The Small Things In Life Redux

I was going to write about the Bank Holiday weekend, but in all honestly it’s mainly all just amalgamated together into one long drunken elided blur of which I am both sheepishly proud and profoundly sheepish.

In fact, Friday seems like a very, very long time ago now.

Thinking about it now I really can’t remember much about Friday – except leaving a bit after close, going home and then bashing round the kitchen marinating a load of chicken for an hour or so.

Saturday was nice though. Random and nice.

You will, I trust, presumably remember what I wrote recently about the steady, unobserved accumulation of small things. Tiny shared joys and so on.

Well, for whatever reason there were lots of regulars in during the day all sitting in a long row at the bar. There were at least myself, Colin, Daryl, Adam, Adam’s cousin, Len, Dan, Mark and Gareth. And so – in whatever fleeting moment of whimsy struck – Irena suggested that we do the Monday night quiz night.

Daryl, Colin and myself versus everyone else. Which essentially meant that it was Daryl, Colin and myself versus Gareth.

But it was all great fun with Adam acting as some kind of Cold War double agent passing answers back and forth between teams, no doubt guided by loyalties, alliances and devious accommodations which I couldn’t really understand (and suspect he didn’t either), Len insanely ranting to himself about whatever random thing it was which came into his head at any particular moment (this had nothing to do with the quiz by the way. He just felt irritable), and Dan, Mark and Gareth actually doing the quiz.

Which is to say Gareth and Dan doing the quiz and Mark doing a quiz in an adjacent, but parallel universe.

[Q. By what word beginning with N is Skin Eating Bacteria Syndrome more commonly known?

Mark: The Nutty Professor].

All in all it was one of those random Saturday afternoons that I love so much. A slow Bank Holiday weekend Saturday afternoon which will, no doubt, be forgotten and lost, but which is also now another layer woven into the crust and context of the pub.

And as someone who occasionally doesn’t really remember what precisely happens in a traditional, linear, coherent way, I find that quite comforting.

Weirdos, Wankers and Psychopaths.

The majority of pub attendees are normal. They are, on the whole, well mannered humans looking to spend a few quiet hours enjoying a drink and conversation with like minded people in a non-threatening environment. They are patient and understanding with bar staff, they don't seek any trouble and as a result do their best to avoid causing any.

There are of course, a minority of drinkers who deem it their sole purpose to annoy, harass, intimidate or just freak out the rest of us when they get in to the boozer. They fall into a couple of main categories; 'The Weirdos', 'The Wankers' and 'The Psychopaths'...

The Small Things In Life

I won’t pretend that I’m not sorely disappointed and hurt by the brazen indolence of the three non blogging amigos, because I am. Deeply. Profoundly. Sadly.

But as with many things in life it just is what it is. There will be no recriminations from me. No inquisitions. No bitter words. Just a bleeding, gaping, endlessly hurting empty space where my heart used to be.

But hey ho.

Anyway…I realised the other day that it was the small things which got me in the end. The quiet unobtrusive accumulation of many small things which have won my heart to the Taps.

Let me explain.

Jade lent me The Wire, which I’ve only recently finished watching. Now for all those of you who have seen it you know how totally and utterly addictive it is to such an extent that it actually begins to seep into your life through your language (Motherfucker, please), the way that you think about yourself and which character you identify yourself with, the way that you think about any number of political and moral issues, and the way you think about and categorise other people.

And so for the last month or so I’d been having a constant running dialogue with Jade and Gareth about The Wire whenever I saw them, with regard to wherever I was up to (Spoiler Alerts: they killed Bodie, how could you not tell me they killed Bodie? How badass is Oma, seriously how fucking badassr? McNulty has totally lost it. Rawls is gay?  – And so on and so forth).

And after I’d finished it Jade then lent it to Irena who also became totally obsessed with it, and thus ensued another round of Wire related conversation for the next month (Does Bubbles die? Just tell me does Bubbles die? Does Stringer die? Just tell me does Stringer die? Does Prop Joe die? Just tell me does Prop Joe die? Does Avon die? Just tell me does Avon die…).

Which is all to say that for the last few months we’ve all been watching and talking about The Wire at great length.

Anyway, last Thursday we were in Taps talking about The Wire [for a change] when Aggie (the karaoke man) came to the bar.

Aggie always asks the bar staff if they have any requests for songs they want to be played before the karaoke kicks off, and so now because we’d just been talking about The Wire, someone – and I genuinely can’t remember who it was – in a stroke of genius had the bright idea of having [because Aggie can download any song from the internet] Body of An American  which is the song which is always played at a Detectives funeral in The Wire. And so we sat and stood around the bar and sang along to it (well the chorus….well actually only the bit of the chorus which goes ‘Free born man of the USA’) like we were at an East Baltimore Detective’s funeral.

[Actual Po-lice]

And that was nice. Stupid, but nice.

And so I say again, it’s the small things. The accumulation of those small things which you might think mean nothing. That you might think little or nothing of. That half the time you don’t even remember.

Those small things. Built up over days and years. Piled up one on top of the other and stored in your subconscious. Piles of them. Small and insignificant. Unmemorable and unimportant.

The devil in the detail.   

Your Pub Needs You

As always, many apologies about my lack of posting, but I’ve been far too busy at work and expect to remain so for at least this week. That being the case, I’m going to take the so far unprecedented step of commissioning papers from our other infrequent contributors to The Taps Irish Bar Blog.

Now Gareth, I know that leading the life of an international music star isn’t easy, and that you are still writing up your own tour blog as well, so I’ll give you some leeway on this, but I’d like you to write about barman’s instinct. That first gut feeling you get when someone first walks in through that door or after the first conversation you have with them. I’d like you to write about how that instinct developed with experience and the times you’ve been both absolutely spot on and perhaps those times when you’ve been surprisingly wrong.

Now Casey, you’ve no longer got the excuse of being at University so I’m expecting a lot more from you. I’d like a piece from you following up from my previous post on the camaraderie which the bar staff share. I’d like you to try and explain it from your point of view. What it means and where did it come from.

And last but far from least, young Jade. From you I’d like to hear about our regulars (generically of course).  They can be great for helping pass those slow Sunday nights and Saturday day times, but of course we can also be a complete pain in the arse at other times. So tell me what are the best things about working in a pub with regulars (as opposed to the George, say) and what are the worst things.

And remember, name no names please.

Now then people, you all have your assignments, move out and bring the thunder.

Picture Perfect

Look away now if you find my sad, melodramatic, cheap over-sentimentality too vomit [or indeed coma] inducing, because this one is likely to be a real doozy.

[well I suppose that’s probably everyone gone then]

On Saturday night, at around quarter past nine, I was standing outside of the pub with Sarah (Terry’s Sarah) smoking.

And we were standing looking directly into the open window – and what struck us both at the same moment was how - dark as it was outside, and the scene inside lit brightly in gold - perfectly the pub was framed like a framed portrait or widescreen aspect ratio bars on a David Lean epic.

And it was a perfect picture of a pub – of a nice pub, a local’s pub – caught and encapsulated in a microcosmic moment. In fact what it immediately put me in mind of was Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks (which you can probably see why I've always loved).

Gareth and Jade were behind the bar – and Gareth was gently throwing a mock ‘atta-boy’ punch at Jade’s chin. Mark was stood in the hatch and had thrown his head back in laughter at some joke that Len, who was standing beside him with his hand on his shoulder, had told him. And then sat a long the bar a row of people stood or on stools quietly talking, and before them a row of pints glasses, and finally in the regulars corner, Adam and Vijas in the middle of an animated conversation involving expansive hand gestures and laughter.

And in my head, at that moment, I’d taken a picture. An image transmuted through a lense of everything that I find beautiful about the bonhomie, warmth and familiarity of pubs.

[Now, of course if some arty type, perhaps one who did actually regularly take pictures, had've been there, I wouldn’t have had to imagine snapping a mental picture on my Kodak mind stood on the pavement like some kind of lunatic].

It was Sarah, after the moment had passed, who eventually called it a Study in Conviviality.

And it was.

My Invite Was Lost in the Post

As I’m sure you’re all more than already well aware, alcohol can cause people to have some very strange dreams, to wit, last night I dreamt that I was at the Royal Wedding (in my capacity as a senior member of Stargate Command), that is William and Katherine’s wedding, and that halfway through the ceremony the news came through, in a flurry of teary whispers, that Princess Anne had unexpectedly died.

So they halted the wedding service, and everyone quickly changed into black mourning clothes, and then, because he and she were great friends from all of her charity work, George (as in George and Finbar, George) got up at the front of Westminster Abbey to do the eulogy in front of all the untold billions watching on television, not to mention the thousands of dignitaries in the Abbey itself.

As he started to eulogise he lit up a cigarette [inhaled and gesticulated widely at the crowd with it] and began [in his mainly indecipherable accent], ‘Not many of you will know this, but Princess Anne was also the Queen of Hawaii…’

I only tell you this because of first the unusual vividness and clarity with which I remember it, and second, what the fuck?

Customer Service

This latest review of the Taps literally made me laugh out loud at my desk:

Cheapest round of the day, five squid for a pint of Strongbow (virtually unheard of in London) and a pint of Guiness. No cask ale mind, and the cute barmaid looked at me like shit while pouring the pie juice lol 7/10

Report this for removal

fat_beer_badger - 25 Apr 2011 20:05

£2.50 a pint means it was a Monday night.…

[also, what the hell is pie juice? I bet fat beer badger is a northerner of some variety or other]

 

How Could You?

                                                                                      

“I firmly believe that any man's finest hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that he holds dear, is that moment when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of battle - victorious.”

                                                                                           --- Vince Lombardi

Now are Mr Lombardi’s famous sentiments[1], exaggerated and over-sentimentalised? Well, absolutely, but then of course exaggeration and cheap over-sentimentalisation are my stock in trade, and so here we go.

Last Friday evening, for various reasons mainly involving underestimating how busy it would be and Irena taking herself off to the George and Bar Form, Deon and Charlie were the only ones working – and it was busy.

Not super Friday busy, but more than busy enough.

And I was watching Deon and Charlie going flat out/non stop serving a packed bar for two hours and I was reminded of the above quote. Not of course that I’m equating serving a packed bar to fighting a battle – or even to a football game, but what it reminded me of is the camaraderie that you can only find through exhaustion and the shared experience of battling a circumstance or foe – and emerging, well, victorious.

And it struck me then, at that moment as I watched them[2], that the bar staff shared a common bond which the rest of us, no matter how often we might be in there or how well ensconced in the small little Taps family we might be, would never experience.

There’s something about putting up the good fight with a group of people – whether that fight be putting out four different sets of Committee papers in one day [oh, fuck off – just try it first before you scoff], climbing a mountain, playing an epic two hour game of football under a summer sun, or serving a bunch of drooling semi human feral scum on a Saturday night, that ties people together in a way which only they’ll ever be able to understand.

And actually, as I thought that, I realised that I was a little jealous. Not jealous that they get to serve the sweaty hordes of the Enfield illiterati on a Friday night, but that there was something about the pub which I’m – and always will be – excluded from. I think it’s that common endurance and suffering will always link people more than common enjoyment and pleasantness can. It’s just human nature.

As customers we’ll never know what it’s like to serve drooling semi human feral scum for seven hours straight, because we are the drooling semi human feral scum.

And as I watched Deon and Charlie I realised that we’ll never understand what they have.

It was like finding out that the pub was cheating on me.

---

[1] For those of you who don’t know, Vince Lombardi was a hugely famous American Football Coach, so when he talks about battle he means football.

[2] And I go back to what I’ve said before about skilled bar staff. I was really impressed watching them. That wasn’t easy in the slightest.