Lots of Fun in Week One [Part 3]

Week of 22 November 2014

May 25, 2025

Part of the Party

I’ve never had a job at a pub/ nightclub before. I’ve worked in cafes, restaurants and takeaways, but never a pub/ nightclub. It makes for a very different dynamic when you’re a part of the party, instead of attending the party. I actually like it. While it’s been a tough adjustment getting used to being on my feet for so long, overall, I do like it.

My first shift, I worked from three in the afternoon to four-thirty the following morning and had to be back at work the following morning at 10am. I was absolutely wrecked!

When I started my first shift, upper management from the parent company had congregated in the dining area. All middle-aged white men who had that repugnant air of self-importance about them.

Surprisingly, I had been assigned to their table.

Why would they do that? I’m new, for Christ’s sake!

Reluctantly, I took their food and coffee order, going through the standard motions of table service. I then moved onto the other tables in my designated area, doing the best job I could without so much as a run-through on what was expected of me.

This was a grand leap away from the comforts of a desk job. I’d be lying if I told you my ego wasn’t uncomfortable.

I did well, despite making two mistakes. Mistakes at the table of the corporate monkeys.

First mistake involved me attempting to clear one of the men’s plates while he was still eating. I clearly wasn’t concentrating. I just grabbed for his plate and whipped right out from under him, mid-chew. BIG MISTAKE. I was given the stink-eye by the entire table, as well as the floor manager. Too bad, I thought. It’s my first day.

Second mistake was when I took their post-meal coffee out. Along with their coffees, I also took out a small plate of chocolates, as per the protocol. Instead of placing the chocolates down on the table however, my wrist flicked. I sent the choccies flying sky-high. As expected, what goes up, must come down. All six truffles came smashing down on top of the table. Several landed in water glasses, wetting not only me but also several of the corporate monkeys…

Enjoy your coffee arseholes!

Whoops! Too bad, I thought. It’s my first day!

As the afternoon progressed and I recovered from my earlier mistakes, bankers started to arrive for afternoon drinks.

If there is one thing I’ll give Londoners, they know how to let loose. For such a conservative area, I was surprised how many people came in and let their hair down.

In what felt like a blink, afternoon drinks morphed into evening shenanigans, bringing us to the tipping point.

The tipping point happens at about eleven-thirty in the evening. It’s the point at which patrons go from light jovial intoxication, to mass drunkenness. The mass drunkenness involves slurred speech, red eyes, wobbly walks and disheveled attire. It’s also the point at which dancing turns into dry-humping.

Not surprisingly, it’s at this point that people start to get booted for disorderly behavior.

Case in point: there was one respectable looking banker who started acting like a titt. Big Frankie, the seven-foot-tall African bouncer who is built like a shit-brick-house and has hands the size hatchbacks, gave this banker the heave-ho and told him to call it a night.

Not willing to accept defeat, the banker commenced dancing around Big Frankie. Swaying his hips from side to side, he liturgically moved his arms, gesturing for re-entry. Big Frankie and I stood at the doorway, amused by the impromptu show.

In his thick African accent, Big Frankie turned to me, ‘Girl, chu know this ain’t nothing! You just wait, shit gets a lot freakier around here.

But, don’t chu worry, Big Frankie will take care you.

You just gotta laugh at it all doll face, coz shit sure gets weird…’

Just as Big Frankie finished his sentence, the exiled banker started to yelp and swirl. Like a Jack Russel Terrier chasing his tail, the banker flung his business jacket back. He pulled it taught around his hips, exposing a cabaret style silver sequin lining.

The banker went from suit, black tie, white shirt stock standard businessman, to Liza Minelli back-up dancer with the flick of a jacket.

Swaying to the music and shimmying in his sequins, the banker said to Big Frankie: ‘Common mate, let me in… I’m dressed to dance DAMN IT! LET ME DANCE!!!’

I could no longer stave off the giggles. The scene was hilarious. Unfortunately for the banker, Big Frankie didn’t find it as entertaining. The banker was given two options, the first being to leave of his own accord and the second constituting force.

The banker chose the former. He shimmied away from the bar, sporadically twirling as he disappeared down the alleyway and out of sight.

Turning to me, Big Frankie said: ‘See doll face, shit always get weirder’ and with a wink, I went back inside.

As I walked inside, the soup ladle rattled in the ice-bucket AGAIN…

It had already happened three times that evening and now it was time for a fourth round.

Every time the bar manager enthusiastically rattled the soup ladle in the ice-bucket, all staff had to run to the bar and do a ‘shot’.

Given I had consumed zero water and three shots of vodka since the start of my shift ten hours prior, I was starting to feel a little drunk and very dehydrated.

Given it was my first shift, I wanted to be perceived as a team player… so I drank!

CHEERS!

Diary entry:

While the job has lots of positive aspects, it also has negatives.

The area I’m in is filled with arrogant banker-types who treat wait-staff like shit. There have been several instances where I’ve wanted to scream, ‘I’m a lawyer!’

So stupid!

I know!

It’s my ego getting the better of me. I don’t even know why I would think that to be a defense to disrespect. Like, letting them know I’m not a career hospitality worker should somehow automatically entitle me to more respect. STUPID! I don’t treat anyone with disrespect, no matter their professional status.

I think I’ve lost all commonsense.

Why do I even feel the need to explain myself to these twats? I’m here by choice. A choice that I should be confident in.

I know I’ve been the Queen of the mother-fucking castle! My abdication makes me no less deserving of respect. Furthermore, even if I had always been a waitress, that doesn’t give anyone the right to look down upon me.

We’re all doing our best. There’s so much pride to be had in that. Why do social constructs created by ego have to destroy that?

While I’m grateful to have this job and somewhat relieved to be out of law, there is a part of me that mourns the loss of the prestige attached to my former profession. It’s all ego, I know. It’s just, in certain situations, it’s really hard to accept that my social status has plummeted.

I served one man who had a cry because I took payment before giving him his drink. He dressed me down like I was a child. In a high-pitched voice he babbled, ‘Ooohhhhh, I thought I was meant to get the drink BEFORE I had to pay…’ Cocking my eyebrow, I ripped the card from his hand and processed the payment. I proceeded to slam his drink down and turn my back on him.

The reality is, when it’s ten in the evening and the place is hectic, I have to take payment immediately, otherwise I’ll lose track of who has paid for what. I shouldn’t have to justify myself.

I also had another wanker have a cry when I took his glass before he had licked the alcohol off the ice cubes. ‘Common sweetheart… use your brain, my drink was just sitting there…’ I wanted to crack the glass over his head! It was two in the morning, and my customer service eloquence had long since retired for the evening.

The venue finally cleared out and it was time to clean. It took about an hour to get the place semi-ready for trade the following day. I was exhausted and ready to drag myself the five hundred meters back home… but alas, life in a bar does not work that way! It was three-thirty in the morning, and it was time for a beer!

A compulsory beer and de-brief. My first shift wasn’t over yet.

It was four-thirty in the morning before I was finally allowed to go home.

Despite the fact that I live less than a kilometer away, I was told to get in one of the cabs.

Another great thing about this place, they pay for all their staff to catch cabs home on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays.

By the time I settled myself into bed, I had three hours sleep before getting up to doing it all over again!

What a far cry from my former life! I’m in unknown territory. While note convinced this is the path to rediscovering myself, I need to be brave and carry-on navigating this course… it’s what a Viking would do!

Viking Ventures and Nordic Nonsense

This entry is part of the title, Viking Ventures and Nordic Nonsense. If you missed the earlier entries, you can find them here.

Books

You can find my other works on Amazon via my website.

I currently have Gumtree Gargoyles, an urban fantasy adventure series set in Canberra, Australia and Her War, a historical fiction piece set in Australia and the Pacific Theatre circa WWII. Both these series are screenplays, affording the reader an immersive reading experience. If you haven’t given a screenplay a go, now is your chance. Try something different!