Pickled

I sincerely love meeting new people . Exchanging strings of words is beautiful. I want to hear about where you’re from , what you love and what you hate . I want you to tell me about how you lost your first tooth . I want to bond over vulnerable and gritty human experiences . I want to find our similarities and differences . I have never thought of myself as a romantic , but this song and dance of human kind is probably the closest I get . 

Sometimes I like to talk to the barman and ask how their day has been . I wonder whether they roll their rehearsed script of learnt responses they deliver to each punter that wanders in there, or whether they’re telling me the truth . When I was behind the bar at around 17 , the people that would frequent the little pub would often baffle me . Each and every one of them an exquisite exhibition . I told myself that one day I would write a book detailing their lives and recounting tales of their drunken antics or particularly comical quotes . I still haven’t gotten around to this almost 4 years later . Perhaps I never will . Perhaps I will wait too long, only to find any memories I once held have wilted away over time .

• side note; Ben Brumpton has a brilliant collection of art inspired by his time behind the bar which I found both amusing and relatable . I highly recommend checking it out.                                 

As a teen I began envying the financial stability of the regulars. The ability to fund their daily pints and weekly spirits. This admiration soon turned sour. Glasses clinking in my arms, I would stand outside and see their cars disappearing in the distance. Seven or eight pints deep and behind the wheel of a car. One incident led to my boss insisting we call an ambulance. A frequent drinker had stumbled to her car and collapsed in the car park. She laid there in alcohol induced, giddy rest bite.  Unaware of the small crowd of punters she had collected around her. “Too drunk to walk but sober enough to drive”. 

Days would go by where the sheer amount of alcohol consumed by one person would quite frankly baffle me. Lager in hand, they would stagger outside for cigarettes. Releasing guttural laughter intermittently into the frosted autumn air. Bare arms unaware of the cold. From the outside looking in, they appeared to be living a happy life. Go to work, go to pub, sleep well in a beer fed coma. Repeat. As you delved deeper however, each one of the regulars seemed to have a more and more troubling back story. In our little pub community we seemed to accept this way of life. What could only be defined as alcoholism was endorsed and encouraged. A biopsy should truly be performed on the livers of the best customers. Numerous pints on a daily basis only to reach double digits on the weekend. I imagined their liver need not be pickled to be preserved in a jar for it probably already was. 

I used to work the Christmas Day shift. I genuinely really enjoyed it. Spending a few hours with my chosen dysfunctional family before being embraced by my own much more functional one. On Christmas day, it was really highlighted how much that little pub meant to some people. Those spending Christmas alone would practically be banging the door down as soon as the clock struck our opening hour. Divorced dad’s whose little ones were with their mum’s under the Christmas tree, retired gents who had watched their friends pass on, couples who had no further family of their own. The pub brought them all together and cradled them with whiskey and bitters. It was tradition to offer celebratory shots to all who came. We behind the bar would often indulge too, it was Christmas after all. Even in the chills of December, you would still find a sizeable crowd gathered outside expelling plumes of smoke from their lips. I often thought how they mimicked the images of steam trains we had plastered around the pub. Health was never a concern here. One regular standing at 74 years old would recount his latest heart scare and list the plethora of medication he was on. He would do so with a box of tailor mades in his breast pocket, a glass of morreti waiting for him on the bar with a shot of jagermiester nestled next to it.  Another prominent customer would retell the same stories over and over and over. Admittedly I first thought this was the “old man’s curse”, to constantly brag of triumphs to unsuspecting ears. Reliving their “glory days” to cement his accomplishments into the air. Imposing authority and attempting to impress the young girl serving him. It was only later on I found out he had alcohol induced dementia. He was only 54.  Essentially the collective opinion was he had drunk himself into a state of near delirium. The stories had become as much a part of his every day as the curls on his head. 

Another regular told me how he used to sleep on the pool table when he was twelve and his parents had stayed too late. He was now the one staying late. Racking up tabs he couldn’t afford.  It was a frequent occurrence. Me shouting upstairs to the land lady asking if he could start another tab he would pay back in a few days time. Him then ordering drinks for others on this same tab and then disappearing for days. He always came back. Paid what he owed. Tail between his legs, apologising and grateful. His heart was that of that same child asleep on the pool table. People were able to pick up on that almost immediately. He reeked of sincere naivety and weed. 

I think it’s cruel how we so happily endorse damaging behaviours. We watch people stew in their own filth and applaud.  Rotting from the inside out. Nothing seems to be able to shake us to sense. No haunting night out. No horror stories. No “near misses”. If anything they seems to spur us on in this mission of self destruction. 

If you come back to this page in a day or two you'll find I have added some images but I cannot right now because my laptop is about to die xx