I’m the Fucking Bar Supervisor

The brief for this piece was arrogance and the workplace. This isn’t actually how i view myself.

Always handy to turn up fifteen minutes early, have a coffee and check out the scene. Lucky I have because it’s just gone 4:45pm on a Friday and the bar is already rammed. Just enough time to bolt downstairs get changed and steady the ship. As standard Mhairi is stressing, Sara is flapping about like an idiot, empty fridges, glasses piled up all over the shop, and my pristinely ironed shirt in the middle. Not a hair out of place, boots polished, kilt well washed, I know the Edinburgh Uni cheerleaders are coming in tonight, I’m the cool head here to create order. “Mhairi, go smoke, Sara, fill the fridges, Craig mate I need you to blitz these glasses, Jaf take section 1, Rachel take 2 and 3, I’ll see to section 4 and dispense, game over”. I cut a dominating figure but in a matter of minutes and a manner that commands respect we’re back in charge.

Control is key, we’re a team of pharmacists working at speed. Giving out set doses of a potent legal drug, where bizarrely it is the patient who writes the prescription. Every sale is a judgement call and I‘ve just found this gentleman guilty of overconusmption. Unfortunately I use the term gentleman only to denote gender as this guy is no gentleman. He’s the big man, swilling filthy lager like there’s no tomorrow. An orange skinned cretin on each arm and an accomplice who is somehow even more ignorant than he is. “Hoi, we’re next, I’ve been waiting here twenty minutes, 2 pints and whatever the burds are havin.” Naturally I’m irked, he’s hit my automatic raw nerve, shouting at the bartenders, never a good idea, strike one.

“I’m sorry Sir, I appreciate you’ve been waiting a while but these two ladies are before you, I’ll be with you in a couple minutes.”

It seems our ire is now mutual and his two lonely brain cells conspire to formulate a reply. “Naw, it’s me now, who do you think you are?” This reply is really not the response I was looking for, and unfortunately for him its strike two and the cold shoulder for the next five minutes. As you can imagine this only inspires further annoyance and as a symbolic gesture of his annoyance he begins to wag a twenty pound note at me and then slams a meaty fist into the bar top. Strike three.

“Excuse me Sir I’m now going to have to ask you to leave.” Realising he’s out of his depth and now lost his right to self-prescribed alcohol he turns to his enormous vocabulary.
“Me! Leave? How are you gonnae make me do that like, who the fuck are you?” Little does he know Andy the bouncer has been watching him the last five minutes and starts to move in so its time for me to deliver the killer line before he’s escorted out the building.

“Me? I’m the fucking bar supervisor, and as regards how I’m going to make you leave, I suggest you turn round and introduce yourself to our door staff.” Game over, this is my bar, and despite losing grip of my vocabulary I’m still in charge.

After this brief altercation the night actually runs quite smoothly and my team are working well together. Seamless synergy, everyone’s got an eye out for each other. I can feel a real sense of people enjoying the peculiar feeling of an ordered chaos. The DJ hits a brilliant patch of form and amongst a chaotic service there’s smiles and the occasional dance behind the bar. Me and Ian start juggling bottles, a real crowd pleaser. Get the tips in and we’ll take a drink tonight, everyone glows and the customers are happy. This is where I become satisfied, I take five minutes to myself and sit down in the green room with a content smile and an effervescent buzz, job done, everyone’s had a good night on both sides of the bar, so now I can retire shirt a little creased and hair a bit fuzzy.

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