1 week ago
27
The Friendship Inn, Prestwich
I adored pubs. They were my natural home. And now, thanks to my best friend, Ned, I’d got a job at the Friendship Inn in Prestwich. It was the mid-1980s, and I was in my early 20s, preparing for the first shift. What could be better than working in a pub called the Friendship alongside my bezzy? And I understood drink – you left Guinness to stand, aimed for half an inch of head on a pint of bitter, and if someone asked for water with a whisky you didn’t fill the glass. Easy-peasy.
As soon as I got behind the bar I panicked. There were perhaps half a dozen people waiting to order, but it looked like a sea of thousands. The bar was particularly tricky because it was shaped like the bow of a ship. Every time I went to one side, customers started calling from the other. I couldn’t remember the faces. Nor the drinks they ordered. I took a funny turn. The faces became twisted, distorted, ghoulish, cackling manically or cursing my incompetence. I felt like Mia Farrow confronting the neighbours’ coven in Rosemary’s Baby, only thankfully I didn’t have a knife.
I poured Guinness for people who had ordered a glass of red, Budweiser for those who wanted a Boddingtons. There wasn’t a thing I didn’t get wrong. And then I broke my first glass. The crowd staring at me got more Rosemary’s Baby by the second. My bitter was headless; my lager all head. I broke another glass. I was getting dizzy, struggling to breathe. My legs were collapsing.
After half an hour, the manager put me out of my misery. He told me that I wasn’t cut out for this line of work and he was going to have to let me go. No, he wasn’t going to pay me. Thankfully, he didn’t ask to be compensated for the broken glasses.
By now my legs had completely gone. I was a snake of a man, slithering my way out of the bar. But the humiliation wasn’t complete. I couldn’t find the hatch to liberate me. I walked round and round in circles looking for my release. My mouth was dry and salted. No words came out. Eventually the manager lifted up the hatch for me and let me go.
I couldn’t bear to tell my parents. Nor could I bear to talk to Ned about it. How could this have happened? Pubs were my natural home. And this one was called the Friendship.
The shame doesn’t diminish with the years. And ever since, I’ve been in awe of skilled bar staff. I recently fessed up about my disgrace to Joyce, who runs the Lincoln Arms, my brilliant local in King’s Cross. She has promised to give me a few minutes behind the bar just to get it out of my system. Aversion therapy, 40 years on.
