Scene: Beer Garden of the Waysider Tavern.
Time: Mid-evening.
Cast: Assorted onlookers
Handful of bikies (all aged 45+)
Hard-looking manual labourer. (aged 55+)
Action: Bikies lounge around suggestively, making the most of the new street cred they have courtesy of the state govt's groovy new anti-bikie laws.
Hard-looking manual labourer glares at them.
Bikies hesitate a little, then muster a return glare. (The manual labourer has the appearance of one who is dreadfully physical, and the look of a one who has very fast reflexes and plenty of match practice when it comes to brawling.)
Hard-looking manual labourer speaks, in a very very thick Irish accent: "So ye think ye're hard ones do ye?"
Total silence from the bikies.
"Ye wooden know wot hard is, boys"
At this stage one of the bikies points out their pedigree, and their "reputation".
Like a crack of lightning the labourer is on his feet, his chair flies backward several feet.
"Ye think ye're as hard as the IRA do ye?"
"Do ye even know what is the IRA?"
"Well, are ye hard like ye sayz? I don't think ye're hard, I think ye're so soft I could clean the lotta ye up, on me own!"
This assertation is not contested by the bikies, who've already taken a collective few paces backward.
None of the bikies dare meet the Irishman's gaze.
A few minutes later the labourer is back to softly chatting with his friends, the bikies have slunk off with tails firmly between legs, and Mine Host is busy burning the security camera file to disc, for later viewing pleasure.
Showing posts with label patrons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label patrons. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Friday, October 25, 2013
You'll Never Please 'em all.
A newly checked-in guest presents at the restaurant for dinner.
From Singapore, with limited English, he is a specialist tradesman, here to perform one task for his company.
Dismissively sneering at the menu he instead demands to eat some obscure dish from his homeland.
It is the Head Chef's first night, and a particularly busy one too.
Cooking an off-menu dish is quite an undertaking. It upsets the rhythm of the kitchen, as nothing is prepared, laid out, defrosted, etc.
However, the Head Chef, a Chinese, says he can do it.
As the guest strolls back through the reception area, Mine Host, puffed up with pride at the ability of the staff to meet seemingly all demands, enquires of the gentleman how was his dinner?
The reply was most abrupt:
"Too slow, in Singapore that usually served in two minutes."
The guest then stumps off unhappily to his room.
So Mine Host adds Forty Dollars to the guest's dinner bill.
Thus continues life behind the bar...
From Singapore, with limited English, he is a specialist tradesman, here to perform one task for his company.
Dismissively sneering at the menu he instead demands to eat some obscure dish from his homeland.
It is the Head Chef's first night, and a particularly busy one too.
Cooking an off-menu dish is quite an undertaking. It upsets the rhythm of the kitchen, as nothing is prepared, laid out, defrosted, etc.
However, the Head Chef, a Chinese, says he can do it.
As the guest strolls back through the reception area, Mine Host, puffed up with pride at the ability of the staff to meet seemingly all demands, enquires of the gentleman how was his dinner?
The reply was most abrupt:
"Too slow, in Singapore that usually served in two minutes."
The guest then stumps off unhappily to his room.
So Mine Host adds Forty Dollars to the guest's dinner bill.
Thus continues life behind the bar...
Tuesday, September 03, 2013
Uncoloured Boys
Two police officers strut into the office of the Wayside Tavern!
[Here we go again] thinks Mine Host, seeing the determined look on the faces of the police officers, a look somewhat remniscent of that adopted by dogs when their dinner bowl is interfered with by a possum.
"There's two members of the Rebels in your bar!" ejaculates one of the officers.
"Er... how interesting" says Mine Host, stifling a yawn.
"What will you do to rectify this situation?" demands that other officer.
"What situation?" says Mine Host, affecting yet another yawn.
"Well....Outlaw motorcycle gang members shouldn't be in here!" stammered the first officer.
"Are they wearing club 'colours'?" enquires Mine Host.
"Er.... no, but you shouldn't be letting them in here!"
"Why ever not? If they're not wearing 'colours' how on earth am I to know they are members of an Outlaw motorcycle gang?"
"Er...... Um......"
"Am I supposed to spend all day gazing at every person who enters, to see if they 'look like' they may be members of an outlaw bikie gang? In fact officer, what does an 'Outlaw-bikie-in-mufti' look like?" (I lost the coppers with the word 'mufti')
"Should I insult every last stranger with intrusive questions about their possible affiliation with bikie gangs?"
"Er...... .... Um.... "
The two police officers left, with a facial expression resembling that adopted by a dog that has tail between legs.
[Here we go again] thinks Mine Host, seeing the determined look on the faces of the police officers, a look somewhat remniscent of that adopted by dogs when their dinner bowl is interfered with by a possum.
"There's two members of the Rebels in your bar!" ejaculates one of the officers.
"Er... how interesting" says Mine Host, stifling a yawn.
"What will you do to rectify this situation?" demands that other officer.
"What situation?" says Mine Host, affecting yet another yawn.
"Well....Outlaw motorcycle gang members shouldn't be in here!" stammered the first officer.
"Are they wearing club 'colours'?" enquires Mine Host.
"Er.... no, but you shouldn't be letting them in here!"
"Why ever not? If they're not wearing 'colours' how on earth am I to know they are members of an Outlaw motorcycle gang?"
"Er...... Um......"
"Am I supposed to spend all day gazing at every person who enters, to see if they 'look like' they may be members of an outlaw bikie gang? In fact officer, what does an 'Outlaw-bikie-in-mufti' look like?" (I lost the coppers with the word 'mufti')
"Should I insult every last stranger with intrusive questions about their possible affiliation with bikie gangs?"
"Er...... .... Um.... "
The two police officers left, with a facial expression resembling that adopted by a dog that has tail between legs.
Friday, August 30, 2013
First Time for Everything !
On their way home from putting their kids in to high school, two ladies break the two days of flying with an ovvernight stop at the Wayside Tavern.
Neither of them has ever before entered a restaurant.
They have never before had a cocktail.
They have never before heard of a cocktail. They have no concept of what a cocktail is.
They ate a restaurant meal, they drank a cocktail (a "mai tai" each)
The Wayside Tavern dishes up the best tucker north of Adelaide.
It was the first night on duty (and his second night in the country) for the barman in the Wayside Tavern's cocktail bar.
This country is much larger, and the backgrounds and experiences of the natural born citizens more diverse than one may first think.
Neither of them has ever before entered a restaurant.
They have never before had a cocktail.
They have never before heard of a cocktail. They have no concept of what a cocktail is.
They ate a restaurant meal, they drank a cocktail (a "mai tai" each)
The Wayside Tavern dishes up the best tucker north of Adelaide.
It was the first night on duty (and his second night in the country) for the barman in the Wayside Tavern's cocktail bar.
This country is much larger, and the backgrounds and experiences of the natural born citizens more diverse than one may first think.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Volunteer Plumber
Vandalism to the premises by members of the public is a never ending battle for publicans.
This criminal activity is usually conducted out of public view. In these times of security cameras, vandalism is mostly inside the toilets, where not only are there no security cameras, but a little bit of personal privacy is granted.
A common activity is to smash a beer glass into a toilet bowl, then defecate copiously upon it, creating a nasty & very septic booby trap for the cleaning staff, as the only way to clean this is painstakingly, by hand.
There is a very special place in the heart of all Wayside Tavern staff for the anonymous ghosts who perform such acts, as we've all had a go at cleaning up these types of mess.
However, sanctimonious refusal to allow security cameras anywhere near the toilets is a two-edged sword!
On a certain evening one of the guards, patrolling the gents toilets, happens to interrupt a male person in an act of vandalism. The guard advises the event via two-way radio.
Mine Host & two more guards attend post-haste. There is a lot of pent-up vengeance being brought to this incident.
The male person is being detained by the guard who caught him.
The offender had ripped open the supposedly man-proof cistern cover, reefed a handful of pipes from the cistern, twisted them, dropped them into the toilet bowl, then defecated upon them.
The vandalised plumbing is still in situ.
The three guards subtley edge closer to the male. Well aware of the precariousness of his situation, the offender is visibly shaking with fear.
There are no cameras in here, no witnesses, and no cops.
The guards advise the male person that he will remove, with his bare hands, the damaged plumbing from the toilet bowl, sanitize it, repair it and fit it from whence it came, then clean out the toilet bowl.
The offender states that he's "Not putting [his] hands in there!"
In a realistic tone of voice, the guards state that unless he does, they'll thrash him to within an inch of his life. The menace in the air is palpable.
The guards don't much mind which way it goes. They've had their turns at cleaning up after animals like this.
The offender realises from the look in the eyes of the guards that whichever of the guards who hits him first will punch him on the point of the nose, but be aiming for the back of his head.
... for those who haven't been around violence, this does not mean that he'll be hit from behind.....
The offender turns white, and shaking with fear, proceeds to do as ordered. The supervision is most intense!
After the repairs are complete, the offender is removed most forcefully from the premises and advised to never return.
So continues life behind the bar.
This criminal activity is usually conducted out of public view. In these times of security cameras, vandalism is mostly inside the toilets, where not only are there no security cameras, but a little bit of personal privacy is granted.
A common activity is to smash a beer glass into a toilet bowl, then defecate copiously upon it, creating a nasty & very septic booby trap for the cleaning staff, as the only way to clean this is painstakingly, by hand.
There is a very special place in the heart of all Wayside Tavern staff for the anonymous ghosts who perform such acts, as we've all had a go at cleaning up these types of mess.
However, sanctimonious refusal to allow security cameras anywhere near the toilets is a two-edged sword!
On a certain evening one of the guards, patrolling the gents toilets, happens to interrupt a male person in an act of vandalism. The guard advises the event via two-way radio.
Mine Host & two more guards attend post-haste. There is a lot of pent-up vengeance being brought to this incident.
The male person is being detained by the guard who caught him.
The offender had ripped open the supposedly man-proof cistern cover, reefed a handful of pipes from the cistern, twisted them, dropped them into the toilet bowl, then defecated upon them.
The vandalised plumbing is still in situ.
The three guards subtley edge closer to the male. Well aware of the precariousness of his situation, the offender is visibly shaking with fear.
There are no cameras in here, no witnesses, and no cops.
The guards advise the male person that he will remove, with his bare hands, the damaged plumbing from the toilet bowl, sanitize it, repair it and fit it from whence it came, then clean out the toilet bowl.
The offender states that he's "Not putting [his] hands in there!"
In a realistic tone of voice, the guards state that unless he does, they'll thrash him to within an inch of his life. The menace in the air is palpable.
The guards don't much mind which way it goes. They've had their turns at cleaning up after animals like this.
The offender realises from the look in the eyes of the guards that whichever of the guards who hits him first will punch him on the point of the nose, but be aiming for the back of his head.
... for those who haven't been around violence, this does not mean that he'll be hit from behind.....
The offender turns white, and shaking with fear, proceeds to do as ordered. The supervision is most intense!
After the repairs are complete, the offender is removed most forcefully from the premises and advised to never return.
So continues life behind the bar.
Friday, March 02, 2012
Abortion
Anyone who has followed, even peripherally, the policital dogfights of our cousins in the USA will have noticed that the practice of aborting unborn humans is a hot issue there.
A quick straw poll of Australians, conducted just now by Mine Host, has revealed that 99% of Australians have never given abortion a thought, have no idea what (or even if) the laws on it are. Those who had given thought to abortion fell into one of two schools of thought:
Mine Host's view on abortion has been formed in the crucible of experience.
It should:
Anyone who has been present - and in a state of sobriety - when a nightclub closes, will understand & be an enthusiastic supporter of the above "abortion law".
A quick straw poll of Australians, conducted just now by Mine Host, has revealed that 99% of Australians have never given abortion a thought, have no idea what (or even if) the laws on it are. Those who had given thought to abortion fell into one of two schools of thought:
- Those who say it occurs when your cows eat the wrong type of grass, or something and,
- Those who say it occurs when your ewes eat the wrong type of grass, or something.
Mine Host's view on abortion has been formed in the crucible of experience.
It should:
- Be legal at any time from birth through to 24 years of age.
- Be decided by a spontaneous but unanimous vote of 4 sober adults who have no criminal convictions.
- Be be carried out on the spot, within 30 seconds of the vote.
Anyone who has been present - and in a state of sobriety - when a nightclub closes, will understand & be an enthusiastic supporter of the above "abortion law".
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Weight & Balance
Dave Harris is a regular at the Wayside Tavern. Short & cheerful, a tyre fitter by trade, he works hard & drinks hard.
A deep thinker he isn't. He's also rather a worry at times. Drunk or sober, he rarely comes accross as fully coherent.
He's also physically one very tough cookie, as tyre fitters tend to be.
There are circular bar tables, the right height to sit at on a stool.
This particular night he climbs atop one of these tables, and stands there. This is scary stuff, the table wobbles, he is drunk to the point that he has a "sway-up" anyway. It will be quite a fall.
And fall he does.
Tap dancing when he should have shuffled (or something), the table flies out from under him, scrabbling with his feet to stay on it, he manages only to point himself headfirst at the tiled floor.
When he hits, his head is likely to split open like a ripe watermelon.
Halfway to the floor a hip snags the seat of a barstool. This levels him, and he lands *splat* horizontally on the tiled floor (instead of head first).
He stands up, shakes his head, remarks that that "sure dazed" him a bit, weaves his way to the bar & has a few more rums. Observing him most carefully there seems to be nothing wrong. Well, nothing more than usual.
He goes home at closing time. Full of trepidation I barely sleep. He'll almost certainly have a brain haemorrage. In the morning he'll be dead in bed.
This is the sort of unhappy & unpredictable event that results in a life changing lawsuit.
However the next afternoon he is in again after work, as usual. He gets drunk & seems no sillier than usual.
After a few weeks have passed, and nothing adverse seems to have happened to him, I put the incident out of my mind.
Years later he's still going strong. Still not making any sense, still working hard in a tough job.
A deep thinker he isn't. He's also rather a worry at times. Drunk or sober, he rarely comes accross as fully coherent.
He's also physically one very tough cookie, as tyre fitters tend to be.
There are circular bar tables, the right height to sit at on a stool.
This particular night he climbs atop one of these tables, and stands there. This is scary stuff, the table wobbles, he is drunk to the point that he has a "sway-up" anyway. It will be quite a fall.
And fall he does.
Tap dancing when he should have shuffled (or something), the table flies out from under him, scrabbling with his feet to stay on it, he manages only to point himself headfirst at the tiled floor.
When he hits, his head is likely to split open like a ripe watermelon.
Halfway to the floor a hip snags the seat of a barstool. This levels him, and he lands *splat* horizontally on the tiled floor (instead of head first).
He stands up, shakes his head, remarks that that "sure dazed" him a bit, weaves his way to the bar & has a few more rums. Observing him most carefully there seems to be nothing wrong. Well, nothing more than usual.
He goes home at closing time. Full of trepidation I barely sleep. He'll almost certainly have a brain haemorrage. In the morning he'll be dead in bed.
This is the sort of unhappy & unpredictable event that results in a life changing lawsuit.
However the next afternoon he is in again after work, as usual. He gets drunk & seems no sillier than usual.
After a few weeks have passed, and nothing adverse seems to have happened to him, I put the incident out of my mind.
Years later he's still going strong. Still not making any sense, still working hard in a tough job.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
They'll Fight Each Other (if nobody else steps up)
Reasonably quiet night in the pub. Only a few New Zealanders in the bar. Maoris all. Not much else happening anywhere else in the building.
Ooops... spoke too soon. There seems to be some sort of bad blood among the Maoris.
Oh no.... they're from two different tribes. Someone is carrying on about how high-born their mob is. This is not well received by the other mob.
The mood feels nasty. The younger blokes are starting to hiss & clench fists. This could be really really really violent.
A quiet chat to a couple of the older (grey haired) blokes. They don't want any trouble, they just came down with their respective clans for a few cold ones. They nod to each other & then use their clout as elders to silently order their mobs to stop it. A quiet lecture is given about how they are not there for this.
The one who started banging on about how high-born he is gets taken aside by his elders & advised that he should go home. He complies.
As a courtesy the elder fellows are given a couple of drinks on the house.
There is no need for this, as they all among some of the highest paid workers in the nation. Which is why they have all left New Zealand & come to beyond the black stump.
Phew! That was close. Anybody who has seen serious Maori on Maori violence will know what I mean.
Anybody else can get an inkling of what I may have been in for by watching "Once Were Warriors"
Ooops... spoke too soon. There seems to be some sort of bad blood among the Maoris.
Oh no.... they're from two different tribes. Someone is carrying on about how high-born their mob is. This is not well received by the other mob.
The mood feels nasty. The younger blokes are starting to hiss & clench fists. This could be really really really violent.
A quiet chat to a couple of the older (grey haired) blokes. They don't want any trouble, they just came down with their respective clans for a few cold ones. They nod to each other & then use their clout as elders to silently order their mobs to stop it. A quiet lecture is given about how they are not there for this.
The one who started banging on about how high-born he is gets taken aside by his elders & advised that he should go home. He complies.
As a courtesy the elder fellows are given a couple of drinks on the house.
There is no need for this, as they all among some of the highest paid workers in the nation. Which is why they have all left New Zealand & come to beyond the black stump.
Phew! That was close. Anybody who has seen serious Maori on Maori violence will know what I mean.
Anybody else can get an inkling of what I may have been in for by watching "Once Were Warriors"
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Some you just Can't Please
A travelling couple have their evening meal at the Wayside Tavern.
They complain about everything. But especially about the price.
$7.50 for a square meal (with steak!) was the price at the time. A very good deal.
They whine to the kitchen staff about every aspect of their meal, the time it took to prepare, the quality of the staff (that went down a treat with the kitchen brigade) the quality of the cutlery, and of course the price.
Apparently where they came from, at the Dumbville RSL club, one could get 10 times the meal for a much lower price, blah blah blah.
She was a slatternly looking slug, he a sour visaged grump. One could easily believe they had chosen to excise all joy from their lives.
Their parting comment was that the unhappy dining experience at the Wayside Tavern had "tarnished" their round-Australia trip!
Just how bitterly they felt became apparent over the next few months, as a series of postcards arrived from various places on their journey.
These postcards raved about the low prices, good service, & great range of goods on offer in every town they visited north and west of the black stump. Unfavourable comparisons were drawn between every pub/newsagent/supermarket and the Wayside Tavern.
When they returned home they even sent a postcard from Dumbville. It had a photo of their church, the message stated that they were praying for a rapid bankruptcy for the Wayside Tavern, which they maintained shouldn't be far off, given the poor quality of the staff, the overpriced meals, etc etc.
They were praying for some good person to take over, so that other travellers would not have their life ruined by experiencing the horrid meals & dreadful service I was providing.
They complain about everything. But especially about the price.
$7.50 for a square meal (with steak!) was the price at the time. A very good deal.
They whine to the kitchen staff about every aspect of their meal, the time it took to prepare, the quality of the staff (that went down a treat with the kitchen brigade) the quality of the cutlery, and of course the price.
Apparently where they came from, at the Dumbville RSL club, one could get 10 times the meal for a much lower price, blah blah blah.
She was a slatternly looking slug, he a sour visaged grump. One could easily believe they had chosen to excise all joy from their lives.
Their parting comment was that the unhappy dining experience at the Wayside Tavern had "tarnished" their round-Australia trip!
Just how bitterly they felt became apparent over the next few months, as a series of postcards arrived from various places on their journey.
These postcards raved about the low prices, good service, & great range of goods on offer in every town they visited north and west of the black stump. Unfavourable comparisons were drawn between every pub/newsagent/supermarket and the Wayside Tavern.
When they returned home they even sent a postcard from Dumbville. It had a photo of their church, the message stated that they were praying for a rapid bankruptcy for the Wayside Tavern, which they maintained shouldn't be far off, given the poor quality of the staff, the overpriced meals, etc etc.
They were praying for some good person to take over, so that other travellers would not have their life ruined by experiencing the horrid meals & dreadful service I was providing.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
His Party, He'll have it where he wants to
Fred Nerk was a constant pain for staff. Retired, he'd spend as much time in the pub as his pension allowed. He seemed to have no interests, not horse racing, football, discussion of the day's front page, not anything.
Except drinking. If ever staff attempted to brighten his day by speaking with him, he'd repay them by pressuring them to give him free beer.
He was a snivelling no-account, and had been one all his life.
It was hard work to serve him a beer. Very quickly we grasped that unless payment was visible on the bar beforehand, it was going to be painful getting the money.
He'd try to slip it in with a nearby shout, or suggest that his drink had been paid for by someone "the night before" & now he was here to claim it. He'd claim that his mate/son/whoever was on their way down to drink with him, they had his money & they'd pay "when they arrived". etc etc etc.
Ever cunning trick in the book he tried, every day. It was tedious. He even claimed illness. He'd been diagnosed as terminal, & "surely that's worth free beer?"
Turned out his diagnosis was a fact. Possibly the only truth he'd ever told. He'd disappear for several days/weeks at a time, for chemotherapry, or radiotherapy, or something.
One of his sons came in one day, & asked could they hold "dad's wake" in the front bar. We hadn't even heard that he'd passed on.
It is called a "public" bar for a reason. There is no need to ask. People hold wakes in pubs all the time.
On the appointed day the next week in shuffled all his sons, some friends, people who'd known him, several hangers-on, & anybody else who felt like a drink.
Something didn't seem right. Yep. Right there in the middle of the group was Fred Nerk himself. Still alive.
It transpired that he'd decided to hold his wake the week before he died, so he could enjoy it too. Indisputably he was very crook, as during the wake he didn't ask us once for free beer. Then again, plenty of others were shouting.
Somewhere between 7-14 days later he'd passed on.
Except drinking. If ever staff attempted to brighten his day by speaking with him, he'd repay them by pressuring them to give him free beer.
He was a snivelling no-account, and had been one all his life.
It was hard work to serve him a beer. Very quickly we grasped that unless payment was visible on the bar beforehand, it was going to be painful getting the money.
He'd try to slip it in with a nearby shout, or suggest that his drink had been paid for by someone "the night before" & now he was here to claim it. He'd claim that his mate/son/whoever was on their way down to drink with him, they had his money & they'd pay "when they arrived". etc etc etc.
Ever cunning trick in the book he tried, every day. It was tedious. He even claimed illness. He'd been diagnosed as terminal, & "surely that's worth free beer?"
Turned out his diagnosis was a fact. Possibly the only truth he'd ever told. He'd disappear for several days/weeks at a time, for chemotherapry, or radiotherapy, or something.
One of his sons came in one day, & asked could they hold "dad's wake" in the front bar. We hadn't even heard that he'd passed on.
It is called a "public" bar for a reason. There is no need to ask. People hold wakes in pubs all the time.
On the appointed day the next week in shuffled all his sons, some friends, people who'd known him, several hangers-on, & anybody else who felt like a drink.
Something didn't seem right. Yep. Right there in the middle of the group was Fred Nerk himself. Still alive.
It transpired that he'd decided to hold his wake the week before he died, so he could enjoy it too. Indisputably he was very crook, as during the wake he didn't ask us once for free beer. Then again, plenty of others were shouting.
Somewhere between 7-14 days later he'd passed on.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Selling Private Information
"Hey mate, can you gimme her phone number?"We'd hear this at closing time probably 4 times each night. It is spoken in a conspiratorial whisper, as we shove 'em out the back door.
Half the boys who come into the pub are panting over one of the staff, Racquel. Polynesian, and incredibly beautiful, she looks very like Catherine Bell (TV star, was in a show called JAG for years) Except Racquel is 18, very attractive, with a very demure manner. And much much slimmer than Catherine Bell.
She bestows a lovely smile, all the boys think they are in with a chance, that the smile she gives them is more special than the smile she gives to all the others.
But she doesn't give them her phone number, only a sweet smile.
Hence there is always someone asking for her number. Racquel is stunningly beatiful, alluring, etc etc.
Explanations that it is not our policy to give out the private phone numbers of staff are often met with a surreptitious $50 note.....
.... which we slyly pocket, as we scribble a phone number onto the back of a beer coaster.
We get another $50 for the staff party.
The taxi firm gets another call from someone who needs a ride home.
So continues life behind the bar.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
He wanted some exercise
After a ban of several months, a bloke was readmitted to the pub. He didn't play up that same night, and after a few weeks went by, we started to think he really had grown up.
On this particular evening inside the pub, he king hit a passing stranger, knocking him to the ground. Then exited the premises.
The victim now had a crushed eye socket, he'll require craniofacial surgery.
Ambulance & Police were called.
Two police officers turned up, stood on the footpath having an extended conversation with the attacker. Once inside, the police became nasty at me, as they do, about how the attacker might have gotten into a state where he'd do something like that.
Having had rather enough of clueless constables, I pointed out that the attacker was the fellow they'd spent so much time speaking to outside. Obviously he wasn't in such a state that they'd been able to detect anything amiss, them being trained observers & all.
They'd told him to go home, and so he had. (Walking in a straight line).
He'd only been in the pub an hour. He'd hit the victim because he "felt like hitting somebody".
A couple of weeks later the police went round to the attacker's house & arrested him for the assault.
On this particular evening inside the pub, he king hit a passing stranger, knocking him to the ground. Then exited the premises.
The victim now had a crushed eye socket, he'll require craniofacial surgery.
Ambulance & Police were called.
Two police officers turned up, stood on the footpath having an extended conversation with the attacker. Once inside, the police became nasty at me, as they do, about how the attacker might have gotten into a state where he'd do something like that.
Having had rather enough of clueless constables, I pointed out that the attacker was the fellow they'd spent so much time speaking to outside. Obviously he wasn't in such a state that they'd been able to detect anything amiss, them being trained observers & all.
They'd told him to go home, and so he had. (Walking in a straight line).
He'd only been in the pub an hour. He'd hit the victim because he "felt like hitting somebody".
A couple of weeks later the police went round to the attacker's house & arrested him for the assault.
Thursday, September 08, 2011
Free? Still too Expensive!
A special order was received!
Pleased with service from the butcher shop, to show their appreciation a customer wished to send them a carton of beer.
We accepted payment over the phone & delivered to the butcher shop the requested beer (the most popular brand, in bottles, full strength alcohol, "heavies").
Unsmilingly they silently accepted the box of beer.
Later that afternoon we took angry telephone call from the butcher shop, in which they denigrated the brand of beer they had been supplied with, and demanded we replace it with something suitable.
In the name of good customer relations we agreed to swap the beer for another of their preference.
They sneered as they plonked their free carton on our counter & with a curled top lip accepted the replacement box, sourly vocalising their displeasure at the way we had treated them. (Never at any stage did they say "thank you".)
They never bothered to enquire which of their customers had shouted them a carton of beer.
Their response to being given free beer was to bitch about how it hadn't been given to them in an appropriate manner, and how it had ruined their day.
The attitude exhibited above is more common than you'd first think.
Pleased with service from the butcher shop, to show their appreciation a customer wished to send them a carton of beer.
We accepted payment over the phone & delivered to the butcher shop the requested beer (the most popular brand, in bottles, full strength alcohol, "heavies").
Unsmilingly they silently accepted the box of beer.
Later that afternoon we took angry telephone call from the butcher shop, in which they denigrated the brand of beer they had been supplied with, and demanded we replace it with something suitable.
In the name of good customer relations we agreed to swap the beer for another of their preference.
They sneered as they plonked their free carton on our counter & with a curled top lip accepted the replacement box, sourly vocalising their displeasure at the way we had treated them. (Never at any stage did they say "thank you".)
They never bothered to enquire which of their customers had shouted them a carton of beer.
Their response to being given free beer was to bitch about how it hadn't been given to them in an appropriate manner, and how it had ruined their day.
The attitude exhibited above is more common than you'd first think.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Just Like a Rubber Ball
A fellow is exhibiting aggression. Part of the lingering crowd on the street after the Wayside Tavern has closed.
There were 500 people in the bar at closing time, and half an hour later there are still quite a few lingering on the street outside.
Most of them are engaged in the usual activities, hugging, talking, vomiting, etc.
But this fellow is determined, as some are prone, to belt someone up.
He speaks quite aggressively to several people in turn, then lines up & takes a swing at a nearby chap.
The punch is quite a good attempt, not one you'd like to stop.
The intended target bobs & weaves such that the blow misses, then gives one back.
The return fire was quite a good punch.
The aggressive fellow went down. Just like a tree chopped off at the base.
He went down quite hard, as when he hit the bitumen he bounced.
You could see daylight under him, he'd have risen six inches or so before falling again & laying there.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
There were 500 people in the bar at closing time, and half an hour later there are still quite a few lingering on the street outside.
Most of them are engaged in the usual activities, hugging, talking, vomiting, etc.
But this fellow is determined, as some are prone, to belt someone up.
He speaks quite aggressively to several people in turn, then lines up & takes a swing at a nearby chap.
The punch is quite a good attempt, not one you'd like to stop.
The intended target bobs & weaves such that the blow misses, then gives one back.
The return fire was quite a good punch.
The aggressive fellow went down. Just like a tree chopped off at the base.
He went down quite hard, as when he hit the bitumen he bounced.
You could see daylight under him, he'd have risen six inches or so before falling again & laying there.
Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Beware! Thieves are Everywhere!
Big excitement! In broad daylight a car has been stolen from right in front of the Wayside Tavern!
Mid-afternoon and two middle aged tradesmen lurch out of the Wayside Tavern. They've had a very good day, only to discover their work truck is not where they parked it!
Brows furrowing they look up & down the street, it isn't parked anywhere in sight.
Broad framed brothers, still in their work clothes, they become most frantic. It is not just a matter of having to walk home, all their tools, ladders, etc are in their work truck.
They phone the police to report the theft. Two constables attend and take details from the now irate brothers.
This is serious business. The two constables make enquiries. The truck is located in the carpark of a pub at the other end of town.
In search of whoever drove it there, police descend upon this other pub!
Plenty of excitement & plenty of gawkers, for this is the most exciting thing to happen in weeks.
It turns out half the people in this other pub saw who drove the truck there & parked it. It was two middle aged brothers in tradesmen's clobber.
It transpired that the two brothers had begun their drinking that morning in the Wayside Tavern, parking out the front. On a whim they'd driven up to the other pub for lunch, later walking the couple of miles back to the Wayside Tavern to continue their session.
They'd completely forgotten their excursion, & flatly refused to believe what they were told. They hotly demanded the police "do something". Their attitude was most vengeful.
The police went away & left 'em to it.
Mid-afternoon and two middle aged tradesmen lurch out of the Wayside Tavern. They've had a very good day, only to discover their work truck is not where they parked it!
Brows furrowing they look up & down the street, it isn't parked anywhere in sight.
Broad framed brothers, still in their work clothes, they become most frantic. It is not just a matter of having to walk home, all their tools, ladders, etc are in their work truck.
They phone the police to report the theft. Two constables attend and take details from the now irate brothers.
This is serious business. The two constables make enquiries. The truck is located in the carpark of a pub at the other end of town.
In search of whoever drove it there, police descend upon this other pub!
Plenty of excitement & plenty of gawkers, for this is the most exciting thing to happen in weeks.
It turns out half the people in this other pub saw who drove the truck there & parked it. It was two middle aged brothers in tradesmen's clobber.
It transpired that the two brothers had begun their drinking that morning in the Wayside Tavern, parking out the front. On a whim they'd driven up to the other pub for lunch, later walking the couple of miles back to the Wayside Tavern to continue their session.
They'd completely forgotten their excursion, & flatly refused to believe what they were told. They hotly demanded the police "do something". Their attitude was most vengeful.
The police went away & left 'em to it.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Pay up or Speak Clearly
"Gissacanejewce" barks Dave Drongo, his mate Brian Boofhead says "Makutoo".
They are leaning on the bar ordering drinks. Mine Host can barely decipher what they are saying. (They are asking first for a rum, and then "make it two")
Heidi von Cuteshape, the German backpacker bar attendant, has no hope of understanding them. This is their cunning plan. In their narrow worldview, speaking rapidly to her in obscure slang demonstrates their cultural superiority over someone whose first language is not English.
Mr. Drongo & Mr. Boofhead believe they are impressing her with their Ockerness.
Heidi thinks they are twits.
She has been instructed how to deal with exactly this situation:
Serving a pint of Guinness to Dave Drongo, & a Creme de Menthe (ooh la la) to Brian Boofhead, she quickly scoops the money from their pile, & informs them that they'll only be served again once they drink their "order".
Seeing the look in her eye, and the "you pair asked for that" mirth from the other drinkers, they reluctantly comply.
Result: An outbreak of clearly enunciated speech among the clientele (when ordering from NESB bar staff).
They are leaning on the bar ordering drinks. Mine Host can barely decipher what they are saying. (They are asking first for a rum, and then "make it two")
Heidi von Cuteshape, the German backpacker bar attendant, has no hope of understanding them. This is their cunning plan. In their narrow worldview, speaking rapidly to her in obscure slang demonstrates their cultural superiority over someone whose first language is not English.
Mr. Drongo & Mr. Boofhead believe they are impressing her with their Ockerness.
Heidi thinks they are twits.
She has been instructed how to deal with exactly this situation:
Serving a pint of Guinness to Dave Drongo, & a Creme de Menthe (ooh la la) to Brian Boofhead, she quickly scoops the money from their pile, & informs them that they'll only be served again once they drink their "order".
Seeing the look in her eye, and the "you pair asked for that" mirth from the other drinkers, they reluctantly comply.
Result: An outbreak of clearly enunciated speech among the clientele (when ordering from NESB bar staff).
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Cover Charge
Scene: Streetfront of the Wayside Tavern
Time: 10.30pm
Cast:
Kamate (square jawed, barrel chested crowd controller)
Mr. Annoying Lout (member of public well known to Wayside Tavern staff)
Action: Kamate stands stalwart by the front door, with folded arms.
Mine Host is loitering off to one side, but is not part of the action.
Mr. Annoying Lout approaches the front door (and Kamate) with false bravado.
Mr. Lout, who is persona non grata at the Wayside Tavern, reaches into his pocket and offers Kamate cash to admit him.
"Will y'let me in for twenty bucks mate?"
Kamate (a man of few words) accepts the proffered $20 note, swiftly trousering it.
Mr. Lout struts through the door & into the foyer. He has gone two paces when the large hand of Kamate grabs him by the collar & reefs him backwards out through the front door.
"You said you'd let me in for $20!" Mr. Lout bleats indignantly.
"But I didn't say I wouldn't toss you straight out again" glares Kamate, leaving the $20 firmly in his pocket.
Kamate resumes standing firmly by the door, with arms folded.
Mr. Annoying Lout slinks away into the night.
There is no cover charge to enter the Wayside Tavern.
Time: 10.30pm
Cast:
Kamate (square jawed, barrel chested crowd controller)
Mr. Annoying Lout (member of public well known to Wayside Tavern staff)
Action: Kamate stands stalwart by the front door, with folded arms.
Mine Host is loitering off to one side, but is not part of the action.
Mr. Annoying Lout approaches the front door (and Kamate) with false bravado.
Mr. Lout, who is persona non grata at the Wayside Tavern, reaches into his pocket and offers Kamate cash to admit him.
"Will y'let me in for twenty bucks mate?"
Kamate (a man of few words) accepts the proffered $20 note, swiftly trousering it.
Mr. Lout struts through the door & into the foyer. He has gone two paces when the large hand of Kamate grabs him by the collar & reefs him backwards out through the front door.
"You said you'd let me in for $20!" Mr. Lout bleats indignantly.
"But I didn't say I wouldn't toss you straight out again" glares Kamate, leaving the $20 firmly in his pocket.
Kamate resumes standing firmly by the door, with arms folded.
Mr. Annoying Lout slinks away into the night.
There is no cover charge to enter the Wayside Tavern.
Monday, July 04, 2011
Perfect Timing, JUST PERFECT!
Unconscious, in a rapidly enlarging pool of his own blood, a man lays in the middle of the dance floor at the Wayside Tavern.
The hushed circle of patrons stand back.
The lights come on, the music goes off.
Trade slows to a trickle.
The Ambulance is called.
One a.m. on Sunday morning.
The Wayside Tavern was really hopping!
This was the busiest couple of hours of the week.
More staff are at work than at any other time of the week. The dance floor is standing room only, the backyard is likewise. (Post-smoking laws, the backyard of a pub is usually busier than anywhere else.)
Stalwart Security Guards patrol the premises, indoors & out.
Every precaution that can be taken has been.
Floodlights turn the enclosed backyard into a football field.
Every patron has their ID scanned & recorded at point of entry.
Security cameras record onto watermarked hard drive.
This wasn't enough. In a split second one fellow on the dance floor has struck another with his fists. The damage is extensive. In the after action summary it seems that there may have been provocation.
The victim is knocked out. This is quite rare, for most pub dust-ups (especially among the middle class) are notable for the lack of damage done. This time there is quite a lot of blood, it forms an increasingly large pool around the prone victim's head.
The victim remains knocked out. He stays out for Ten minutes. In Mine Host's considerable experience, this is possibly the longest anyone knocked out in his pub has remained unconscious.
The ambulance attends, they take quite some time to load the patient. Then the pub staff commence mopping up the thick lake of blood.
It has been 45 minutes from first punch until the pub can trade again. About half of the day's gross profit has been foregone in this time.
The victim refuses to press charges.
The police decline to even charge the attacker with disorderly conduct on licenced premises. (They usually do decline, a legacy of last year's "improvements" - courtesy of the State Government - to the police prosecution process)
So continues life behind the bar.
The hushed circle of patrons stand back.
The lights come on, the music goes off.
Trade slows to a trickle.
The Ambulance is called.
One a.m. on Sunday morning.
The Wayside Tavern was really hopping!
This was the busiest couple of hours of the week.
More staff are at work than at any other time of the week. The dance floor is standing room only, the backyard is likewise. (Post-smoking laws, the backyard of a pub is usually busier than anywhere else.)
Stalwart Security Guards patrol the premises, indoors & out.
Every precaution that can be taken has been.
Floodlights turn the enclosed backyard into a football field.
Every patron has their ID scanned & recorded at point of entry.
Security cameras record onto watermarked hard drive.
This wasn't enough. In a split second one fellow on the dance floor has struck another with his fists. The damage is extensive. In the after action summary it seems that there may have been provocation.
The victim is knocked out. This is quite rare, for most pub dust-ups (especially among the middle class) are notable for the lack of damage done. This time there is quite a lot of blood, it forms an increasingly large pool around the prone victim's head.
The victim remains knocked out. He stays out for Ten minutes. In Mine Host's considerable experience, this is possibly the longest anyone knocked out in his pub has remained unconscious.
The ambulance attends, they take quite some time to load the patient. Then the pub staff commence mopping up the thick lake of blood.
It has been 45 minutes from first punch until the pub can trade again. About half of the day's gross profit has been foregone in this time.
The victim refuses to press charges.
The police decline to even charge the attacker with disorderly conduct on licenced premises. (They usually do decline, a legacy of last year's "improvements" - courtesy of the State Government - to the police prosecution process)
So continues life behind the bar.
Thursday, June 02, 2011
Fast Worker
New chef is a bit of a bad boy. Not remotely the type one would want their daughter anywhere near.
With his first couple of pay packets under his belt, he became quite jumpy, wanting a few days off to "settle a few things".
Unless Mine Host misses his guess, New Chef had to settle a few debts of such a nature that they were better settled while his limbs were still intact.
Returning much happier after his week away, he was standing in a small group near to the cocktail bar. A not unpresentable blonde lady approaching the bar stopped to wait her turn to talk to one of the group.
As she waited New Chef asked her would she like a drink?
"No, not interested in drinking tonight" she said.
Without missing a beat he enquired/stated: "Well, let's go somewhere then".
So they left. Together.
With his first couple of pay packets under his belt, he became quite jumpy, wanting a few days off to "settle a few things".
Unless Mine Host misses his guess, New Chef had to settle a few debts of such a nature that they were better settled while his limbs were still intact.
Returning much happier after his week away, he was standing in a small group near to the cocktail bar. A not unpresentable blonde lady approaching the bar stopped to wait her turn to talk to one of the group.
As she waited New Chef asked her would she like a drink?
"No, not interested in drinking tonight" she said.
Without missing a beat he enquired/stated: "Well, let's go somewhere then".
So they left. Together.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Get a Mouthful of This!
There is no warning, clue, or anything one can do about some incidents. Occassionally they just come out of nowhere. Just like the incident in the previous post, a recent event could not have been predicted or forestalled.
Busy night, crowded dance floor. An early-20's female is suddenly punched hard, fast, and with impact, full in the face, by the male she is dancing with.
The girl is caucasian, the male one of those black african refugee types that have been turning up in this country over the past few years.
The girl is sent flying. A proper punch full in the face, with all his weight behind it, is going leave her at the very least with a swollen face & quite a shiner for a week or so.
The crowd erupts in righteous anger. The male makes a bolt for it. The crowd follows. A half-dozen or so caucasian males really mean business, and they are at the head of a much larger pack.
The male of african origin reaches his car, opens a door & withdraws a handy wheel spanner (as you do). Not a cross-brace, but one with a socket at one end & a 30-degree elbow in it.
Cossetted middle class readers, unaccustomed to unrestrained violence, are advised to stop reading here.
With all the force he can muster the african male swings the wheel spanner as hard as he can at the nearest attacker. He has a lot to lose & isn't holding back, conceivably his life is at stake. For effectiveness it isn't much different to swinging a golf club. The sound of the impact is dreadful, the white fellow's cheek is split to the bone, his nose is puree, blood is everywhere, the cheekbone is almost certainly broken. The white fellow wouldn't know much after that, his head would be ringing & numb, time will have stopped. (Unrestrained violence is very confronting). The african puts just as much force into the backswing, collecting the white fellow full on the opposite side of the face, but lower. The jaw/mouth/cheek are almost certainly cracked, several teeth will be smashed to splinters, the skin this time shredded on the chips of tooth. There is already too much blood for a proper visual evaluation of the damage.
The crowd are hurling objects, at this point the african's car is taking heavy damage, and is going to cost a lot to fix.
The police arrive, arrest the african. The ambulance arrives, loads the white feller. After they go the crowd reloads with rocks bricks etc, destroy the african's car. The only salvageable parts are now the chassis, motor & drivetrain.
As is so often the case in such incidents, the police have made a snap visual assessment upon arrival, and have probably arrested the wrong person. Though being arrested was probably the safest thing that could have happened to the african.
With the addition of one more factor, that just before being punched the female had kicked the male quite hard on the shin, there are enough clues in the above for anyone with even a passing knowledge human nature/behaviour to know that had the female on the dance floor had a brain and an instinct for self-preservation, none this would have happened.
Mine Host, were it up to him, would have charged her and let everybody else go home.
Busy night, crowded dance floor. An early-20's female is suddenly punched hard, fast, and with impact, full in the face, by the male she is dancing with.
The girl is caucasian, the male one of those black african refugee types that have been turning up in this country over the past few years.
The girl is sent flying. A proper punch full in the face, with all his weight behind it, is going leave her at the very least with a swollen face & quite a shiner for a week or so.
The crowd erupts in righteous anger. The male makes a bolt for it. The crowd follows. A half-dozen or so caucasian males really mean business, and they are at the head of a much larger pack.
The male of african origin reaches his car, opens a door & withdraws a handy wheel spanner (as you do). Not a cross-brace, but one with a socket at one end & a 30-degree elbow in it.
Cossetted middle class readers, unaccustomed to unrestrained violence, are advised to stop reading here.
With all the force he can muster the african male swings the wheel spanner as hard as he can at the nearest attacker. He has a lot to lose & isn't holding back, conceivably his life is at stake. For effectiveness it isn't much different to swinging a golf club. The sound of the impact is dreadful, the white fellow's cheek is split to the bone, his nose is puree, blood is everywhere, the cheekbone is almost certainly broken. The white fellow wouldn't know much after that, his head would be ringing & numb, time will have stopped. (Unrestrained violence is very confronting). The african puts just as much force into the backswing, collecting the white fellow full on the opposite side of the face, but lower. The jaw/mouth/cheek are almost certainly cracked, several teeth will be smashed to splinters, the skin this time shredded on the chips of tooth. There is already too much blood for a proper visual evaluation of the damage.
The crowd are hurling objects, at this point the african's car is taking heavy damage, and is going to cost a lot to fix.
The police arrive, arrest the african. The ambulance arrives, loads the white feller. After they go the crowd reloads with rocks bricks etc, destroy the african's car. The only salvageable parts are now the chassis, motor & drivetrain.
As is so often the case in such incidents, the police have made a snap visual assessment upon arrival, and have probably arrested the wrong person. Though being arrested was probably the safest thing that could have happened to the african.
With the addition of one more factor, that just before being punched the female had kicked the male quite hard on the shin, there are enough clues in the above for anyone with even a passing knowledge human nature/behaviour to know that had the female on the dance floor had a brain and an instinct for self-preservation, none this would have happened.
Mine Host, were it up to him, would have charged her and let everybody else go home.
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