Winter in this city is a grim time for the bartender. Darkness settles ever earlier on the city, blanketing it in a stygian gloom, leaving us weary souls to trudge to work in the dark, trudge home in the dark. And it’s a bitterly cold affair; waiting for a bus at four in the morning is a bracing experience no matter how thick and cosy the beer jacket and tequila bobble hat.

Rolling into work around five in the afternoon, the one certain perk afforded to us is the free meal (for a reason – no chump would pay for a dog’s dinner like this), begrudgingly cooked by the tempestuous chefs who have absolute resentment in sparing their precious time cooking it. Given the bitterness they harbour, I was bewildered to enter the kitchen last week to find Chef grinning from ear to ear dishing out food to Boris (the universally despised senior bartender: desperately handsome, arrogant and a flair bartender through to the marrow).

I learnt a valuable lesson on the benefits of keeping the kitchen sweet

I soon discovered the reason for his jubilance. Boris had, as usual, ordered his staff food with nary so much as a please-or-thank-you. Chefs are a proud breed, and Chef didn’t take kindly to the absence of common decency. To wreak his revenge, Chef had tucked the raw burger between his family guy and nut sack and marched a few victory laps round the kitchen, followed by a score of star jumps, before giving it a light grilling. I learnt a valuable lesson on the benefits of keeping the kitchen sweet that day, yes Chef. I’m also newly wary of crispy bits in my burger.

The winter inspires drinking as an occupation rather than just an accompaniment to socialising. It helps to take the chill and ennui off the evenings and results in a renewed voracity for all things imbibe-able. Watching people get smasho’ed is a joy I’ll never tire of, and though I’ve been trained to practice responsible beverage dispensing, brother if you’re rude, I swear that I will fuck you up with tequila battle-weapons and kick back and watch, with unctuous schadenfreude.

Drunk people are equal measures of incredibly entertaining and unbelievably vexing, and, even more entertaining than your basic drunk person, is the posh drunk person. Only last week a Champagne Charlie who’d been propping up the bar lurched off to the toilets in a swervy fashion only to reappear an hour later with a line of cocaine imprinted perfectly on his sweaty forehead. Seemingly as he’d been in the act of racking out, he’d been overtaken by a need to nap. Later that evening he was found screwing his secretary in the store room, for which event the manager barred him with furious relish – what a hero.

Pairs of snogging customers have lately become my pet hate. Breaking down my station at the end of the night there’s always a middle-aged office affair thrashing out their sexual tension for eternity with their flobbering tongues and they don’t go home until you really make ‘em; they can’t take this train wreck home to the wife and kids. Watching a fully-grown, balding man hobble out in an effort to disguise the bulge in his pants is pretty grim, and not for those of a delicate disposition.

I’ve not been shaking behind the stick too long, but I feel like I’ve seen it all. The bar has a way of bringing out the best and the worst in people... actually I’m not so sure about the best.
I’ll keep you posted.