Unreal scenes last night. Tetleys, Carlsberg AND John Smiths went off at the same time.
Crazy times, my peeps.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Saturday, 6 August 2011
Territory.
Whaddup?
A dude’s gotta have his place in the world, and other crews need to recognize. If a homeboy has his corner then respect it or reject it. See the tags, keep the hell away.
Kev the Sweep has his own sweet spot at the corner of the bar. Tall stool, small section of bar before the bit that I keep latched up to the wall so’s I can get in and out quick. There’s not enough room for another stool so he don’t get no fools all in his face.
Kev comes in of a Thursday and Friday, and everyone know this be his spot and no-one go near it, even if the man not there. He’s half-way down his first pint of Carlsberg when Ronnie the Pipe comes in the room.
Ronnie usually comes in of a Wednesday and Saturday. And on those two nights it be HIS spot. This being a Thursday we got a problem.
He stops as if someone just busted a cap in his ass when he sees the situation.
Me: Pint, Ronnie?
Ronnie: [Without looking at me] Yep.
Kev glances over his shoulder at Ronnie and silently jerks his head at him before returning his attention to his drink. It’s a motherfucking face-off.
Thing is, Ronnie be on the club committay. Dog is only the TREASURER. He know where all the bodies be at. A brother trippin’ if he think Ronnie goin’ back down. Kev, though, he be from a badass Italian ice-cream-van family empire and one thing about the wops - they don’ take no shit from no-one.
Ronnie slowly walks to the far end of the bar. Kev smiles to himself but mofo being premature. Ronnie picks up the only other high stool and carries it back to his spot and firmly places it up against the stool Kev is at, forcing him to move his legs to make room.
The disputed section of bar is barely two-foot wide. Both dudes cram in to it, knee-to-knee, shoulder-to-shoulder, each trying to force the other to back their cracker-ass the hell up.
Tensions are hectic as both stare at each other.
Kev: [Without breaking his gaze to look at me] Bottle please, hinny.
I get him a bottle of Special Brew from the fridge and he pours it into his half-drunk pint of Carling. Totally whack.
Ronnie: [unblinking] Large Grouse please.
Me: Dash of lemonade?
Ronnie: [Slowly, deliberately] Not this time.
WHOAH. Kev shrugs as if to say “ain’t no thing”.
Ronnie: And get one for yourself while you’re at it.
BOOM.
This some world-class representing right here, like the Bloods and the Crips all over again. Ain’t no-one backing-down or nuttin’.
I glance at my watch. Looks like the clock goin’ save everyone’s face.
Me: And that’s time, gentleman. Thank you.
“Bridge Over Troubled Water” starts playing on the radio.
A dude’s gotta have his place in the world, and other crews need to recognize. If a homeboy has his corner then respect it or reject it. See the tags, keep the hell away.
Kev the Sweep has his own sweet spot at the corner of the bar. Tall stool, small section of bar before the bit that I keep latched up to the wall so’s I can get in and out quick. There’s not enough room for another stool so he don’t get no fools all in his face.
Kev comes in of a Thursday and Friday, and everyone know this be his spot and no-one go near it, even if the man not there. He’s half-way down his first pint of Carlsberg when Ronnie the Pipe comes in the room.
Ronnie usually comes in of a Wednesday and Saturday. And on those two nights it be HIS spot. This being a Thursday we got a problem.
He stops as if someone just busted a cap in his ass when he sees the situation.
Me: Pint, Ronnie?
Ronnie: [Without looking at me] Yep.
Kev glances over his shoulder at Ronnie and silently jerks his head at him before returning his attention to his drink. It’s a motherfucking face-off.
Thing is, Ronnie be on the club committay. Dog is only the TREASURER. He know where all the bodies be at. A brother trippin’ if he think Ronnie goin’ back down. Kev, though, he be from a badass Italian ice-cream-van family empire and one thing about the wops - they don’ take no shit from no-one.
Ronnie slowly walks to the far end of the bar. Kev smiles to himself but mofo being premature. Ronnie picks up the only other high stool and carries it back to his spot and firmly places it up against the stool Kev is at, forcing him to move his legs to make room.
The disputed section of bar is barely two-foot wide. Both dudes cram in to it, knee-to-knee, shoulder-to-shoulder, each trying to force the other to back their cracker-ass the hell up.
Tensions are hectic as both stare at each other.
Kev: [Without breaking his gaze to look at me] Bottle please, hinny.
I get him a bottle of Special Brew from the fridge and he pours it into his half-drunk pint of Carling. Totally whack.
Ronnie: [unblinking] Large Grouse please.
Me: Dash of lemonade?
Ronnie: [Slowly, deliberately] Not this time.
WHOAH. Kev shrugs as if to say “ain’t no thing”.
Ronnie: And get one for yourself while you’re at it.
BOOM.
This some world-class representing right here, like the Bloods and the Crips all over again. Ain’t no-one backing-down or nuttin’.
I glance at my watch. Looks like the clock goin’ save everyone’s face.
Me: And that’s time, gentleman. Thank you.
“Bridge Over Troubled Water” starts playing on the radio.
Quit It.
Nearly ten in the pee emm and it’s jus' yours truly and the beer-mats kicking it to Smooth FM on the bar’s radio. Far cry from the unreal scenes of the previous night wit' the quiz in the bar AND the Town Planning Committee in the function room. Mad crazy.
A brother’s giving serious thought to locking the fuck up and heading to his crib when Gordon the Baker comes rolling in. First customer of the evening.
Gordon: Pint of John Smith’s please.
I pour his drink in silence. He breaks out some dollar and silently sits at one of the six tables and slowly exhales. Some time passes.
Me: Been far, then?
Gordon: Not really.
Silence. For some minutes.
Me: Been up to much then, Gordon?
Gordon: [After a pause] Naw.
More silence.
Gordon: I went for a walk?
Know when to quit, that's what I say. I start wiping down the glass shelves.
A brother’s giving serious thought to locking the fuck up and heading to his crib when Gordon the Baker comes rolling in. First customer of the evening.
Gordon: Pint of John Smith’s please.
I pour his drink in silence. He breaks out some dollar and silently sits at one of the six tables and slowly exhales. Some time passes.
Me: Been far, then?
Gordon: Not really.
Silence. For some minutes.
Me: Been up to much then, Gordon?
Gordon: [After a pause] Naw.
More silence.
Gordon: I went for a walk?
Know when to quit, that's what I say. I start wiping down the glass shelves.
Monday, 20 June 2011
Testin'
Yo back up now and give a brother room, the fuse is lit and I'm about to go BOOM.
Yeh, raise yo glasses and shake yo asses cos Tuesday night am Quiz Night.
Monkey Neil hosts the quiz each Tuesday. He used to be Kool And The Gang rollin’ wit the other bar-staff till he stopped takin his responsobilitays serious so the commitay handed his ass to him.
That’s the way the Club rolls.
But he still comes in of a Tuesday – props for that – and lays down some righteous questions for the homies.
It’s a quiet night on the usual – jus me, a good book and some bangin’ tunes from the radio at the end of the bar rockin’ Magic in the Eff -Em to contend with - but it’s started getting crazy like Crazy-Glue since the Quiz started. My word, this is some mad action of a Tuesday.
Sometimes the nightly take is £45.25 instead of the big zero.
Not gonna last though.
Gordon The Baker: How’d it go then? Quiz neet and that?
He’s my first customer of the evening. It’s Wednesday night. Nine to the thirty.
Me: [Not getting-over the fact that he orders a pint of John Smith’s, drinks half of it and then tops it up with a bottle of Strongbow. Which is just wrong] Ah. Not as well as last week.
Gordon The Baker: [He’s not baked anything in at least 10 years but can’t let go of the nickname] Why like? What was the craic?
Me: Well. A bit awkward. There were three teams…
Gordon: Not bad. [Gestures at the radio at the end of the bar] Bit raucous isn’t it?
Me: It’s ‘Magic’, Gordon. [Glance around bar at non-existent customers] Do you think it would bother anyone if I re-tuned it to ‘Smooth’?
Gordon: Nae botha son. So. Three teams. Not bad…
Me: One to begin with. One team of three. No-one else tipped-up so they split to three teams of one.
Gordon: Oh.
Me: Yeeeah.
Gordon: Double Glenmorangie please. So how’d it go this week?
Mofo not realisn’ bad shit be goin’ down.
Me: Eh. Well. No-one.
Gordon: FUCKIN’ DISGRACEFUL! He does the quiz down the road dun’t he?
Me: Rumour has it not. Not anymore. He’s got a real job now.
Roger Whittaker comes on the radio.
Yeh, raise yo glasses and shake yo asses cos Tuesday night am Quiz Night.
Monkey Neil hosts the quiz each Tuesday. He used to be Kool And The Gang rollin’ wit the other bar-staff till he stopped takin his responsobilitays serious so the commitay handed his ass to him.
That’s the way the Club rolls.
But he still comes in of a Tuesday – props for that – and lays down some righteous questions for the homies.
It’s a quiet night on the usual – jus me, a good book and some bangin’ tunes from the radio at the end of the bar rockin’ Magic in the Eff -Em to contend with - but it’s started getting crazy like Crazy-Glue since the Quiz started. My word, this is some mad action of a Tuesday.
Sometimes the nightly take is £45.25 instead of the big zero.
Not gonna last though.
Gordon The Baker: How’d it go then? Quiz neet and that?
He’s my first customer of the evening. It’s Wednesday night. Nine to the thirty.
Me: [Not getting-over the fact that he orders a pint of John Smith’s, drinks half of it and then tops it up with a bottle of Strongbow. Which is just wrong] Ah. Not as well as last week.
Gordon The Baker: [He’s not baked anything in at least 10 years but can’t let go of the nickname] Why like? What was the craic?
Me: Well. A bit awkward. There were three teams…
Gordon: Not bad. [Gestures at the radio at the end of the bar] Bit raucous isn’t it?
Me: It’s ‘Magic’, Gordon. [Glance around bar at non-existent customers] Do you think it would bother anyone if I re-tuned it to ‘Smooth’?
Gordon: Nae botha son. So. Three teams. Not bad…
Me: One to begin with. One team of three. No-one else tipped-up so they split to three teams of one.
Gordon: Oh.
Me: Yeeeah.
Gordon: Double Glenmorangie please. So how’d it go this week?
Mofo not realisn’ bad shit be goin’ down.
Me: Eh. Well. No-one.
Gordon: FUCKIN’ DISGRACEFUL! He does the quiz down the road dun’t he?
Me: Rumour has it not. Not anymore. He’s got a real job now.
Roger Whittaker comes on the radio.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Representing.
It’s a jungle out there, no more so than for the bartender of any whack-ass club, ‘specially this brother.
Taking care o’bidness is a priority. Peoples want they drinks WHEN they wan’em, HOW they wan’em and they don’t want no jive talk. But sometimes a dude press it too far, start representen’ for no meaning.
That’s when a brother gotta stand his ground. Jus’ like in the yard, you feel me? In the big house. You back-down, you just a pussy. And you know what happens to pussies. Yeah. They get fucked.
Anyways. Last Friday night in the club. I’m just about to call time. It’s mad late – nearly eleven in the pee-emm, blud – and Dapper Terry steps to the bar, brandishing a more-than half-empty pint-glass.
Dapper Terry: Just stick a half of Carlsberg in there will you, son?
Mofo testin’ me.
Me: I’ll have to pour a half-pint glass, Terry.
Auld Les and Kev The Sweep are watchful. They want to see how I handle this.
Can I handle the club, or can the club not handle me?
DT: Aah that’s aalreet, just put it straight in here…
Me: Orders from the committee Terry.
DT: [looks around] There’s none o’theym in, man.
Me: There’s also the Weights And Measures Act, basic food hygiene –
DT: Aye alreet.
BOOM. He gets his standard half-pint of Carlsberg and I get my props. However, dissing a man in front of his crew is never wise. Auld Les and Kev The Sweep will not let him forget this one. There’ll be payback.
He might accuse me of giving him the wrong change sometime.
Me: Another Tetley’s, Les?
Auld Les: [draining the last of his pint] Looks like.
I begin pouring.
Me: And that’s ‘time’, gentleman. Thank you.
The pumpin’ sounds of Smooth FM from the radio on the corner of the bar are getting a little hectic so I turn it down some and begin wiping tables. All six of them.
Takin’ care o’bidness, yeah?
Taking care o’bidness is a priority. Peoples want they drinks WHEN they wan’em, HOW they wan’em and they don’t want no jive talk. But sometimes a dude press it too far, start representen’ for no meaning.
That’s when a brother gotta stand his ground. Jus’ like in the yard, you feel me? In the big house. You back-down, you just a pussy. And you know what happens to pussies. Yeah. They get fucked.
Anyways. Last Friday night in the club. I’m just about to call time. It’s mad late – nearly eleven in the pee-emm, blud – and Dapper Terry steps to the bar, brandishing a more-than half-empty pint-glass.
Dapper Terry: Just stick a half of Carlsberg in there will you, son?
Mofo testin’ me.
Me: I’ll have to pour a half-pint glass, Terry.
Auld Les and Kev The Sweep are watchful. They want to see how I handle this.
Can I handle the club, or can the club not handle me?
DT: Aah that’s aalreet, just put it straight in here…
Me: Orders from the committee Terry.
DT: [looks around] There’s none o’theym in, man.
Me: There’s also the Weights And Measures Act, basic food hygiene –
DT: Aye alreet.
BOOM. He gets his standard half-pint of Carlsberg and I get my props. However, dissing a man in front of his crew is never wise. Auld Les and Kev The Sweep will not let him forget this one. There’ll be payback.
He might accuse me of giving him the wrong change sometime.
Me: Another Tetley’s, Les?
Auld Les: [draining the last of his pint] Looks like.
I begin pouring.
Me: And that’s ‘time’, gentleman. Thank you.
The pumpin’ sounds of Smooth FM from the radio on the corner of the bar are getting a little hectic so I turn it down some and begin wiping tables. All six of them.
Takin’ care o’bidness, yeah?
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