People go out drinking these days, for very few reasons:
- Because getting ‘fucked up’ is actually really expensive in a lot of developed countries – especially Australia – and it says ‘I have money’ – im ‘successful*’? *This is important in 2015.
- Because cocaine is expensive, consumerist and another way of exerting your financial muscle, as you simultaneously, *tacitlysupport the ‘free market’ economics of today that has made humanity sosuccessful *This is important in 2015.
- Because of a desire for sex.
- Because after a ‘hard week’, the most obvious reward, remedy, treatment or solution would be to damage your mind and body, to a point where you feel like you're not responsible for your actions or words.
(below: Probably not from taking too much LSD)
People say hospitality makes you jaded: If you consider the fact that an ‘average serve’ of soft drink or ‘mixer’ with a spirit at a bar is roughly 24% of your recommended daily intake in Australia for sugar (and this 24% is for tonic water – what you’d assume to be the less sugary of many options), 4 serves later and you’ve had all you really should for a whole day.
Getting pissed on the weekend is really a peculiar habit for an ‘evolved’ species.
Some might have another 4, and 4 more after that. Not to mention the odd shot of Patron XO in between (sugary ya reckon?), and you’ve soon had maybe 2, 3, 4 times as much sugar as is considered ‘healthy’ for an average person (you idiot). And that was just Friday night. You also are pretty fucking clueless when it comes to your general nutrition.
But still, people who apparently ‘look after themselves’ will go and do this to their bodies once a week. Maybe twice. Maybe thrice. And often boast about it. Or blindly confess to stupidity (essentially) with lines like #hung (can be either spoken orally or posted as a ‘status update’) … (If you can call that a ‘line’) and ‘Dying, bring me food’.
You’re so fukkn rockstar …
Part II
This girl comes to the bar, she’s all dressed up: Definitely didn’t #wakeuplikethis. Id say it took her a minimum of an hour to bring herself to this standard. Not to mention the fake tan she got yesterday. And the $800 clutch she’s just placed down in a pile of slop on this classy establishement’s bartop. ‘Fuck you cunt’ she says to the guy ordering drinks in front of her, and she half jostles into him, shoulder first, mostly stumbling, rather than jostling.
They must know each other.
Fake it ‘til you make it (or just fake you’ve made it)
His special white-cuffed, white-collared number for their night of fame and rockstardom on the town, and his boatiest of shoes (or whatever trend the mannequin wore) hasn’t me fooled – mainly because he’s with her. ‘Get fucked’ he replies, to which ‘fuck you cunt’ is her response again.
Im not sure if she was stuttering, or that the same phrase meant different things the second time. It could be code.
Some people say that hospitality makes you jaded: I think that’s absurd. Being attentive and exemplary, knowledgeable, entertaining, in character, is a thoroughly rewarding pastime - everywhere including behind a bar. Try it!
When I come to my friend’s place for dinner or drinks, their hospitality is treasured and I am grateful. In turn, they feel loved and appreciated, and we generally have a good time, or something to that effect.
If you did it – at your office, on your team, in your bus - people would love you. Im a fukkn magician for fuck’s sake. I have thousands of friends all over the world, despite the fact that I try to poison most of them on a weekly basis, in the hope that they’ll stumble onto a road in front of a speeding taxi.
But most people think im unfortunate. Resigned to a lifetime of ‘serving’ people, and missing out on weekends (because surely im jealous of them and the fact they get to party so much?).
If you worked in an office- lets say even, a funpark - where fun is the key and most important theme; where everyone is there to have a good time – including the staff and employees; where people are relaxed and playful; but: where the guests were usually profane and impolite (you fukkn cunt), you probably wouldn’t have the best impression of working at your funpark now, would you?
So are people ordinarily like this? Or is it drugs (alcohol) that are to blame?
I reckon you could do better, but in this city, its obviously all about how you look. One giant, nasty fake. The cheapest piece of the most extravagant Louis Vuitton luggage you might ever buy. (But hey, my boyfriend has a beard, and I do crossfit) …
No-one really knows we aren’t classy. – Hell, we must be if we’re in this place. Its $9 a fukkn drink! And everyone else is wearing that $200 shirt from the mannequin up the road. And we all have such beautiful dresses and brown skin and high shoes. I wonder if everyone else says ‘cunt’ as much as me and my missus?
Respect
I once saw a girl pissing out of her dress on a dancefloor in a club. She was pretty casual about it. I wasn’t. Some people might laugh at that image. Sure, its funny. But laughing with her? - You’re part of the problem. Its about respect.
Would it be too much to ask of someone who clearly doesn’t respect themselves (3 days of sugar later, a few ‘fuck you cunts’, and maybe some poor quality cocaine, but at least I look like everyone else) to have some respect for the people around them? Or the house they’re in? - Probably …
This kid breaks a glass on the bar accidentally. Thinks he can just push it up behind something and I wont see. So I scream at him: ‘Are you just gonna fucking leave that there dude?!‘
– He smirks embarrassed, and almost everyone around him laughs mockingly.
‘Do you not think that’s dangerous?’ – ‘ Do you fucking care about all these people around you who might cut themselves? ‘ – ‘ What would your fucking mother think ! ‘ ..
He still doesn’t even pass it to me, shirking away, as mortified as his dull emotions would let him feel. Got his own drink though....
Seriously: Im making you shots of juice, and you’re screwing up your face like its poison. Then asking me for another. Hospitality doesn’t make you jaded. It’s a fraudulent general public – these aren’t shots, you’re not classy, don’t pretend you’re smart! – Maybe its only the type who’d poison themselves as such that’ll make you jaded? - Where do they get their groceries then? Am I too sensitive? Cynical? Was I born jaded?
I once met this really angry drunk
Alcohol: It’s the worst: This drunk girl, propping the bar up while I try to chat to my friends behind it. She’s interjecting with absolute mindless tripe – all she’s capable of interjecting with – somehow keeping her involved in the ‘conversation’ (even though she aint part of it). Its quite disruptive.
‘How about you shut the fuck up for a second, while I continue talking to my friends here?’ I swipe at her (verbally. Settle the fuck down). Her behaviour is idiotic, and can only be described as such. The fact that she’s so grossly unware of how annoying she is, and how stupid she seems, swaying everywhere, talking nonsense, like we’re imaginary figures, in a blurry imagined world – its sad and infuriating.
I think to myself: People on crack wouldn’t do that. Stoners wouldn’t. Someone on LSD might – or mushies. But if you screamed at them, such a logical request, they’d shut the fuck up. Or walk away, frightened. A heroin user would be asleep. Ketamine, on the dancefloor. Or melting into a couch.
Check this out
People say hospitality makes you jaded.
I don’t think there’s really a rational argument behind that statement. We just experience life, and the people that weave its fabric. Mostly behaving horribly, and using weak excuses.
Try explaining how behaving so brutishly became so glamourous and admired?
People say hospitality makes you jaded:
Ask the angry drunk on the street, homeless and alienated, if he worked in hospitality …
The world of bars and clubs is an extremely scary one*, and sometimes cant be navigated without some serious help or guidance**.
To make mattersworse, bartenders are just normal people, who magically become demi-god (or goddess)-like alchemical geniuses*** when they set foot behind that piece of wood that separates you from them, and arm themselves with their respective arsenal(s).
So - I hear you ask - how the fuck are you expected to do something as complicated as politely order a drink, when there are so many obstacles in your way?
Here’s a guide: ****
* No, it isn’t
** Also not true, unless you’re affected by a drug –perhaps alcohol - or combination of drugs that is hindering your ability to pull this off (at which time, go home and burden no-one else with your problematic behaviour).
*** No, they don’t.
**** Please don’t bring a printed form of this guide out with you, or take a photo of it on your smartphone. Memorize, and share with anecdote and practical application
NB: All words in commas ('') are implied terms, and should be googled for further understanding if unsure.
Social Interaction
Now, I know you’ve left the house and ‘come out’ to frequent a potential number of locations to be ‘social’, so this may lead to certain interactions occurring of a ‘social’ nature.
You might find that people you don’t know may talk to you. You might even want this to happen, or feel a certain unexpected confidence to initiate such experience(s).
It might sound completely far-fetched and surrealist, but bartenders are also people (just process that for a second if you need to) ................
Sometimes, they will say ‘hello’ to you and/or your group when you arrive at their establishment.
Even though you’ve come out to ‘socialize’, this kind of shocking behaviour can be really off-putting. Don’t be afraid, it’s not a trick. Ignore this greeting however, at your peril.
You might expect a response that would lead the bartender, waiter or waitress to think you’re rude, similar to if an 'actual person' said hello to you in a bar or even, on the street, or in a shop (you may have been at some of these places before, and noticed ‘other people’ saying 'hello'?).
They might ask you things like ‘how are you’, or say ‘hello’ or ‘goodevening’ by way of addressing you – not unlike a real person (i.e: a person not working at the establishment you’re at or are going to, or have been in).
Just as it would be weird to answer a question like ‘how are you’, or respond to someone – a real person – saying hello to you, with ’2 coronas’, it is also confusing and inappropriate to say this to a bartender, despite what you may think.
Try answering them how you ordinarily would (just pretend they’re a ‘real’ person) – say ‘hello’ back, or answer with how you’re feeling (just lie if you find it hard to work out or start panicking), when they ask ‘how are you’.
Rehearsing this with ‘real’ people outside the bar is a good way to practice if you’re not confident. Try and remember how you responded then, and just regurgitate it when you’re at the bar, until you become proficient at talking to these bartender types.
(below: An example of someone that isnt a 'real' person - not to be confused with a barperson. This is in fact Totoro, from the Japanese film 'My Neighbour Totoro', made from pasta)
An easy way to avoid being ‘social’ while you’re out in public ‘being social’, is by using your phone.
It’s easy to check your facebook 'newsfeed' or your likes on Instagram while you’re standing at the bar to avoid talking to the exceptionally scary creature that you actually want to serve you (you don’t even have to actually be engaged in the process or thinking about what you’re doing – just tap and swipe at the screen, and you’ll have everyone fooled. Especially you).
This may sound counterintuitive, but if you’ve also managed to fix your internet connection, or buy groceries, a dress, coffee or a bike whilst ignoring the customer service ‘human’ at your attendance (and let’s face it, you haven’t), you’ll know that you can also order a drink whilst being disengaged from the actual process of ‘ordering a drink’...
Furthermore, the people behind you waiting to be served also appreciate the fact that your likes are important, and that there are numerous cat-gifs and memes that you could potentially be missing out on enjoying (they also appreciate that talking to the mythical ‘bartender’ creature is particularly confronting).
Maybe you shouldn’t be at a bar? …
Civility
(below: a bar frequenter taking a rest between shifts of drinking. This was shot at 1030pm on a Saturday night in one of the 'classy' riverside areas of Brisbane, Australia)
Its not always easy to act like a civilized human being.
This becomes more challenging when there is a whole wall of excuses in front of you (liquefied in bottles), and when you’ve been raised by poorly-trained Thai street-dogs that dont speak your native language.
Saying please and thankyou might then seem foreign, and because most bartenders come from another planet, the use of manners is sometimes a dubious necessity (do they even say please and thankyou in bartenderland?)
Irrespective of this, you can always be expected to earn somebody’s respect in modern society, by not using manners and moreover, barking your orders with ‘authority’, in order to perhaps stamp your ground in front of someone you may be trying to impress, or to reiterate the fact that the person you are talking to is indeed of inferior social standing.
Let’s face it, there’s no need to impress the person with the responsibility of making you a delicious drink to consume, less so, your date (they are inferior to you anyway)...
Another way to seem more civilized is to ask for a glass with your beer or cider or other beverage previously served in a bottle. Despite the fact that you have worn special clothes and your shiniest shoes to get in to the venue tonight, you can buy more conspicuous class, or just request a dose of it, by asking for a glass with your beer or cider etc.
This has nothing to do with the way you prefer to drink your drink, how it meets your lips, or how the liquid is affected by the composition of the air a glass exposes it to.
The fact that you’re wearing the same clothes as everybody else (or the most prominent mannequin at the most prominent shop) will soon be dissolved by the ‘class of your glass’.
Another important time to consider the vessel you’re drinking from – or how you’re drinking from it - is when homosexuality is unacceptable.
Because your sexuality is obviously questionable (and homosexuality is an extremely awkward topic nowadays), the vessel you drink from and how you drink from it, says everything about who you are and what you stand for.
If you use a straw for example, you like dick. And worse still, dicks about as big as a straw (i.e. your average urethra). This is obviously very embarrassing.
Pluck the straw from your drink as though it is diseased, and throw it casually onto the bar, lingering a disgusted gaze upon it, so everyone knows how ‘anti-small-urethra-sized-dick’ you are.
Drinking out of a cocktail glass is just as bad (even though cocktails were first drunk by men only, in the majority).
– Ask for a ‘man’s glass’. The glass you’re being served your (cocktail) drink in has nothing to do with the taste of it, and is more about making you feel more insecure than you already are (similar to when the bartender puts a straw in your drink without asking you).
Click here for more on this ...
Uncertain times
It’s hard to know 'where to stand' when you come to a bar.
Generally, you might think that standing in front of, or in the vicinity to the person you want to be served by would be advisable – just as when you’re in a clothing store waiting to pay, or at the post office or supermarket (and other places you might have read about) – but when it comes to being served by otherworldly creatures like bartenders, this simply isn’t the case.
- Ask for directions or consult a map. There may even be an app to voice-guide you step by step (like a scavenger hunt, with g&t’s and Margaritas at the end) to the ideal positioning to order a drink.
If you’re unsure, send your friend to the bar, and avoid this perilous journey at all costs.
(below: a 'map' of some of Melbourne, Australia's 'bars'. These kinds of places are usually accessed via an opening called the 'entrance'. Image courtesy of 'google')
Another time when uncertainty may arise, is when you’ve actually made it to the bar.
Despite the fact that you’ve made your way there, you aren’t always doing this because you know what you want.
A bar can sneak up on you, and all of a sudden, you’re faced with doing something you might only have done dozens and dozens of times in the past (or even that night). - And that’s ordering a drink! (click here)
Its like when you arrive at a bakery, but didn’t realise they sold bread. Which you need. (click here)
Tell the barperson that ‘you don’t know what you want’. – This is a common ground (because they don’t know either), and might help to break the ice and facilitate the complex process of ‘drink ordering’.
It can’t be overstated how important it is to say ‘you don’t know what you want’ rather than ‘id love it if you just made something up for me according to my tastes/criteria’ because let’s face it, the bartender wants to waste his or her time, and that of all the other guests they are serving, whilst also leaving you dissatisfied and unhappy.
If it still proves troublesome to glean your drinking desires from here, you might end up having a conversation with the bartender creature to ascertain what it is you want. - Good luck! …
Another uncertain moment can also arise when you have finished ordering your drinks. This is usually the moment when the freaky person tending to your liquid libations will ask you to hand over currency in exchange for the service(s) and product(s) they have provided you with (similar to a prostitute - though a prostitute might make you pay first!).
Try and be ready with the 'money' you will need to 'pay' for the 'drinks' you 'ordered'.
This will also help to avoid any embarrassment that might arise when it becomes apparent you are too ugly or obnoxious to get them for free.
And finally:
Remember the time you bought those 4 tops from your favourite clothing store, paid for one, finished the transaction, then paid for the second, ..finished the transaction, paid for the third... finished the transaction ..... then paid for the forth ............ and finished that transaction? - Even just reading that was boring.
- It might seem presumptuous to think that a bartender would remember all the drinks your huge group of friends wanted – despite the fact it’s their job and they practice ‘remembering drinks’ every time they’re at work - but, they can (!!) (yet another piece of evidence that bartenders may well originate from another planet/be the 'Ubermensch')
If you think you’re helping them out by ordering one at a time, help your friend at your local boutique next time you’re there, and buy your clothes as outlined above (at your peril).
Another time to apply this technique would be at the self checkout when doing your weekly grocery shopping. - Watch a transaction that would ordinarily take 5 minutes, turn into half an hour of tedium, whilst you piss everyone behind you right off!
What’s yours is mine!
Bars are multi-purpose ‘shops’. - If you need a pen, just ask. The fact that you so desperately need to write things down and didn’t bring your own tools won’t be lost on the staff, and they will happily pretend they are stationers in order to make you happy.
It would be exceedingly weird to learn that all bars didn’t have pens and paper at their disposal! After all: gotta draw!
Furthermore, if you see something you need, just reach over the bar and grab it – a piece of fruit, a straw, even a knife – you are more than welcome to anything that you want, just as you would be at your local butcher, or morgue!
To be continued
Obviously a world as complex as ‘outside’, tended by a species so rare, complex and unfathomable as a ‘service person’ has far more to be explained than what is briefly outlined in this document.
That said, there surely is a fair amount of evidence to put to rest, one ultimate fallacy that still lingers over the head of those working in said establishments, that also simultaneously reinforces the ignorance of the guests:
There are all kinds of weird and wonderful customers to the service industry. While the majority of them are mostly affable or manageable or are party to providing a positive experience, there are certainly some specific categories of customer that the public encompasses, easily recognized by a seasoned pro.
If you think you’re getting away with it, you’re really not – we can see you coming from a mile away.
The control freak.
This guest dictates every single thing to you and their guests. They’ll tell them how and when to order, relay their orders from them to you, and act like they’re a liaison between everyone ‘with’ them, and ‘their’ server. Usually, their alpha status won’t even allow their guests to approach the bar, or order otherwise for themselves, and they often seem to order the wrong thing for ‘their’ guests, rather choosing what they like or prefer.
They’re probably trying to impress someone. And failing, awkwardly
The ‘I’m in a nice place, so I’m going to make what I perceive as requests suiting the environment’ customer.
This person will ask for cocktails when they usually wouldn’t drink one; they’ll ask to taste the wine before it’s served to them, even though they never do; they’ll ask for a glass with their beer, even though they’ve never used one, and so on. They might also ask for random, semi-useless incidental things, like lemonade in their Mojito, instead of soda (really mixing things up). Or a splash of – I don’t know – banana liqueur in their martini…
Perhaps one of the most obvious and easily picked guest categories…
The aversion towards the server customer
For some reason, this guest doesn’t like the person serving them, and so is just generally negative about what is happening. They’re intimidated by the person serving them. They will try and remain underimpressed and underwhelmed by the situation, at all costs, because you are not better than them, even if you know things that they have no idea about. They will not be humbled!
It’s easy to feel sorry for someone like this, who obviously tries so hard to not have a good time
The insolent, belligerent drunk
Sometimes a guest has had way too much to drink, and shouldn’t be drinking at all. They slur, throw things at people, wave their hands at the staff – more like a flail - to get attention, sway and stumble as they grip the bar, pretend to read the menu (but clearly can’t see properly), make a mess and talk to themselves.
Generally, you don’t have to put up with this kind of character for too long, because they usually get kicked out when they abuse you (or anyone) for refusing to serve them more alcohol.
The ‘blown away’ guest
This person finds every single thing that you do completely mindblowing. Whether it’s the garnish you made, the promptness with which you made their order, the fact that you remembered everything at their table, or the way you smell, their bedazzled enthusiasm for your flair, skill, knowledge, conversation, looks and or service is almost entertaining, always memorable.
They will usually be extremely vocal about how good you are, and never leave a tip.
The connoisseur
This guest is a seasoned pro, and is always happy to leave their experience in the hands of the person serving them. They trust the staff, and understand that leaving them to do their job is a good way to ensure a great experience.
A pleasure to serve.
The distruster
This customer has no faith in you or your ability whatsoever. Even though they make this explicitly clear (maybe by even saying ‘they don’t trust you’), they still expect to be taken care of by you, irrespective of how much offence they’ve caused. Weird. Like telling a used car salesman that you think they’re a scumbag, and expecting him to hook you up with a great deal.
They behave critically of everything you do, and for no apparent reason, openly don’t trust that you can do anything right.
Probably the most confusing of guests.
The wannabe aficionado
This person will order random products in order to seem like they know more than they do. Their presence is blindingly obvious, because they then reveal that they have no idea what they’re talking about. They might order a ‘single malt whisky’, but have no idea about region, style or type once asked. They will always pretend that they know what they’re talking about, probably to impress the company they’re with at all costs, struggling to hide their lack of knowing.
A fine example: ‘I’ll take a martini thanks’ – ‘How would you like it?’ – ‘Ummmm … However you normally make it is fine’. The most amusing of guests, perhaps.
The hater
For some reason, people who should never come out (and don’t ever do) sometimes make it to a bar or restaurant you’re working. It’s like taking a blasphemer for an outing at a church.
They stand meters away from the bar (or stare meters away into the distance), like they’re afraid of catching something, probably disgusted by the fact that they’re in such a place, and wondering why. Maybe they had a bad experience once? This may also cause them to ask for impossible things, like a ‘virgin martini’…
They act distant to the whole affair, are indifferent to anything they are suggested to have, or are given, and generally focus on being expressionless and emotionless for the duration of their horrible experience, until they leave without saying thankyou or goodbye.
The confused
A barrage of questions and uncertainty accompanies this guest – perhaps everywhere they go. Despite the amount of questions they ask, they still get no closer to working out what it is they want. Like someone who is ‘just browsing’.
Even after divulging as much information from them as possible about what they want, and helping them to come as close as possible to a decision, an actual order is like drawing blood from a stone. Like trying to help a vegetarian find a type of meat they’ll enjoy. May also take a liking to the idea of virgin cocktails.
They may also act like they believe the whole situation they’re in is actually a scam.
You work with some special people in the service industry. Surely, they should at least be equal to your most 'special' customers because some of the time, your colleagues are customers. ..Somewhere. - And we all know what 'customers' get up to....
There's the crazy, the retarded, the genius, the mad, people with superb skills and knowledge, and someone who cant even understand you - on both sides of the bar.
So:
I worked with this one lad, a massive character, from a kind of 'backwater' town in Queensland, Australia. - Probably a loose term (backwater), but it serves to highlight that he was from a small town, where small things happen, lots of drinking occurs, opportunity is scant -that sort of thing.
Jez was simple in some ways, a bit of a country boy, certainly very 'Aussie'. That said, we did end up connecting beyond what I - or anyone - would expect, and I'm sure that’s because he was a far more complex gent than many would assume. We became pretty good buddies. All that aside though, Jez was always doing special things. - Being Jez.
Once we'd closed most nights, after work beers in the restaurant involved a lot of 'larrakin' stories of Jez and his mates in his antics back in his home town. Probably owing to my own stories of the same kind..
Anyway: Jez is the kind of person that really does take a turn once he's drunk, literally turning from a fairly boisterous but guarded and polite gent, into a complete twisted-eye lunatic, likely to stumble out on the road and lie down in front of oncoming cars as a 'joke', and certain to continue plundering booze, even though he's basically paralytic.
Makes things hard when he comes into your bar… This though, is all beside the point. Almost beyond it being worth mentioning. You have an idea about Jez, anyway…
I’m pretty certain there are ‘interesting’ people at your place of work, but I bet this never happened:
One day, I’m setting up the bar, one of the first employees in the restaurant. People start to arrive – my right hand man for the day, a chef or two, then Jez. He’s walking funny. Kind of skewed, sort of pulling the back of his shirt down, rifling through the restaurant’s table formation, staring at his shoes, en route to the staff room.
I go about my tasks – filling bottles, setting stations, laying mats, sorting fruit – see Jez in my periphery at bar’s end, slinking into the kitchen. The usual morning mutterings take place: ‘morning! And ‘how-are-you-today-mate?’s.
Suddenly, the tone changes: Our head chef is performing an inquisition, and a small cacophony of disbelieving laughter, and are-you-serious?! tones fills the morning air in the empty restaurant.
Jez has forgotten to wear pants. Not just to the kitchen - he failed to realise that he indeed didn’t have his chef pants on all the way in to work. Perhaps he thought he was having one of those dreams and everything was ok, he’d wake up soon. ...
I once didn’t wear pants to school, but it was a dream. Jez however, managed to ride the train from the end of one line, all the way in to town, refusing to let the awkward stares of other commuters bring his attention to his boxer shorts, or so it seemed.
He had no explanation. I merely thought I was lucky for having the opportunity to work with such people.
I worked for an event company in the UK that was riding a wave of marked success. Well and truly at the top of its game, working for this group of blokes, and having a senior position on their team, was nothing short of pure organisational pleasure and camaraderie. With an inimitable work ethic amongst us all, and a collective group of bartending and service skill that warranted new superlatives, it was certainly a privilege to work alongside these gents.
Essentially, it was their concept, and we were to execute it. Had it have been up to us to plan and initiate the concept though, things would have been entirely different.
It’s easy to be over-adventurous during fashion week – it is London, after all. When we arrive on site and start to look through the drinks though, a shocking list of ingredients and weird combinations is presented to us.
I guess we just accepted it after joking about it for a while. Absinthes mixed with weird flavouring agents, cognacs stirred down with gins and Chartreuse, and odd ghastly tasting creations that we were supposed to serve to a hoard of expectant fashionistas. At least we looked the part…
There was even one drink that they wanted to be luminous – something easily done with the adding of a chemical called yellow 7. Anywhere else in Europe, fine, in the UK, banned. We were told at the time ‘security tried to confiscate this when we gained clearance to the building’ (obviously they’d snuck it in this time around) ‘but I reckon we should just use it’.
Luckily for the lives of the general public, we knew nothing about yellow 7. So, after consulting google and knowing that it could kill people in too high a dose, we added it to the mass prebatching of cocktails we were doing for the event, ready for some excitement and manslaughter.
Ever heard of ether? Yeah? - Well we had some of that too. I think we were supposed to add it to the drinks, or layer it on top, a pure alcoholic hit… It ended up in the shelves on our bar, a vial for us to inhale while we served our gaudy drinks.
When the event started, it was all the usual weirdness and noise you’d come to expect at an exclusive fashion week event: Some weird trio playing a mix between marching band and jazz, crossed with 80’s rock and Gregorian chanting, a whole drove of expensive dresses and weird eye-glasses, and the collective thirst of hundreds of thirsty ‘artists’, dodging around PVC-clad girls on rollerskates serving food in a revolving restaurant.
I told the guys to just get them smashed. I mean, that’s all they want anyway. Sucking down lungfulls of ether, and swaying behind our makeshift bar, we poured our not-at-all-tasty drinks to the strongest specs, and filled the bar with rows of un-yum. Boy did they lap them up.
Some lady comes and asks us later on, probably after forcing a few previous down ‘have you got anything nicer?’ - ‘Not really’ was the only honest response any of us could garner. In essence, we were under strict instructions to serve drinks that didn’t taste good, but just created the impression of fine mixology and a well-practiced craft. – Martini garnished with a cocktail sausage, anyone?
An art after all, but who’s to say that this was indeed art? ...
I laughed. We all laughed. We’d surely been paid far too much to virtually poison people, and not even mask the poison with more pleasant or palatable flavours. Maybe it was some ironic expression from our side of the bar for once. Hardly though.
Still, we’d handed down a lesson, without even knowing it – ‘Hey!’ we shouted ‘it doesn’t even taste remotely good, but you’re still drinking it all up!’…
Ho hum.
Click here for a full rundown of the actual event! http://tinyurl.com/kav23sq
I don’t know if I’ve become confused or out of touch, but it seems to me that the idea of ‘class’ is something that has all but diluted to nothingness.
Im not talking about the idea of ‘class’ itself being ‘diluted to nothingness’, no. The idea of ‘class’ qualifying a social group or collection or category of people with common traits is, in fact, probably broadening with the lowering of people’s classes… And down we go…
What I am really referring to (or rather, the absence that Im noticing) is the ‘class’ of style, elegance, taste, manner.
Maybe it was just a dream, but in times gone by, those with class were polite and courteous, had muted but elegant, tasteful and inimitable style and fashion sense; they behaved respectfully, honourably, and without seeking attention, even though everyone probably knew who they were; they were influential, without trying; they were humble, despite an air of grace that stood them head and shoulders above less ‘classy’ people.
Today, the word is fraught with impossibility. Our most noticed socialites and respected people arent those with class but rather, are nothing short of philistines, barbarians.
They appear at all of the latest events, with the ‘who’s-who’ of town, but they did nothing to be there. They expect everything to be handed to them, but they’ll happily snatch gluttonously, and without gratitude or appreciation.
They’ll air-kiss, lie, shit-talk, cheers and guzzle until they’re drunk on ego and booze, but not for a second will they stop to notice what intoxicates them, nor do they have the ability to.
It’s so nice to see you, they’ll lie, without a shred of actual emotion rising inside them, one eye on the nearest camera, to capture their sycophantic pretend-moves.
No more Tom Fords or George Clooneys; no more Joan of Arc of Billie Holiday; no more Marilyn Monroe or Katherine Hepburn; no more Sir Anthony Hopkins, or Sting or Frank Sinatra.
Sure, ‘classy’ people still dress in suits to go to the races, but they get spittle and beer and vomit on their lapels, stumble through mud, holding their date’s heels, and hat, and her under their sweaty pit.
They wear fine clothes, drive fine cars, have fine furniture and sound, and other ‘fine’ things, but they only think its ‘fine’, because they paid more than everyone else did, and they paid more than everything else.
Appreciation for a refined product is all but lost with the presence of a refined man, or refined woman.
But still, who needs class when you have ego. And who needs trying to be classy, to actually possess true class, when there’s a mass of people, falling for your act.
I ran the graveyard shift, a time when my city’s most colourful characters would surely come to lurk. Funtime for any city, really. A lot of the time, it was boring and bleak though after a while, some regular friends, weirdos and strays would keep me company alike, for usual sums of beer or bourbon or just tolerance. Fuck you met some interesting people.
For a time, I had a gentleman who called himself ‘Blackjack’ as my ‘security’. Why the inverted commas? - See, ‘blackjack’ (ill just write it normally from here on) wasn’t actually hired by anybody who I worked for. Moreso, he wasn’t hired by anyone.
Blackjack was a regular hustler, though with no hustle – he was far too nice. That said, he looked like the kind of ex-bikie living in some kind of dream (where he’s Tommy Lee, or some other ‘god’ of rock ‘n’ roll), clad in leather, and chains, and kick-the-shit-out-of-somebody boots, and sporting fistfuls of impractical rings with huge skulls of various silver animals, a ridiculous Mohawk, typical black and white bandana, that sort of thing. If he could afford to, he’d have ridden a Harley. Pretty sure he just walked everywhere…
Blackjack looked like a nutcase – he was a nutcase. A giant nutcase, with a very crooked, smashed-flat nose. Kind of made him talk funny. Like he was inside a snake that would only open its mouth partially to let the sound of Blackjack’s voice out.
Anyway. Some would turn a character like Blackjack away immediately, and probably not be blamed for doing so. I didn’t. He was far too polite to be too insane to handle. And besides, he didn’t drink. He’d come sporadically for a month or so, then a few times a week more regularly, before he was around almost every night, just standing at the end of the bar, observing, with intent, looking over at me like a psycho, raising his glass my way with this look in his eye like ‘hmmmm, gee this blood is good’...
One day, he turns up, it’s about 11pm or something, I’ve just started, and he’s turning up like he actually knows what time I start now, and he asks me: You want me to start yet man? Yeah. Ha. Yep. There was a fight a few weeks ago. There were always fights. No security – fights though. Blackjack looks over at me from his ‘post’ – are those guys cool man, you want me to get in there? Probably some kind of ex-junkie, oldschool heroin addict (Blackjack, that is), but somehow he felt like this is where he fitted back in. Somehow, implicitly, I employed him.
So he stuck around for a while. Rolled in whenever he wanted, asking me (through a squash-nosed snake’s mouth, all nasal): you want me to start yet hey maaaaan? I’d pour him a drink. A pint of coke. And he was always sure to ask, he always asked: That doesn’t have bourbonnnnn in it doesss iiiiit?
He was worried about going crazier.
Called in sick a few times. With profuse apologies. Disengaged a few fights, extinguished a few eruptions. We would have attempted conversation, on multiple occasions, when there was only us and the night. I never knew what he was on about, and he’d just turn to me and be like naaaah maaann – OI! , and I’m thinking: fuck, is he going to kill me? I actually don’t know what he’s saying.
He did his job only for the pride of doing it. I mean, who really knows? Like a ghost employee.
And then one day he just never came back. I think that’s called resigning.
If you think you’re going to impress me just because you’re drunk, you’re gonna have to do something pretty fukn crazy. I’ve seen the ‘snort the salt, shot the tequila, squeeze the lemon in the eye, dozens of times. It’s definitely funny – some take it better than others - not original though.
I had this guy dancing on the bartop once. Yes, a guy. Usually, id stop people doing something so stupid, but this guy deserved to make it up. Because I knew he was going to fall. I even pretended to lunge for him to break his fall, but threw my arms out of the way at the last minute to leave him splatting onto the floor into a pool of barfilth.
Then I picked him up by his shirt and shoved him around the corner and out of the bar. Probably back onto the dancefloor. The same dancefloor where earlier id noticed a girl pissing out of her skirt. That’s right: pissing out of her skirt. Just subtly bracing herself against a high table, legs slightly splayed, casually emptying her bladder.
What would you do?
The fact that you’re even capable of stringing a sentence together, probably puts you behind in the race to be the most wasted person I’ve encountered. Chew half your face off, that might have a bit more of an effect, if only momentarily.
I’ve watched people struggle to order for way too many minutes to even be let to stand in front of a bar. A busy bar. Churning, gurning, face-eating, fumbling for words, ideas, friends, head whipping around, I don’t even know if he’s got money and I’m yelling at him, screaming: Dude!HurryhurryhurryhurryHURRY!! and he just panics and throws money at me. Drug dealers should be able to handle their shit.
Later on, he would be found sitting by the entrance to the smoking area, on cold bitumen, legs veed, covered in his own piss, a glorious stain darkening an arctic shaped patch on his cargoes.
Still, some people go out every weekend – most weekends – and drink in such excesses as to make the occurrence of such outlandish behaviour something of a likelihood. Pissing on floors, in cups, dancing on bars, shitting in urinals, spewing all over your nice dress, and spitting and spitting and spitting away the remnants of your vomit, in full view of anyone who cared to look towards the smell.
Alcohol really does make you lose your inhibitions…
Bars aren’t always about fun and good times, especially for their owners. Of all the formats that an owner could potentially invest their money in, a cocktail bar – where usually more complicated, lower volume drinks are served, containing premium, more expensive, often fresher, highly perishable ingredients – may well be a bar you’d open for love rather than money.
I had the immense pleasure of working for such an establishment during my first stint in the U.K, London in particular. This establishment made it no secret that they were all about the promotion of exceptional drinks and service, alongside second-to-none training and mentoring, rather than the obliteration of financial targets and bottom dollars.
The meagre pay was a fair indication that these guys weren’t necessarily raking it in, but we were invariably always busy, served drinks that looked and tasted beautiful, and I was privy to meeting some of the most respected people in the industry worldwide, while also coming to work alongside and under their tutelage. It was all about the love of cocktails, and the owners got it, behaving accordingly.
This was London’s Soho.
In stark contrast: I had the immense displeasure of working at a ‘cocktail bar’ in my home town of Brisbane, whose owners really missed the point. In my ten plus years of experience, frugality and success in cocktail bars were something that went hand-in-hand.
Beyond this –and perhaps only to emphasize my point here - I’ve worked for owners who have millions, whose bars or restaurants turned over in excess of 50 grand a week (or more), and who still behaved with financial caution (one owner in particular had a blanket rule that all staff paid full price for their drinks – which included himself).
My displeasure in this case, centered around the witnessing of young, first-time bar owners, carried away by some heady dream of bar-superstardom, ignoring frugality, opting instead to cross their fingers for daddy’s money, rather than actually owning and operating a successful cocktail bar. But hey, this was Brisbane, or should I say: the bogan shithole backwater of Bundaberg, where one of them was really from…
You can take the girl out of bogan-ness, you can’t take the bogan-ness out of the girl, and so on..
My personal aspirations motivated me to fashioning an exceptional establishment, striving to be Brisbane’s best, and the owners probably had a similar sentiment. After a few months of sporadic, just-scraping-through profitability though, this was their approach:
1. ‘Ill look after it’ – Even though there wasn’t enough money in the business to ‘look after it’, it was usual for any of the owner’s friends to just have their bills ‘taken care of’. - In accountant terms, you might as well have written it off as theft. At least they looked, seemed and acted cool/successful…
2. ‘We’ve got a meeting with (insert name here)’ – This was an obvious method employed to justify the owners sitting down with some random person for dinner (a dj friend, a promoter friend, a social media friend etc) and having no-one pay for anything. Usually it would involve them drinking the most expensive cocktails, eating as much of the food as possible (in gluttonous amounts), essentially rorting the kitchen and the bar of any stock we could actually sell. Having no money to purchase any more, it made it hard to claw anything back.
But who’s worrying, really? (Not them). When I questioned them about this, they tried to seek pity from me by informing me that ‘they rarely get to enjoy themselves’ and ‘it’s the one pleasure we have of owning a bar’. Because all successful business owners just flaunted their profits and eroded their capital, and that’s how they became successful…
3. Lies: Sometimes it’s easier to just hide the truth. Because it’s embarrassing. This – or words to that effect – was actually what said owners admitted to me when I confronted them about them constantly making up stories as to why I couldn’t order more booze, or have our laundry done, or pay security guards. You can see what’s going on here. Apparently though, they thought that I couldn’t…
Here are a few gems:
On one particular night, one of the owners decided he’d have a jaunt in-house (I use the phrase ‘one particular night’ quite loosely here, as ‘one particular night’ was almost a weekly occurrence. ‘Loosely’, also being apt), obviously because we were so flush with cash.
In his delusion, he thought it would be worthwhile boasting to me and the other staff that he’d drunk over $700 worth of booze, even showing us the bill for his ‘tab’ (obviously because we were so flush with cash). This $700 dent probably equated to half the profits on this particular night.
Take staff wages, rent, electricity etc out of that 50% left, and you – as an employee trying to make someone else’s business a success – are offered a very bitter pill to swallow. (Fuck that, I thought).
This isn’t to mention the fact that most of our best booze was consumed, and we certainly couldn’t dream of buying it back again. To sell…
Because we were so flush with cash, it transpired that one night the owners decided that they needed to quit working and go and have some fun, cleverly disguised as ‘we have to head off to take care of our housemate’. So off they went.
Now, having blatantly lied, you’d think they’d go somewhere inconspicuous but no, they went from the rooftop cocktail bar, to the restaurant downstairs, where all of the staff still working upstairs would have to go to collect their belongings, upon leaving. An odd choice, to say the least.
I found it strange to hear so much noise emanating from behind the restaurant door, unstrange to see that when I unlocked it to let everyone in to get our stuff (where we always kept it during service, you idiots), both owners and three or four of their friends were around or in the bar, drinks in sweaty hands, spewing uncontrollable, amphetamine-filled chat out of their drug-twisted mouths.
Ordinarily, it’d be presumptuous or unfair of me to assume that they’d been using drugs, but when I slinked quietly through and off to the bathroom (I didn’t want to embarrass them, uncovering the untruth in their ‘we have to head off to take care of our housemate’), I noticed they’d taken one of the hallstands into a cubicle. Upon it, there was a small pile of white powder, an antique silver table crumber laying alongside it, simulating the notion of ‘obviously we’re so flush with cash’. I smiled. Idiots.
An already intolerable situation (obviously because we were so flush with cash) became more so, when I unlocked the office to grab my bag. It seemed that the owners had overlooked me going in to the office to get my things, and even though they could have blamed the pile of powder in the bathroom on their friends (because they were obviously flush with cash?), the other pile of powder on the desk next to her purse, probably could have been pinned to them. ‘Probably’…
For some reason that week, and some of the weeks either side, no-one was paid on time, or in full. Because, obviously .. you get it.
It goes without saying that the life of this business was short and sweet. Or just short. It might also be noteworthy that there were other owners in this partnership that may well have kept the business afloat – through frugal operation, better management and cost control – but hey, they weren’t really welcome.
Essentially, I’ve never worked for anyone who behaved with such a sense of entitlement to raping their cashflow. Something you wouldn’t come to expect from easily the least successful bar owners I’ve ever worked for.
In the end, stupidity, small-mindedness, greed and pure delusion reigned. And another cocktail bar died.
*any likeness to actual people or events is completely true, correct and factual
Im shredding for Stereosonic 2019. I know it's a while away, but I've never been and i want to hit the scene big! I'm on a high protein diet, and I'm taking better 'roids than you, guaranteed. I've never strutted my stuff at 'Stereo' but when i do, no-one is going to know what's hit them, and boy is it going to make my head swell
Ill be wearing the tiniest singlet ever worn - custom made - just two tiny pieces of string, barely covering my nipples, sure to show how fucking ripped and giant I am, which will certainly be more than you. Rest assured though, my singlet will live in my back pocket for the duration of the festival once I'm inside the gates, especially when Im on the d-floor, pumping my fist repeatedly. And boy will my arms look good while i do it.
Im shredding for Stereosonic 2019, and Ive also got my eyes out for the best fake tan that money can buy, because lets face it, when i hit this scene for the first time, no-one will look better than me, and no-one will feel better than me.
this, my friends, is the smallest you can expect me to look and certainly, the biggest singlet you would never see me wear.
Ill have the biggest most expensive looking sunglasses, ill drink the trendiest RTDs, and screw up my face when I down my vodka redbull, cos that's hard and vodka is heavy.
Ill walk around with bitches on my shoulders, and when they need to see the DJ, ill be the hugest person around to lift them up there. Ill carry a bottle of water with me at all times, cos fuck am I gonna get on the dingers.
Im shredding for Stereosonic 2019, and there is no doubt that the scene is going to be taken by storm, and that for one day, ill feel like such a king that if another guy tries to say hello to me, or nod his head in recognition, ill ignore him.
Stereosonic 2019, you have been warned.
Now Ive gotta get back to the gym and some chicken.
things you say to bartenders, and what they're thinking
‘I don’t know what I want’
This is one of my favourites. I always wonder: How did you make it to the bar, if you don’t know what you want? What are you even doing here? - Were you just walking around the venue before you accidentally realised you were standing at the bar, where ‘you didn’t know what you wanted’. Now we both don’t know what you want. – Not very helpful, is it?
Anything but rum/ I don’t drink Tequila
Most people who are so prejudiced towards a certain spirit or drink, actually don’t even know why it’s the case. It’s like people who hate sport, just because its – sport? Anyway. What I usually do when someone says they don’t like rum or Tequila or whatever, is make them a drink with a few different types of said spirit inside and usually, they love it. Open your mind.
Are any of these good?
It’s funny how someone can come up to a bar, they want a drink, but they don’t actually believe that any of them will be decent. What brings you to ask then? Are you openly doubting that the server can deliver? Do you think insulting them is the way forward? Seems like it. In fact, none of the drinks are good, they all suck. Come on now, really?
Can we get some free drinks?
Everybody loves something for nothing, but surely its more rewarding if you feel like you’ve earnt it? For some reason though, people expect alcohol to just be given away to be given to them, just because they asked, and with little more effort than that. Well, the answer is no, funnily enough. Nice try though.
If I ask you ‘how are ya?, I’m asking you: ‘how are ya?’
This is a pretty basic misconception, but even behind a bar, ‘how are you’ doesn’t actually mean, ‘what would you like’, or ‘hey, go on and bark an order at me, I can tell you’re desperate/’I thought you’d never make it’… Let’s try and engage for a second, and I won’t think that you’re so focussed on chugging booze that you don’t even register the words that are leaving my mouth. Cos let’s face it, that’d be pretty sad, grim even.
Which account is that on? – What?
It’s actually quite curious how many times people don’t get this: When you use a card to pay – anywhere in the world – the general ‘thing’ that the staff will need to know, is which account on that particular card – your card – that you would prefer us to use so you can safely say, the question I’m asking you when you go to pay your drinks with your card is ‘which account is that on’. Tricky, I know.
It’s my birthday, can I have a free drink?According to ecology.com, 4 children are born every minute of every day. So, I don’t want to denigrate your life, but if free drinks were given away for birthdays, a lot of bars would be often inundated with people expecting free drinks, also going against the ‘can we get some free drinks (no)’ jibe. Let’s face it, you’re special, but so is everyone else. If giving away free birthday drinks was a ‘done’ thing, you’d probably know about it. And so would a lot of other people who didn’t want to pay for their drinks… Sounds fun..
(the level of effort to look and behave like this however, and get a paddle into the bar as well, would be justly rewarded...)
Come on mate, one last one
Everyone tries it, but it’s not going to work. – When a bartender says ‘we’re closed’, although it could be misinterpreted as ‘we can’t legally serve more drinks, but if you beg me like you can’t live without it, I might break the law in return for a hefty fine’, what they actually mean is ‘NO’. Perhaps even, fuck off.
I once worked in a bar whose most regular and common guests were barristers, judges and the like, owing to its close proximity to the city’s courts and houses of law. Ordinarily – perhaps naively – you would perhaps assume that these kinds of people would be slightly less bigoted than say, your average Australian (quite bigoted). How wrong could I be.
That said, maybe I just wrote that as a way of introduction because lets face it, there’s no way I thought they wouldn’t be prejudiced, despite the fact that they are those we grant the power to send people to jail…
Aside from their complete lack of ability or desire to engage with anyone outside their sphere of office, certain things like blatantly ignoring you when you’re trying to address them were not uncommon during a day’s service. I soon became very bored in an environment that had no mental stimulation, other than making drinks for people that were ‘afraid of looking like poofs if they drank something fancy’.
Beer or wine was the only thing acceptable (and those men drinking white were surely leaving themselves open to the stigma of the more ‘masculine’ red drinkers), and they drank it by the gallon, at least, a standard Monday lunch (spent throwing banter around their table about whatever minority group or lesser person in society they could ridicule, while I occasionally – rudely, for certain – interrupted them to check that they were enjoying themselves) was never much different to 5 or 6 bottles of wine between 3 or 4 gents. – Gents - Should I call them that? …
Anyway, day in and day out I would listen to them telling stories about this case and that, who’s going to jail and who’s not, and laughing about certain things they said or did in cross-examination (for example), as though their casual conversation was even remotely normal, and not outside the bounds of privacy or proper practice.
Then one day, one of these judges – one of the more highly esteemed I was told by my boss once, perhaps to make sure I didn’t offend his sensitivities – grabs my hand, drunk, and questions me: ‘You’re a good bloke mate, you look like a bit of a warrior, but what’s this shit?’ He’s looking at my face, curiously, like it’s causing him pain. He slurs on: ‘You got that button in your lip’ (a piercing) ‘and that fucking thing in your ear – you look like a faggot mate, men don’t wear that shit, you don’t want to look like a faggot do ya?’…
True and verbatim (and I could quote other cultured rants I heard and noted), I’m often stunned when I recall what this man said to me – not because he offended me, but because this is a man who is supposed to be without prejudice. Surely our legal system would do better to not have such bigoted and close-minded people in its ranks? Surely…
Ever wondered about those funny wigs you see legal folk wearing whilst they’re working? ‘Perukes’ as they are called (also termed ‘Periwig’, with ‘wig’ being the shortened version of this) were formerly worn by French kings and their courtiers, and then emulated in later centuries by the upper classes to show their ‘superiority’.
In all their prejudiced university-degree-given delusions of superiority, it soon became clear to me that the only thing that was truly superior were their flowing curls. And even these were fake… And grey.
and I'm the one who looked like an idiot?
... It might also be worth noting, that after this foray with said 'esteemed judge', my only response could have been (much to his dismay, and the entertainment of his also homophobic, racist, prejudiced guests) 'mate, you're the one holding my hand!' ..
Mojitos make your breasts grow bigger (and your skin orange)
Ive just spent a whole English summer setting up bars, smashing out drinks and generally lubricating a massive cross-section of party-goers, festival lovers, hoighty-toighties, punters, plebs and peeps on their respective journeys into fun and after much keen observation, the most wide-ranging and applicable conclusion i can come to is this: That Mojitos make your breasts grow bigger, and your skin orange.
Yes its true: The ubiquitous drink of the early noughties and onwards - ever-present and now taking over the festival circuit, any wannabe pub-cum-'cocktail' bar, all the most exclusive parties and events, and even your own house party - is catalyzing an odd and conspicuous metamorphosis of the human form.
There was a time when you could serve drinks without a worry of accidentally giving booze to someone under legitimate age. Nowadays though, 15 year olds are so well-endowed, that you could often be excused for thinking that you're serving Dolly Parton and Bette Midler et al. There are girls fashioning slings out of curtains, just to cover their cleavage.
Then add to this mix, all of the men of our species out hunting for these giant orange tangerines (buffed and big-breasted too, from a consistent training regime specifically for their summer of flaunt and debauchery, before they hibernate over winter once more) and unless you've been drinking too many mojitos yourself, you cant help but wonder if it is actually some alien race that comes out to play when the sun arrives too. - When was the last time an equal rights campaigner put their hand up for all the orange people on planet earth anyway?
- Conversely: there are entire platoons of party-people raising rapturous fists, men and women baring their ballooning buxom breasts, descending on dancefloors and unsuspecting bartenders the world over, painted like some giant flock of Dutch sporting fans, some with shaved chests (not the women, usually), screaming in solidarity for a refreshing combination of rum, lime, mint, sugar and soda over crushed ice. Mow-jee-Tar? Fajita? - Fuck it: What's that he's drinking there? .....
While alcohol allegedly rids you of inhibition, it seems that millions of mojitos may well be turning people away from looking 'normal', and towards disguising themselves as cartoon characters, rather than beautiful humans, comfortable with who and what they are. Or: Perhaps its an insidious thing? A phenomenon unnoticed? Something that has crept up on the general public? - We do serve literally thousands of them - each - in a matter of months.
Ive done festivals where each bartender is making an average of 500 a day, parties where 3 of us have smashed out 1800 of them in 3 hours!
The summer season used to be about heading out, having a good time, letting loose, letting go, self-expression, not giving a shit, finding new adventure, new people, new loves, new ground, new life. Now its all about image, clearly: The drink makes you look cool (and causes subtle chest-growth and chameleon-skin, as my research has discovered), now you just have to be big enough and bright (orange) enough to be spotted amongst the thousands.
Keep drinking, it definitely seems to work. We all surely noticed. - Mojito sales went up. Waxing kits (for men and women), disposable razors, fake tan and shower bills all saw giant rises in cashflow, and the festival scene and party season is still well and truly alive and kicking, albeit brighter and more 'inflated'.
All things considered, it may not be a negative phenomenon that ive just experienced. What im basically saying is, is that while the mojito still remains - steadfast, true and hardly adjusted in all its refreshing, rummy, minty glory - you've changed.
We all know that the financial crisis that hit the globe in 2008 is still sending everlasting shockwaves through markets and economies and populations and supplies and demands, and there are even some, who may never recover from what was for many, a crippling blow to any fiscal feasibility.
Greece hasnt left the news for months now, plummeting towards a rueful exit from the eurozone, choking on austerity measures, with a desperate axe-wielding population not far behind its politicians, and the media lurking to pounce on its newly sworn-in government.
Spain is suffering under mountains of debt, Germany is constantly being asked to bail everyone out, France: all eyes are fixed sternly on its new government also - as the rest of Europe and also the US all point fingers and seek scapegoats, and scramble desperately to save their sorry asses from ending up alongside the poor that they helped create.
- Apparently, most of those who lost any significant amount of cash in the GFC, are already rolling in it again. Thats a fact. Banker bonuses are still in the tens of millions of pounds (and more), and half yearly profits for some of the world's biggest companies, still in the tens of billions: Economic turmoil? - What economic turmoil? Time for a new paradigm? - Why? - The show must go on, or something to that effect.
Over the weekend, i was privileged (?) to work at a party - a couple of them - for some high-flying Icelandic folk. And as their viking predecessors did many times in the past: boy did they rape and pillage.
Picture this: Cliveden house in Berkshire (thats Cleev-den house in Bark-shear if you want to pretend you're actually from these parts) a stately home, first occupying its land in 1060 (not a typo), now a lavish hotel featuring period ornaments (think 500 year old knight armour from Italy - perhaps the most inept security guard that has ever watched over a bar ive worked in - and busts and paintings from similar periods and older), vast manicured gardens and marble fountains, and the whole gamut of uneducated poorly paid staff you'd expect in a place that screams 'we're uber-rich, and you're not, and we'd like to point that out as often as possible!'.
Out fly around 150 vikings, joined by another 50 or so 'locals' featuring actors and actresses, financial controllers (the head of the banks - as it was scoffingly announced), artists and dancers, tv personalities, even Scandinavian royalty and assorted others (who they made a point of big-noting when they 'introduced the guestlist' to the audience) and they celebrate the 40th birthday of one of the hosts.
Its a complete self-indulgent, egocentric, semi-psychotic foray. Her 'friends' have made a video clip for a Rhianna track, shot on a boat somewhere, where they all lip-sync the words like they're actually starring in the song, with any names interchanged with the birthday girl's. Someone performs 'Jolene', but the name is changed to fit. There's a bond film in the background, where every bond girl has the birthday girl's face superimposed over the top of the actual faces. "Oh look! Its me again!" she says as she admires herself, and sucks the praise from her friends, for the 43rd time. Its only 830pm.
Soul to Soul (not a typo) - of however do you want me, and keep on movin fame - come out to play. - Who knows how much it would have cost to fly them there. And then the dj (who they saw and liked in Miami, flown out especially for the party) blasts cheesy, poppy mashups of all the songs you'd expect, until the wee hours, as all guests, please-less and un-thank-you-ing proceed to drink themselves into an outrageous childish stupor. Thats just the first night.
On the second - the night of the wedding of the birthday girl and her then fiancee, now husband, its a similar approach. She'd probably not had enough attention and ego-feed on the first night, one can only assume. This time though, its a 'rat pack' themed affair.
Aston Martins (db4's and 5's) are packed in a ring at the huge hotel front. Its all black table-cloths and faces of Frank and Brigitte et al on tables, and any other tacky jazz-era throwbacks they can think of. Ruinart blanc de blanc on tap, and ratpack themed cocktail bartenders (us), brought in to add to the fantasy.
Post dinner (featuring creative conceptions such as a first course of caviar and a main of duck confit -so nouveau riche!) the bride and groom arrive to share their first dance, first drinks, and the first songs are cued in by some production manager, as the something-or-other big band swings into its first rendition. That's amore. Or is it?
They play three tracks, and then Dean Martin is introduced to the stage to perform 3 or 4 songs with the band. Yes (digest that for a second), Dean (fucking) Martin...
His performance - no doubt worth hundreds of thousands of pounds to the hosts - is lacklustre, semi-soulless at best. He makes awkward, cliché, whatever-era jokes between songs, banterless, and which the majority of the Icelanders dont understand, and then leaves the stage to muted applause. Well worth the money/Not bad for a drunk.
As the guests file in and fill up the Cliveden's library room, there's nothing left to do for them but quaff the drinks we prepare for them, and start rudely making fools of themselves as they degenerate into the form of pigs and philistines, slurping tens of thousands of pounds of handcrafted concoctions, before becoming leering and rude and impatient. - Or just more so, depending on which way you look at it.
In one last hurrah that screams class and heroism all at once, the groom is last seen wearing only his waistcoat and trousers (no shoes, shirt, jacket or tie) bouncing around the dancefloor in childish fits more childish than his own 9 year old son, snatching drinks from people at the bar, before attempting to climb an inner wall of the building, slipping, falling through a conservatory, and being taken to hospital, leaving a trail of blood dripping from the glass dome, down to the hotel's reception. And no, that was not some wild fantasy of mine, it actually happened.
A more fitting finale to the evening would only have been the dj playing 'we are the champions', as the crowd sung it to themselves into mirrors that were handed out by their hosts.
All is well in the land of the rich, pretentious, absurd and greedy. While some struggle under mountains of debt (or just plain struggle under mountains of, say malnutrition) lavish parties are being thrown in secret rooms, disguised by semi-philanthropic endeavours that brutes are only too quick to boast about, in a world where the GFC actually means Great Fountains of Cash. The show must go on.
Some of what im about to write may be hard to believe. Experiencing it myself, i mostly cant believe it either. And im there. I suppose people do stupid things all the time, but i suppose also, that i get to see the largest cross-section of society doing these stupid things, whilst in the largest cross-section of different states of mind and being, owing to the largest selection of that which can affect. Still, thats surely no excuse. Especially for the sober ones.
Im not talking about a 'large cross-section' anyway. Im talking about a tiny one. Its hard to believe that some of these people are actually worth the money they're being paid. Absurdly large salaries aside, i wouldnt pay these people a cent/penny/dime. - And I'm the one who is usually accused of being on 'minimum wage'. Yeah right.
So i hold up two drinks to the guest. He's ordered a vodka and tonic, and a straight vodka on the rocks. He asks me which one is which. I hold them up higher in his direct line of vision. One is a short, stout glass, the other a tall bubbly one. - Have a guess, i tell him.
He kind of screws up his face in a sort of how the fuck am i supposed to work that out buddy kind of way! So i give him a moment - more to make him feel like a complete twat, rather than to offer more time to get to the bottom of this tricky analysis. But he still cant work it out. So i drop them on the bar and turn to serve my next guests. Perhaps this would explain their decidedly poor manners too: Ignorance.
I once served a group of guests at a very 'upmarket' venue, who continuously ordered drinks, and dished them to their clique from the bar, without evening hinting at offering to pay. So i intrude, and i ask them can i set up a tab for you? - Just to remind them that although they think the world revolves around them, it doesnt. - Perhaps im a little out of line with that sentiment, who cares.
The lady ive addressed tells me that she hasnt actually had any drinks, which is true. All im asking though, is that someone gives me a card, so i can reference it alongside the account that im going to set up - im not actually taking any money from her. Im sure most people are familiar with this concept, but i humour her ignorance by explaining what i mean. She turns away, confused.
... Then she turns back, and actually tells me she's confused, and i imagine that she ought best to have thrown in some ditsy college-girl laugh at the end of her declaration to emphasise how dumb she sounded, but i dont think she can actually laugh, because botox renders her face immovable, and prozac has rid her of any true emotion.
My only response to her 'im confused' is a very dry and abrasive 'yes. you are. clearly'... Its moments like this that make you wonder what these people talk about. And then it makes you realise why you only hear them talking about work - because its the only thing that makes them feel even remotely intelligent - its actually the only thing that they know.
It makes it hard to understand why us mere plebs have our lives in the hands of these apparently 'educated' elite, or why they are left with their hands gripping the wheels that control our earth, because some piece of paper says they deserve to. Whatever happened to natural selection? Do they own that as well? Dont tell me they patented Darwin's theory of evolution too.
To some, they may seem rich and powerful, and you'd probably be right. But that really is about it. Try striking up a conversation with one of these folk, and you'll literally get stares like they're either wondering where did that sound come from? Or why the fuck is this guy talking to me? Then there's those who simply doing know what to say if the answer doesnt include the words 'fiscal policy', 'ftse 500' or 'quarterly statement'.
I actually had one regular at said 'upmarket venue', who i thought might be up for a bit of banter after id seen him there 4 or 5 shifts in a row, so i asked him: How's everything today mate?, and he looked at me, like he couldnt quite focus on the shape that made the noise he heard, squinted a little bit, took his drink and turned about to continue fingering his blackberry. Engaging. I suppose i just look like a hooligan to him anyway.
Perhaps im being a bit biased here though? I did mention that im privvy (?) to the 'largest cross-section of society doing stupid things', so i guess ill have to write again soon and tell you about some of the rest of what ive seen. For now though: The future is in good hands...
I recently did a party in the countryside in Oxfordshire, that was nothing short of wild rapturous joy for all-comers..
Sometimes, everything just works. You apply the same formula, install it with the same team, run it like you always do, and the guests come along, the final piece in the puzzle, and fit perfectly into the gaps they’re meant to fit into. Its amicable, pleasurable. - Every single person is happy: Rapturous even.
We did a fucking outrageous party not so long ago, that epitomised this idea and proved – once and for all – that money and creativity can go together to form one beautifully harmonious celebration, free from wank and wankers (in stark contrast to the vast many occasions when a rich client and their rich guests have been nothing but vacuous, jaded, small-minded, egocentric and cultureless – another story perhaps?)
So anyway: out we went to the Oxfordshire countryside, where the host of the party lived, and where we would help him in celebrating his 50th birthday on a property the size of most London boroughs.
Through a small valley formed by the property’s green, rolling hills, there were a few dozen tents, lined up like racing yachts, their white sails flapping in the gentle breeze, under a radiant June sun and blue sky. Here, would be where guests would stay for the night, and as we drove up the easement leading to the main production area, and the centres of the party itself, already in awe of the guest accom, we knew we were arriving to be involved in something monumental.
A soundcheck is done, we set up the bars, mix, taste, remix, batch and prep a smorgasbord of bespoke cocktails and their ingredients. The beer is cooling, the champagne is on ice, the bars are dressed and ready. The clock ticks towards the arrival of around 120 guests – a number that was simply dwarfed by the vastness of the production itself.
the view from the bar's back of house looking down the main driveway. Main tent and guest accommodation on right.
Night begins to fall, and with everything in readiness, we are driven to another side of the property to eat dinner as a crew. The sheer size of the place dictates the fact that walking to the cabin where we were to eat was simply out of the question. Voracious appetites are satiated by the hearty cooking of two kindly ladies. The guests are soon to arrive. There’s not much else to do but deliver.
And it went a little something like this: A dinner is prepared by a team of expert chefs in a commercial kitchen that is set up temporarily on the owner’s property. Each course is served by various teams of ‘waiters/waitresses’ who are actually burlesque or breakdancers or other performers, masquerading as service staff, who break into dance-routine and choreographed manoeuvres as they deliver a sumptuous, multi-course, sitdown meal for all of the guests.
A small team of bartenders arrive at the circus-tent-like dining room to serve espresso martinis as desserts, before the guests are then ushered by a team of flipping, cartwheeling, hopping, skipping and jumping performers, towards the main area where the afterparty rave will take place. It took the pied piper of Hamelin to a much much greater level.
By this stage, the whole scope of the party is nothing short of outrageous, mindblowing.
When they arrive at the ‘rave’ all comers are led through a room where they can acquire (some sort of free purchase deal) various luminous accessories such as sunglasses, jackets, glowsticks, lollipops, wristbands and other rave-like paraphernalia, to help them get in the mood to… rave. Might I remind you that this is a 50th birthday celebration? …
Needless to say, riding a wave of hedonistic joy and outrageousness, the guests plummeted joyfully into a daze of peace, love, happiness and bliss that saw a wave of calm and content spread over everything, like a proper plague of pure pleasure, welcomed by all, including us.
and rave they did
complete with lasers
Whatever you might assume, there wasn’t one untoward request; there wasn’t one unhappy guest; there wasn’t one person that complained or thought it odd when they went to enter a portaloo and found that it only led to nothing but a secret room on the other side, filled with yet more adventure. Maybe it was due to the fact that there was so much space around to pee in nature…
Strippers danced on poles behind the bartenders, born-again hippies, back for one night only of debauchery, wearing sunglasses shaped like stars, danced before us, waving fingers over bleary, drunk and ecstatic eyes, as the likes of the latest and greatest indie-pop bands performed set after set for all enthralled.
This is a true story. An actual birthday party, at someone’s actual house. – We could’ve been mistaken for thinking we were at some secret boutique festival. I got so drunk as I worked, that even my own behaviour was deemed beyond belief…
And as the after-rave after-party began, we welcomed the guests with White Russians in old-school 1 pint milk bottles. Lebowski would have been proud. Dude…
the drunk-food van
I woke up: From their vast pleasure, came our vast pleasure. It wasn’t pretentiousness, it wasn’t some insane, egotistical display of money, or success, or power or might, or ‘look what we did!’ – It was just a good old time, revolving around a good old(ing) person. – Or whatever that is. It was real, and it was unreal, but all in all, they were just human, being human, engaging, embracing, existing. Alive.
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