The pub - 28 April 2011

For the three years I've been working in the pub, everyone has tried to get me to write about the day to day shenanigans that go on there. So far, I have resisted, not wishing to upset anyone in the village where I live, knowing that anyone who reads this and also goes to the pub, will recognise themselves or others. But today I decided to change my mind and risk the ire of some locals. The place is often funnily farcical, being run by a landlord who is beyond eccentric! Often, we, the workforce, put up with the most ridiculous working conditions because of our loyalty to him, and to the reputation of the pub itself.

Today, we had a visit from the man who was going to sort out the dishwashers. Both of them (glass one in bar, and dishwasher in kitchen) have been in need of attention for some considerable time. The bar one had actively died on our most busy weekend (Easter bank holiday), and the one in the kitchen was making alarming noises, or at least, not making the noises it should be making, but pleading for help in a pathetic manner. As well as the breakdown of various 'mod' cons, we also ran out of oil. This means we have to rummage in the 'dog shed' (barn) for the WW2 Burka massive kettle thing, boil water, and wash up (very slowly)filling up bucket after bucket with the trickle that the burka plug allows out.

There was much intaking of breath as the kitchen dishwasher was examined. Some pink 'bacteria' at the top was pointed out, the stuff that drips on our heads when we have to clean right up inside it! I almost felt sorry for it, especially when the dishwasher doctor said, 'With proper care, this one should last forever, poor little thing', with a touching tenderness for an inanimate object (also just slightly alarming). He asked when we'd last had it serviced. Silly question. He recommended an annual check up. Yeah right. Richard hovered behind, making sarcastic comments, clearly worried about the expense which would almost certainly be incurred to fix the various broken and dying pieces of equipment. Not only the two dishwashers, but the oven, which had exploded into various people's faces ('I lost my eyebrows on it the other day,' Richard remarked, almost proudly, as if this was some sort of ancient badge of honour) when trying to light it first thing in the morning.

'Where are your vents?' The enthusiastic doctor man enquired, looking around.

'Uhhh, we don't have any, we've got that,' pointing to the extractor fan which we're not allowed to turn on all winter because it causes the fires in the pub to smoke. The dining area is often so hazy one can't see the other side. But it's lovely and warm.

Dr Dish was clearly unimpressed, and started quoting all sorts of health and safety information about why vents were necessary. Richard clearly didn't want to hear. I wouldnt' have been surprised had he covered his ears like a recalcitrant child in attempts to block out the awful truth. For a start, it is actually illegal not to have a vent (this delighted Richard, who loves nothing more than breaking the law whenever possible).
'Well, I've had them for nine years, and no one has said anything before.'
The man pointed to some black patches on the ceiling above the rebellious cooker. 'See those, carbon monoxide smoke stains.'

My ears pricked up at this. All pub employees seem to have 'shit for brains', as Dani so eloquently puts it, and spend hours wandering vacantly from place to place, unable to remember what we are about to do or fetch. We're like a load of zombies. In my case, too much alcohol could be blamed, but surely Henry, who's only seventeen, can't use that as a reason. It's worrying. Now, all of a sudden, we had a reason. We're all being slowly poisoned, our brain cells being picked off one by one.

Even Richard appeared alarmed, though he hid it well behind various jokes and bravado. Later, when the man had left and he complained that hearing a load of bullocks old health and safety statements repeated parrot fashion to him had cost him some £160 (jus think how many bets you could place with that!) he started telling us that he was considering putting a vent in one of the windows.

Hallelujah!

Loud motorbikes

I watched a young boy on a beautiful sunny day, when the birds should have been cheeping and life should have been full of joy, bombing around a field on his motorbike (I'm afraid I'm not enough of an officianado on bikes to identify it). Clearly, he was having the time of his life. He did the same circuit, over and over and over, which involved revving up the hill at top speed, thundering down it, hitting a jump, turning a sharp corner, and starting all over again. I wondered if a hamster going round its wheel gets the same pleasure.

The only problem with this scenario was the noise produced by said bike. It sounded like the largest swarm of bees, with their volume turned to top speed and then further - a real 'scratch your fingernails down the board' sound, that gets into your gut and wrenches it. So, such placid activities as a spot of gardening, a pleasant Pimms on the lawn or a group get together round the barbie, become impossible, all for this one lad's gratification.

Without wishing to sound like a foul middle aged kill joy, it does seem unfair that one person's pleasure can destroy the pleasure of everyone else living in the village!

The solution? I dont know really, we could moan to him, or wear ear plugs, or suggest he go to the local motocross field, which is isolated from humanity, or saboutage his bike. I've considered all of the above. Or, even worse, snitch on him to the local council, citing 'noise pollution' or some such other health and safety issue. But I hate people that do that!

There's always a positive to every negative. It has given me fuel for my moaning, which has gone a bit quiet of late.