Bomb disposal

BeardyBarman has just retrieved and disposed of a ripped-out Page 3 from one of the cubicles in the men’s toilets. I advised rubber gloves.

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Spaghetti-O

Lovely customer no.3 of the week has just brought his plate of Bolognese back to the bar. He wants to know if the portions are usually this small, and if not, could he have some more (please sir)? It is difficult to skirt around the fact that the meal has arrived in our kitchen, pre-cooked, in a polystyrene tub, and before reaching his plate has been microwaved for 3minutes, emptied unceremoniously into a bowl, and brought to his table… and so therefore, there is no more. Because more would require another package of microwavable goods, and cooking extra portions at no extra cost is the ultimate sin, and to be avoided at all costs.

The conversation is just about navigable, but it is a close one, especially with the wounded puppy face he throws over his shoulder as he backs off towards his girlfriend and the remains of microwaved meaty pasta.

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A Pub Professional

There is a prostitute in the pub. BeardyBarman has spotted her, but not before the majority of the customers. It is an awkward five minutes as they attempt to look away, or head for the safety of the toilets, while she greets them all by name, loudly and with excessive winking and well-recalled details on last time she saw each one.

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I don’t like Mondays

A man enters the pub in a fez and a cardboard Bono mask and does theatrical tip-toeing towards the men’s toilets. Sending PubManager in his direction, the mask is lifted and reveals an elderly man who has been banned on repeated occasions for stealing drinks and exposing himself. I pass him later, sitting cross-legged outside the pub, still wearing his mask, and quietly singing ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’.

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Bladder control

One of the regular women apparently has quite serious bladder control issues, and chooses her chair accordingly. BeardyBarman whispered today that she picks the big comfy armchairs because they absorb far quicker than the standard wooden ones. She has been in for half an hour, and is two bottles of Becks down. One more, says BeardyBarman, will tip her over the edge. But to refuse her a third drink would require an explanation as to why, and our customer service skills are not quite honed enough to have this kind of conversation. We serve her. She drinks, leaves, and we move the chair to the back of the pub to dry off.

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