further bar woes
During my undergrad finals, I worked part time in a very local bar - the kind where 5 men with the same name sit at the dimly lit bar smoking and ogling the bar staff, beer or cigarette in one hand, fiddling with themself under the table with the other, and it's the same every fucking night, and has been since the day the bar opened in the year AD 20. This bar was in a village about a 20 minute walk from where I lived, a village with 3 churches, 3 bars, and a small Post Office general store, which was only open from totally inconvenient time to ten minutes later, and during the annual may fair, the fair queen would always have some truly arresting disfigurement, either missing an arm, eyes staring in different directions, webbed hands, a beard - something eyecatching in an 11 year old girl anyway. Although we were only a half hour drive from 'the big city' (Glasgow - not a hotbed of culture, unless you really go looking for it), most folk hadn't been further from home than the Bishopbriggs shopping centre down the road (a B&Q, a Halfords, an Asda, and MacDonalds - it was the height of sophistication for some of them).

So as you might imagine, for the bar regulars, having a young, buxom lady tending to their boozy needs was a dream come true. I may be a bit plump (okay, fat), but I have large breasts, and my uniform required me to wear a very tight white shirt and short black skirt, so the old men could lech, and maybe buy more drinks. That I could answer some of the more difficult questions on the 'Who wants to be fleeced out of a pound coin' machine endeared me to them further - most got confused at the concept of multiple choice, so were glad of an explanation that just because C was correct once, doesn't mean that C stands for correct answer.

One night, after asking a large group of neds to kindly fuck off at least until they started secondary school, one of the regulars asked me for a pint of bitter with peppermint cordial (this was a favoured drink there, for some god awful reason), so I was preparing his drink for him, and his hand started to reach across the bar towards my right breast. With a raised eyebrow, I moved backwards, and enquired as to what he thought he was doing?

'Ach, ah jest wanna feel wan like, by the way, ye cunt' quoth he.
'Well don't' I said, and finished off pouring his pint.
'weel, howse aboot ah gie ye a pound fer a feel?' he responded.

And do you know what? For some reason, best known to her, my boss sacked me after the police had been round. How was I meant to know it was a glass eye?


Luckily, after the circumstances had been explained to the police officer, fuckwit decided not to pursue the complaint, and I was asked to refrain from lamping elderly men in the face in future, no matter what the provocation. Oh well.
( ascorbate, Fri 5 Sep 2008, 16:23, Reply)