Spies Like I

"That glass of water is half empty." says the pessimist.
"That glass of water is half full." says the optimist.
"While you two were busy arguing, I drank the water." crows the opportunist.
"That wasn't water." reveals the optometrist.
"Really guys? Get out of this bar! I'm sick of clearing away your glasses of piss." laments this Deebs.

It's been an interesting month and a bit in the world of barkeepery. I went in with two expectations, indicated below by Roman numerals:
i) The work would be hard.
ii) I would, at least seven times per shift, get the opportunity to comfort a saddened and distracted woman by offering her a light and saying "Tough day? Wanna talk about it?".

Well thank you very much, smoking ban, for ensuring that only the former of those expectations would be met. My time on the other side of the bar has shown me enough to know that my previous perceptions of drunkards as one of the banes of civilised society were entirely misplaced. Inebriates are not one of the banes of civilised society, they are the single greatest evolutionary speed-bump that must be bulldozed in order to guarantee our survival as a species. The problem being that they are the ones who will breed in greater numbers. They lack standards, restraint or even basic motor skills (presumably as all blood flow is focussed on the retard production facilities they like to slam together after hours). They are, essentially, the zombies of sex, who quit holding out and drew another breath.

"Brains....brains....must....find....girls....without brains!"

Working the floor there is akin to taking your life in your hands. Patrolling the arena, as may a gazelle tasked with wiping the saliva from the chins of savanna predators, I grew to understand how to pick my moments. With all the cunning of a raptor testing electrified fences for weaknesses, I came to learn the safe windows in which I could break for the dancefloor to gather discarded glasses. Sadly, much like fence fried raptors, the accruement of such knowledge was only possible through trial and error. I do so long for the day when memories will have been repressed of my being molested having mis-stepped into a ring of desperate wenches belting out "All The Single Ladies". I still wake up sweating at the thought of my pelvis being bumped and ground to dust to the strains of Rihanna (fuck you, Rihanna!) by some guy, his friends watching on, alternating between horror and amusement, as my eyes darted around the swarm of bodies in desperate search for an escape route. They just watched! Then there were the notes that resonate deep within the chamber of horrors section of my soul. As gun shots hang in the air long after the smoke has cleared and the bodies have fallen, so does the caterwauling of banshees to the medleys from the soundtrack to Grease. Happening upon a batch of sex-starved cougars at that moment will stay with me. I got chills, they multiplied and they lost all control. Yet more furtive, fearful and ultimately fruitless glances about the scene told me that I would not find safe haven. Cornered, crushed and crestfallen, I could swear one of them instructed me to squeal like a pig, as another of their party tuned up her banjo with her bingo wings. Why is it never the pretty ones!?

Other, less scarring memories that I will take with me include being crouched in the toilets, sweeping up shards of glass awash in an ocean of piss, as an embittered Swede implored me to abandon my post and join the army instead; deployment in Afghanistan being an apparently far less manic and life-shortening field. Outside of that, there was the momentary entertainment of cock-blocking a guy in the most literal of senses imaginable. I literally acted as a buffer between his and her genitalia, swooping in to collect empty bottles as they swayed together in the halls. Still, nothing prepares you for the sudden dawning of the realisation that your head is within startling proximity of another dude's probable erection, and your body's spastic fright slamming your skull into the low-hanging speaker overhead as you attempt to extricate yourself from the scene.

A gentleman (loose use of a kind term) of large carriage, without a single passenger for company, sporting a false beard and "leprechaun hat"? What kind of person does that? Who is that desperate to disguise the vacuum where their personality should reside by way of wearing an outlandish hat? That man would, rightfully, stay untroubled by human interaction for the entirety of his night. All of these points I preached to a colleague from atop my soap-box, until the fail-safe in my cranium kicked into life a moment too late to save me from the occurring thought that I am the last person in a position to judge such a creature.

The 20 year old girl serving drinks by my side who stunned me by having never heard of The Doors. I went so far as to sing (more akin to spoken word) some lines of a couple of songs. Nothing. Jim Morrison? Nothing.

"Do you know The Corrs?"
"Yes!"
"Well, they're nothing like The Corrs. Except for the rhyme."

And then I consider the clientèle who plied their patronage at the bars while I pulled their pints (or more often bombed their Jager). An Iberian fellow who found himself enamoured with my being Irish on St Paddy's weekend opted to pounce (thankfully only through verbal and gesticulating means), catching me off guard in my temporary pre-occupation with having elbowed a co-worker in her head (she shouldn't have mouthed off life that!). I spurned his affection with a calm fist-bump, while my eyes presumably screamed furiously of the total absence of desire to fornicate with a member of my own gender.

Likewise, I have never been tempted to engage in carnal acts with any number of a third, mystery gender that seems to crop up in sweat-box regions of the club. Luckily, I think that one is contained in a lab somewhere within the walls....for now.

Thankfully, there have been more palatable potential paramours. Honourable mention to the gutsy girl who caught me all types of unprepared when she responded to my quoting of the total price of her drinks order, with:
"And how much for YOUR number?"
Had I not been so uncertain of her legality as I checked her ID, I would probably have managed more than a wry smile and fumbled words of excuse.

Yet there are two ladies who belong in my own personal hall of fame, alongside any number of others mentioned in the annals of this page, and many not listed. Those exchanges speak for themselves, as does a sock for a puppeteer.

Respectable Lass: "Where are you from?"
Assured Alcoholic Enabler: "Dublin."
Respectable Lass: "Aww my husband's from Dublin! Could you say something for me?"
Assured Alcoholic Enabler: "Sure. What did you have in mind?"
"Respectable" Lass: "Could you say 'I've just shit meself.'?"
Alarmed Alcoholic Enabler: *long pause* "O....K....I've just....er....shit meself."
"Respectable" Lass: "Aww see? Every word you say sounds sexy! You need to promise me you'll take advantage of that and use it on the ladies over here."

Still working on that last part, but I am genuinely concerned as to what could have happened in her allegedly married life that would leave her craving words of such questionable substance.

And then came last night, as I cleared away the dregs from the table of a bunch of girls out galavanting for a hen night, casually conversing with a member of their group as I went about my task:

Irish & Intoxicated: "You wouldn't get the relationship between the Irish and alcohol cos you're Scottish. You've got a sexy accent though."

I nearly dropped me lucky charms in sheer shock and holy horror.

However, the most important thing I have gleamed (you have no idea how much I have wanted to fit the word 'gleamed' into this post somewhere) from my various duties was from my time spent manning the hot-dog stand (this is not a euphemism).

There's always money in the hot-dog stand. No, seriously, I left all my tips in its cash box. Burn it down!