.  They dressed like him but the
effect was more romper suit than jumpsuit. 

Whilst this crowd used the bar
like their own private club, it was mostly during working hours and early
evening.  Their real socializing was in town; either in the gay bars or
the top venues.  It was very seldom that they came in contact with the
young set who frequented the bar in the evening or at weekends.  Quite
frankly this was a blessing, I don’t think our provincial little town was ready
for them.  Their dress code was definitely: if it doesn’t shock, it
doesn’t work and believe me, they shocked.

On a very rare occasion they
would meet up with friends and then go into town but they were normally off the
premises before anyone paid them any attention  However, on the evening of
their staff night out they were certainly noticed. 

As usual they had claimed their
special corner which gave them a grand view of the Saturday night crowd who
resembled extras from the Star Wars Café, and these raucous hairdressers were
having the time of their life.  This however, was not going down well with
the locals.

About an hour after they arrived
one of them, either Perm or Clipper, made a move to go to the
gents.   As he proceeded through the bar a stunned silence, like a
Mexican Wave, followed him, and as he minced past me the reason was
obvious.  Like the rest of his cronies he was all in leather—no problem— ‘butt’
no arse!  Well he had an arse, just a very bare hairy one!  Oh my
God!  You could hardly hear the jukebox for the sound of closet doors
slamming.  He caused an uproar.  But there was an ugly murmur. 
Trouble was brewing and brewing fast.  I had to act quickly.

Not only a Mexican Wave, but a
Mexican stand-off.  Perm, all five feet of him, was facing up to the
biggest, meanest homophobic thug in town.  He was going to be
murdered.  But I hadn’t counted on the rest of the girls.  First on
the scene was Tina the Tranny, backed by Clipper and, forgive the pun, bringing
up the rear was Tint himself.

Now they were all exponents of
the art of Kick Boxing.  Some could kick and some could box, but all could
fight.  I mean they could
really
fight and God help the fucker who
got blood on Tint’s jumpsuit.

It was all over in couple of
minutes.  Three poofs and a pseudo tranny had demolished the town’s best
and were off to do more damage elsewhere.

As for us, we were left with lots
more arses!

Hair today . . . gone tomorrow

Now, I am the customer from hell;
I have seen more hairdressers off than a bad case of alopecia.  I am a
nightmare.  But I don’t care what it costs and I am the best tipper
around.  However woe betide the hairdresser who takes one centimetre more
off the length than I have specified.  I had been using the same girl for
years and could not believe she would have the audacity to get pregnant. 

For some time Tint had been
trying to woo me to his salon but I had steadfastly refused until now.  I
had seen no reason to spoil a good friendship but there seemed to be no
alternative and after all, they were good customers.  Maybe it was time
for pay back.  I duly made my appointment and the evening before I was due
to be ‘done’ we had a pow wow to make sure everything would go to plan.

First: no cutting off more than I
wanted:  Agreed.  The very lightest of perm lotions, just to give
body:  Agreed.  No leaving me to nip next door:  Agreed. 
Things should have been fine but deep in my heart I knew it was all going to go
wrong and they’d be customers no more.

The fateful day dawned and in I
tripped.  I was treated like royalty and had a squad of apprentices
falling over themselves to take my coat (I only lived next door,) get me
coffee, a magazine and every other service the salon offered.  The great
man arrived.  Now Tint very seldom attended to clients personally and
maybe I should have taken that as a hint!  

I was given the full
consultation, obviously what we’d agreed the night before had gone by the
by.  Or was it the three bottles of wine consumed whilst debating the
issue?  Anyway, we went through the whole procedure once again.

Off I was whisked to be
prepped.  I was subjected to a full body massage but only on my
head!  And it took fully fifteen minutes to shampoo and whatever
else.  Then the fiasco began.

I had instructed them that I
wanted the perm completed first and then the cut.  The reason being, every
hairdresser cuts and then when your hair is permed, it is shorter by another
inch.   But no, no, they knew best.  As the perm was developing
my hair looked as if it was lighter than before and I called one of them over
to check.

“No, no everything’s fine.” 
The lotion was washed off and it was immediately obvious that my hair was
definitely lighter; a sort of gingerish colour.   Now came the
cut.  Only the ends, remember, only the ends.  Well, they did cut
only the ends, over and over again.  But the best was yet to come.

Whilst I was being shampooed the
next client had arrived and was in the chair next to me, sharing a
mirror.  Lo and behold!  The wife of the publican I most detested.

“Interesting,” was all she said.

I looked in the mirror and fuck
me!  I looked like a cross between a poodle and Crystal Tips with her hand
in a socket.   My head was one huge triangular frizz of ginger hair!

“Don’t worry, don’t worry it’ll
be fine.”

Well, the more they did the less
fine it became.  It ended up looking like an unravelled Brillo pad and I
was apoplectic!

It took six months and three other
hairdressers for me to lift the ban on them.

The Vat Man

Over the years I had a few VAT
inspections.  The first was a brief cursory examination, I was fined a few
quid but nothing much.  However, the next two were far more frightening
and thorough and co-incidentally were handled by the same officer; Mr. Black
from Fife.

Mr. Black arrived one winter’s
morning by appointment, along with my accountant.  He was a dour-looking
individual and looked like he could do with a good feed.  I have to say I
was absolutely terrified of what he was going to find (honest person that I am)
but everyone fiddles the VAT at some time.  I was appalled at the thought
of jail but believe me it was a distinct possibility. 

Now John, my accountant, is
without doubt the most boring man I have ever met in my life.  However, it
is all an act; he has perfected this gift of simply talking and talking and
talking in the most monotonous way, but he is such a nice and helpful man no
one actually wants to cut him to the quick.