2004-08-07

The carnival of goons was rather sparse last night at the Bar from Hell – current theory holds that everyone was at home watching the finale of Big Brother (my North American readers will be amused to learn that the grand prize was won by a beefy Portuguese transsexual: and well done Nadia, I say! Striking a blow for beefy Portuguese transsexuals everywhere!), and I was mercifully let off early enough to catch the bus home, instead of forking over half my wages for a cab.

And so, I got to experience all the resplendent glory of the Night Bus, including a bloke stumbling up the stairs yelling, “So who’s going to give me oral sex?” and a bawling group chorus of ‘The Wheels on the Bus’. The top floor on the night bus is informally designated as the party floor, with everyone screaming and smoking and snogging under the seats; while the bottom level is mostly haggard folks just off work, and people so paralytically fucked they can’t manage the stairs. It’s a charming slice of British culture.

I’m back again tonight serving crap lager in my own personal purgatory. I have become convinced that I was destined to land this job as a punishment for all the loutish misbehaviour I’ve directed at bartenders in my day, of which there has been A LOT; and for which I am now VERY PENITENT INDEED.

It’s not all bad, though. My coworkers are sweethearts: when I put on my Lancashire accent and say, “Fookin’ell, this place is a tip,” they squeal with delight and hug me. Ha! So cute.