The Pub Life Chose Me
Having been a pub worker myself, I can tell you that it's isn't the drip trays that do your head in, or the late nights, or the dropping of a pint glass on the floor and everybody shouting "WAHEYYYYY!" – it's the slobbering bastards who prop up the bar
But you have to be nice to them even if they ask for Guinness last after reeling off a round of lagers.
Of all the methods of getting my attention at the bar – the clickers, the leaners, the blokes who jitter in place behind a wave of other customers, bobbing their head over the crowds and putting one pathetic finger on the bar to hold their space.
Checking their watch whenever they make fleeting eye contact, of making that little strangled "O—!" sound when they think they are going to get served ahead of anyone else.
They've got a £20 note slowly growing damp in their fist and they're not afraid to flutter it about like a handkerchief of surrender. They are in the crowd without being aware of the crowd. They are infantile and they are pathetic.
Think about it: you are the sole controller of their immediate happiness.
You bear the goods and they're screaming for it in their own helpless way. A touch of hate stirs up a counter effect to the guilt. Take your time with these ones – they may seem restless, but they will wait. That is their answer to life: wait, complain, wait some more and then have a pint.
A true Brit.
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