Bars I am Jealous of #3

Oh baby.

You. Yes, you.

Look, you plonker – you dumb £90 shirt wearing, gell haired muppet, this is how you order a drink.

It’s easy. Honestly. It is. Don’t be scared. Please, just try it.

1. When you go to the bar stop and look at who else is waiting. You will be able to tell who those people are by the fact that they're holding money in their hands and do not have drinks. They will not be the people without money in their hands who have drinks.

By doing this you will now know that untill all of those people who are there before you are served you are not the next person in line.

2. Once you have established that, try and make eye contact with a member of the bar staff. Once you have caught their eye they will likely acknowledge you with a nod. This means that they now know that you are waiting. At this point you may wish to smile at them and nod back. I leave that up to you.

Now I know that this might go against your natural inclination to shout ‘bruv, hey bruv’ but trust me, this is much better.

[Boshv2.0 will be writing about this issue in more detail at some point]

3. Now you wait to be served.

If you are waiting near me, do not talk to me.

4. If it’s busy, and one of the bar staff should accidentally start to serve you out of turn, do not grin like a moron and order your drink. Instead you should say, ‘Oh, I think this fella/lady is first’, that person will then say thank to you, and you should say something like, ‘that’s alright’ or ‘you’re welcome.’

These may be foreign terms to you.

5. In Taps it’s rare that one of the bar staff will ever say ‘who’s next?’ to a crowd at the bar because they know what they’re doing, but if it does happen (say if they’ve had to go down to change a barrel and a crowd has accumulated), because when you arrived at the bar you noted who was before you, you are now fully prepared to answer.

No, don't say ‘me’ and then look around smugly like you've just won a competition for being a shithead. What you should should say is ‘oh, these guys, I think’ indicating the people that you had earlier summised were before you.

6. When you order your drink say please and thank you.

7. When you receive your drink say thank you.

Now, I know this is quite a lot to take in at once, but give it a try.

You might surprise yourself.

Oh, and I mean it, do not talk to me.

Bars I am Jealous of #2

Oh. My. Good. God

That Thing You Do

Here’s why.

Here’s why we prop up the bar near everyday after work.

Yesterday I had a really shit day at work. One of those days that starts badly and just gets worse. Partly my own fault [I missed something in an email that had quite serious implications regarding the quoracy of a meeting which in turn had further implications vis a vis the legality and robustness of an ongoing decision making process] – partly other people’s – and partly just because sometimes that kind of thing happens. You know what I mean, just one of those days where everything that can go wrong, does.

When I left work I was absolutely fuming about a couple of things and by the time I got off the train at Enfield I was wound up, stressed out and just generally pissed off with the world.

Now I know it’s a cliché (and a horrible one at that), but then I’ve always thought that things become clichéd mainly because they’re true and resonate a certain authenticity, but sometimes you do just want to go somewhere where everyone knows your name.

I mean, we all work hard (well most of us anyway) and sometimes you bring your stresses and worries home with you. You don’t necessarily mean to and you almost certainly don’t want to, but sometimes you do all the same. And the pub is the place where you get rid of that stress. The place where you can clear your head, take a step back, have a think and realise that it’s not all that bad. It’s where you can just shut off the machine that’s in/is your head for a couple of hours and do the crossword and talk about fish or books or neo American imperialism or the Spurs back four for a while.

It’s where you check in your worries for a couple of hours and pick them up again when you leave.

So, as I say, I really was wound up last night when I got in, but then I sat down with Gerry and we just chatted about George's Fish Bar  and scallops and restaurants and the random nut nut who Gerry was in a running discussion/argument with. And I started on the crossword (and then Casey and Daryl got involved) and had a few pints and honestly after a while the world just seemed a lot brighter.

So there it is: the pub is basically prozac for the working classes.

Bars I Am Jealous of #1

Check this bad boy out. Holy Moley!

Margin For Error

Yesterday, on my way to work, I had to turn around and go back to get my keys, which meant that I was late getting to the train station (I usually get on the 7.50am), and which in turn meant that I couldn’t get my usual seat (back carriage, far right hand seat next to the long window).

That being the case I decided to wait for the 8.02, which meant that I was able to be the first person on the train and I could have my usual seat.

Now I realise that this sounds both slightly odd and incredibly boring, but I tell you this for a reason.

Those twelve minutes between my usual train and the 8.02 made a huge difference to the entire scope of my journey. The train itself was more crowded, Liverpool Street was far busier than I’m normally used to. There were School children around and far more people on the street walking to work. Which is to say that everything was brighter and more awake.

And all of this just because of a measly difference of 12 minutes. And this (of course) got me thinking about the pub. Because that last pint (or indeed that last half pint) can so often have that kind of disproportionate effect. That last pint can be the difference between waking up with a banging hangover, or getting up late for work. It can be the difference between suffering all day or falling over in the gutter.

Just that last pint.

And as much as you try you almost always come down on the wrong side of the line. Just that one more.

[Of course this goes to my last post about Saturdays. Saturdays have no such line. Saturdays don’t have just one last pint. They have two large Jack Daniels and coke, a desperado and three Jagerbombs for the road.]

Which is why a few pints after work can sometimes be a dangerous thing. It’s a difficult balance to find – and one that everyone has to find for themselves – quite often based on an analysis of what they have to get done the next day measured against what kind of hangover they feel they can tolerate/endure. But also based on more nebulous things like how much of the crossword is left to be done and just, frankly, by how much fun they’re having.

Or if Gareth is going to come back from a gig just as I was deciding whether to have just one last pint or not.

On such fine margins does the regular exist.

Saturday Night's Alright

To me at least, there’s something special about Saturdays in the Taps.

It’s the Holy Grail of drinking days. A day which answers to no one else.  That makes no apologies and suffers no insults. A Saturday is an anarchic, long haired, broken nosed, leather jacket wearing rebel of a drinking day.

Now Thursdays (as I’ve previously noted) are the best nights, and if you’ve managed to swing taking Friday off, it can be wonderful. And Fridays – well a Friday evening after a long week at work is a gift; but a Saturday, oh now a Saturday is something really quite special.

A Saturday doesn’t need to worry about getting up for work the next day or going to Ikea or visiting the in-laws. All a Saturday has to worry about is which DVD boxset to watch while lying on the sofa on Sunday afternoon.

In other words a Saturday is free. Beholden to no one and answerable only to itself.  Drunkenness without consequences and degradation without limits.

And that knowledge is a wonderful thing. On a Saturday you never have to look at your watch.

I usually get in on a Saturday at 2pm (well I say usually, I mean ‘I get in on a Saturday at 2pm). And at 2pm on a Saturday you only ever get four kinds of people. Taps faithful, people taking a break from shopping, people in for a particular football/rugby game and nutters.

(Don’t ask me why but nutters love 2pm on a Saturday).

Now the best days are those when Spurs or Arsenal aren’t playing and its just a few random shoppers, the mandatory nut nut, and the regulars sitting at the bar. Normally some variation on myself, Barry (at the end), Mark, Daryl, Adam, Eugene, Len and Dan (you have to say it like that, ‘Len and Dan’) and Gerry (and sometimes Peter).

[There isn’t really a regular Saturday day time member of staff]

And being regulars everyone is sat the bar (often nursing Friday night hangovers). Now there’s something quite determined and definite about a Saturday drinker. A Saturday drinker doesn’t care that he/she’ll be absolutely hammered by the time that most normal people are only just going out on a Saturday night. In fact a Saturday drinker knows full well that by 10pm on a Saturday night they’ll be involved in heated conversations of deep metaphysical, political and emotional importance which to the outside world will  merely seem like a series of prolonged slurring, overly familiar hugs and superbly executed high fives.

But that’s for later.  All that comes after.

Because a Saturday isn’t about the end, a Saturday is really about the journey. It’s about the ten pence bets and the crosswords. It’s about ridiculous theories [this Saturday in fact a random bloke declared – and I don’t know how this came up in the first place; but that’s how things happen on a Saturday – that he could break a spoons head just by rubbing it. Well naturally Mark couldn’t resist getting involved in this and asked Sarah to get a spoon to challenge this guy’s physic abilities. Everyone gathers around this bloke as he begins to rub…and rub…and fifteen minutes later he’s still rubbing away and….well long story short, he’s no Uri Geller] and stupid jokes. It’s about whimsy and football and saying nothing for minutes on end.

It’s about watching the world go by on a Summers day and listening to the rain hammering down on a Winters afternoon.

Which is to say, it’s about hanging out with your mates.

Equally, there’s something about getting slowly drunk over a day. The way that drunkenness creeps up on you, different stage through different stage. Bonhomie through introspection; honesty through reflection.

It’s something to be savoured.

And all with the added bonus that by the time all of the scum arrive at night you’re too drunk and comfortably and snugly ensconced in the regulars corner to care.