"As many drinks as possible for a tenner."
"Er. No. You tell me what you want and I'll get it."
And so it goes on.
To the strains of Merry Christmas Everyone.
There's something sinister about being behind a busy bar, five deep in people, while three staff are off sick. Eyes stare at you constantly, getting increasingly pissed off as they have to wait more than 30 seconds for 19th vodka shot. The drunker they get, the more they stare. As if eyeballing you intently will somehow speed up the process in any way. As if it makes you want to serve them faster.
And the drunker they get, the ruder they get. Obviously not all. We have some delightful customers, many, in fact. But there's always the bad drunks. Obnoxious drunks. Drunks who delight in sending you backwards and forwards by ordering one drink at a time. Drunks that get angry when it turns out they don't have enough money after all and yet expect you to give them the drinks anyway. Drunks that can't handle it when the bar shuts. Drunks that spit on you as they speak. Drunks that are just too drunk to even frame the words of the drink they want.
2am is the optimum time for the drunk men to "Smile, darling" me, which coincidentally is the exact same time I'd like to lay them out with a fist to their sweaty, scrunched up face.
And then when they finally go, we scrape the sweat and the scum from the dancefloor. And clean sick out of the sink with our bare hands. Well, I haven't had that misfortune yet, but an adored colleague has. It made him sad.
Having said all that, I do kind of love it. And it's 1000% more enjoyable and more morally sound than my last job. And, when I'm back from a shift, and had my bath in bleach, it's quite satisfyingly exhausting. I'm sleeping better than I have in months...