Life Behind Bars (5 page)

“How much?”

“£1100,” replied Chic. 

Putting two and two together,
they were handcuffed and huckled off to the city jail.  It took four hours
of negotiating to get them free.

My take on it was; David couldn’t
have been the ‘brains of the operation’ — he only got £150 of the supposed
ill-gotten gains, whilst the wee old cellar man got £1100, (didn’t trust
banks.)

Baby it’s cold outside . . .

On one of my rare evenings off I
had just poured a well-deserved drink when I caught sight of two policemen entering
the bar.  I had not been checking the CCTV as it was relatively quiet and
there were more than enough staff on.  Within a few minutes I was summoned
by the head barmaid, Sarah. 

On entering the bar I noticed a
few of the local rugby team looking extremely dishevelled and somewhat
sheepish.  In fact, a couple seemed to be in a total state of undress i.e.
naked!  It appeared that they had disrobed on leaving another hostelry,
streaked all the way down the High Street, passing the church and an old folks
home, from whence the complaint had originated, (touch of jealousy
methinks.)  They had arrived at our pub and merely joined the company of
their friends as if this was an everyday occurrence, which for them it usually
was. 

This was not the view taken by
the officers and although we were not responsible, the blame seemed to be being
laid at our door.  They were interrogating Sarah and implying that she was
not in control of the bar, they were right.  To be honest, she wasn’t in
control of herself, they were all big lads and you don’t get many of them to
the pound, especially on a quiet Sunday night. 

After a lengthy lecture, off went
the plods and the boys, totally unconcerned, didn’t even bother to maintain
their modesty.  As one wit put it, what did it matter?  Most of them
were like a button on a fur coat anyway (work that out.)

NB.  It is always the one
who
shouldn’t
strip off who does.  There are only so many times you
can blame the temperature!

Time to say goodbye . . .

One of my most popular bar staff
was a six foot hunk of gorgeous manhood called Zander.  Every woman in the
town was mad for him and he minced about the bar like a fairy on
steroids.  He was the most camp, cutting bitch I’d ever met and he could
say the most outrageous things to guys as well as women and get away with
it.  Except for one small group of homophobic idiots.

Zander worked as a polo
trainer.  He handled huge beasts day in and day out and worked out with
some of the toughest guys around.  But he had a problem with this
lot.  Not so me!

One particular night I came into
the bar and it was obvious he was upset; he was mincing up and down like an
ostrich on speed.  Saying nothing, just listening, I heard the ring leader
shout.

“Pink gin, let’s have a pink
gin!”

  I mean how original! 
Before Zander could do anything I stepped forward and took over the order.

“Four bottles of Bud, Linda.”

“Fine, no problem,” and he handed
me a £20 note.

“That will be
eighteen
pounds!” I shouted back.

“Eighteen fucking quid!
 You’re having a laugh!”

“Not at all,” says I, spinning
round with four extra glasses all containing pink gins.

“What the fuck?”
 He
spluttered.

“Your order, sir.”

 Kept them quiet for a while
. . .

Zander was extremely handsome and
looked a bit like a blonde David Seaman, and he and I were the absolute best of
pals.  He’d come in during the day, into what he called ‘God’s waiting
room.’  He always maintained I couldn’t give the punters credit as they
were hardly likely to live long enough to pay it back.

On rare occasions he would drag
up and become Zandra.  Now Zandra was pure evil.  This creation was
an unadulterated, sheer bitch and the funniest person I have ever come
across.  Lily Savage was an absolute amateur in comparison.  She
would always pick on the most timid of men, remember she was 6’ 3” without the stilettos and she terrorised them, but deep down Zander was desperately unhappy and
although he camped it up and was always the life and soul of any party, he
hated his life.

He had terrible night terrors and
had taken to just appearing in my room at all times of the night.  This
didn’t go down too well with my husband who would roar at him to “Fuck off home
or he would give him terrors!” 

Early in January the owner of the
business next door had terrible debts and it had been too much for him; he had
committed suicide.  I was shocked to the core and I made Zander promise me
that no matter how bad he felt, he would never do such a thing.  He gave
me his word and also assured me he would never do that to his old mum. 

Two weeks later his mother called
me early one morning to check he was with me.  The police found him later
that day.  He had gone to a local beauty spot and jumped from a
bridge. 

I have never been to, or seen, a
funeral like his.  If only he had realised how loved he was by
everyone.  I threw a huge party afterwards and it was amazing.  People
from every walk of life.  All the Horsey Brigade and the Cunty Set (no,
that’s not a typo,) rubbing shoulders with more drag queens than appeared in
‘The Bird Cage,’ plus all the closet gays from around the town, together with
our regulars, even the ‘Pink Gin Mob.’ 

Such a waste, he would have had
the time of his life!

Who’s that lady???

Infidelity is rife in any bar or inn
and we certainly had our fair share.  We have had people climb out of
toilet windows, shin down fire escapes and hide in the wheelie bins.  In
fact, if ever things get really bad I could always indulge in a little
blackmail.

One memorable occasion, John and
Alison, who were regulars and ate in the restaurant most Friday nights, were
the cause of much hilarity and gossip.  They arrived as usual about 6.30pm, had a couple of drinks, studied the menu and made their choices (nothing unusual
in that.)

They knew, and were known, to
most of the staff and the regular Friday night customers.  They made their
way to their usual table and settled down to enjoy their meal.

Just as the waitress was about to
clear the table, John began slowly sliding down his chair but Alison either
didn’t notice or just completely ignored the situation.  The waitress
cleared the table and headed off to the kitchen, bemused but none the wiser.

Approaching with the next course
she realised John had completely disappeared, presumably under the table, but
his companion appeared oblivious to the situation.  Unable to contain
herself she asked the woman if she knew her husband had passed out and was
under the table.

“No he hasn’t,” came the reply,
“he’s just walked in the door.”

Watch the birdie . . .

We were once asked to cater for a
large wedding to be held in the grounds of one of our local stately
homes.  It was a lavish affair and everything had gone perfectly.

We were at the coffee and
speeches and really, as far as the catering service was concerned, there was
nothing now that could go wrong.  We could heave a huge sigh of
relief.  What happened next will go down in history.

I have never been so gobsmacked
or flabbergasted in my life.  Thank God it had nothing to do with
us.  As I said, it was a huge wedding and no expense had been
spared.  The speeches were underway and it was time for the groom to
address the company. 

He began by thanking everyone for
attending and, of course, thanked his wife’s parents for the magnificent party,
saying as a token of his appreciation he had a personal gift for each of them.

Under each chair he had taped an
envelope.  He asked everyone to open their envelopes.  Most guests
were expecting a lottery or raffle ticket, but none expected the contents they
got.   A full colour photograph of the bride and the best man
indulging in some pre-marital hanky panky. 

The groom chose that moment to
leave.

Honestly, this actually happened.

Chefs . . .

I could write a book on this
subject alone.

I have had in my time, two
murderers, one embezzler, one bigamist, (with three girlfriends.) 
Countless drug dealers, and even countless more drug takers; four alcoholics
(serious alcoholics,) one suffering from Multiple Personality Disorder, shame
only one of the personalities could cook; more thieves than Ali Baba, and a
sprinkling of fabulous ones.  They, however, usually proved to be
extremely boring and not worth writing about.

Let’s take the case of
Robert.  He arrived on the scene via an agency; that in itself should have
warned me.  Good chefs have permanent jobs.  But once again, I was
desperate.  He arrived at about eight o’clock one Sunday evening and I was
appalled at his appearance.  I almost stopped him from entering the
building, he was so dishevelled and unkempt, virtually a down-and-out. 
But it was Sunday in the country, no buses.  I would deal with him in the
morning.

Arriving in the kitchen, a little
after 7am just in case, I was met by this immaculate chef, in pristine whites,
hat and scarf; (most of the other kitchen inhabitants rolled up in whatever
they had been wearing the night before or even the night before that.) 
His gleaming utensils were laid out on his work bench and he had obviously been
at work for some time.  It turned out he had been waiting on the doorstep
for the cleaning staff to arrive.  I was astounded and kept looking around
for the troll from the night before to suddenly jump out at me.  What a
transformation.

I thought all my Christmases and birthdays
had come at once.  He was absolutely fantastic and had worked in every top
establishment in the country.  Always a bit vague as to why he was not
still in any of these temples, but I was so blessed to have him I didn’t push
the subject.  He took the kitchen in hand and within a couple of weeks had
transformed things.

He decided to change the menu and
came up with the most amazing dishes.  Then the proverbial hit the
fan.  Four weeks into his stay and I had already told the agency we were
hoping to keep him on.  I found their reaction somewhat reticent and they
urged us to give it a bit longer.  I was soon to learn why.

Robert had gone off home on
Sunday evening as usual, for his two days off.  He’d left strict
instructions to run all the kitchen stocks down and get in the supplies for the
new menu to begin on his return.  He intended to train everyone up on
Wednesday to cope with the weekend onslaught. 

It was with great anticipation we
all looked forward to his return on Wednesday.  As a rule he was
exactingly prompt and when he had not arrived by 10.30am I began to worry and
dread something had happened to him.  At around 11am he phoned to say his car had broken down and he would be late.

One thing you have in the
licensed trade is contacts, and I had several in the AA and RAC.  I had
patrol cars rushing between Perth and Glasgow, and Glasgow and Edinburgh,
looking for this poor stranded chef. 

Then the penny dropped.

Fuck!  He didn’t
drive.  He’d lost his licence years previously.  I phoned his mobile
again and again, and eventually called the agency.  It was obvious from
their reaction that this was not unusual for Robert.  In fact, he had
lasted longer than usual with us. 

Robert and his wife were serious
alcoholics.  He would binge-drink for a couple of weeks, dry out for a
week and then go back to work.  This was a monthly occurrence. 
Everyone in the trade knew, except me.  Now not only was I faced with no
chef, I had no one who could work the bloody menu he had devised.

It was obviously his modus
operandi as no sooner had I told the agency that I would be suing them, they
miraculously came up with a chef who could implement the menu.  It seemed
that ‘poor Robert’ had done this on more than one occasion, and, unlike me, the
agency had a backup plan.

We got through the first couple
of weeks with ‘Desperate Dan the Rescue Man’ but he had none of ‘poor Robert’s’
flair or imagination, none of his drinking habits either.  He really was a
watered-down version of the genius that was Rab.

Perhaps because of that, and
because I am a mug with a capital M, when Robert surfaced, he pleaded and
begged to be allowed back.  He knew I was his last chance. 
Reluctantly I agreed, on the strict condition he would attend AA.  I later
found out the nearest he got to that was my mobilizing the breakdown service;
wrong type of breakdown.

We got eight weeks out of him
which was okay.  It took us through the busy summer period.  Then the
wagon lost a wheel and off he tumbled.  He actually went in the middle of
service and because of this, I thought something had happened other than
booze.  He just disappeared in the middle of plating up an order. 
One minute he was there, the next, gone.  We searched the building from
top to bottom to no avail.  The demons had him again.  

Every one in the village knew Rab
was off chasing spooks and a couple of weeks after his vanishing act, two kids
from the next village came to the kitchen door to tell us they knew where our
chef was.

He had been sleeping rough in a
burned-out car on the Earl of Wemys’ estate.  No cardboard box under a
viaduct for him.  Not once during his MIA had his wife called to enquire
why her husband had not arrived home.  I was later to discover why.

Well, we got him back and to the
best of our ability sorted him out.  That was when I came up with my plan,
there was no doubt the man was a genius but he was as reliable as British Rail.