Customer Species
I suppose, working behind the bar at a golf club, I can’t
really complain, simply because I am so wonderfully
lucky and… grateful to have the
opportunity to serve such a diverse
range of people.
Ok, so… the general consumer market of the standard English
golf club is that of the retired (lazy) lucky (rich) time-heavy (ohhhh poor
things) male or female over the age of 65. Ok.70. Hmmm I might go so far as to
say that perhaps 80% of the golf club customer population is over the age of
75. But hey – just because certain individuals have lived over a certain age
doesn’t mean they all turn into the same stereotypical, stubborn, tight-fisted,
set-in-their-ways, egotistical, sexist,
hating-the-new-modern-interior-because-it-favors-the-younger-market-and-hurts-my-eyes
individuals. Does it? Now. No. Actually. It doesn’t. I may be sounding
sarcastic. I know what you are all thinking. Harsh bitch putting down the
grannies. That isn’t the case. There is in actual fact quite a fascinating
array of different human species that enter the golf club on a weekly, if not
daily, basis, as part of a ritualistic routine surrounding a bizarre bubble of
human life.
I can honestly say I am blessed to bear witness to such
fascinating behaviour first-hand, integrating and actually being on first name
terms with these complex human minds that provide an insight into their own
species of habit. Without further ado I should like to introduce you to some of
my favourite specimens, and allow you to search – and tick off your findings –
at your own pace.
The Bar-Loiterer.
Ever worked behind a bar and been simultaneously desperate
for the toilet? There is no-one else on to help you. You are alone and your
bladder has started to throb. There is a customer to the far left picking up
packets of crisps and nuts, scanning the drinks menu. Ok. So you can hold it,
serve and go. You approach. You smile. He smiles. He breathes deeply. You wait.
You tap your foot. You smile. He smiles. He puts the crisps down. He reads the
back of a chocolate bar. You swallow hard. He turns away. Fuck it, you think.
Run! Just before you reach the toilet, you see the man at the bar, waiting to
finally be served, your boss sees, stares at you. “There’s someone waiting to
be served,” he says, “don’t leave the bar with a customer waiting.” You wince.
You approach. He orders a large cappuccino. A little bit of urine trickles out
as you clench your pelvic floor.
The Misguided
Moaner
It is a beautiful sunny day. The sky is a blue that you’ve
only been dreaming of since horrid rains and grey clouds have turned your skin
a pallid yellowy-ill colour. As the vitamin D filters through glass doors ahead
you feel the magnetic pull of the sun wanting to lead you to happiness. Just
before you step out behind the bar to wonder like a zombie towards the light, a
harassed tanned looking species approaches.
“Oh,” she says.
“Ohhhhhh.”
You stand, glancing
between the doors and her. She looks at you. You smile. She shakes her head.
“Oaaahhhhh.” She
flops her head on her hands on the counter.
“Oh?” you ask.
“Too hot…. Too
hot…. Out there.”
You swallow.
“I suppose you
don’t feel it. In here. In the nice and cool.”
(Biting tongue.)
“No actually. We don’t.”
“Oh. It’s too hot.
Look at me – I’ve changed colour!”
“Lucky you.”
“I’m sweating.
Actually sweating. It’s horrendous.”
“What would you
like?” (Hurry up, and let me go outside.)
“Oh I don’t know.
Something refreshing. I’m exhausted. It’s tough out there, you know.” (Gestures
to the sun.)
“Mmmm. I bet,” You
say. You dream of cocktails, lying on the grass. Your feet hurt. You’ve been
running around cleaning up after the poor old souls that are too hot to relax.
“My legs” she says “–
so sore.”
(Your feet – swollen
and blistered.)
“You don’t have to
go out and spend your day in the sunshine playing golf and engaging in the social
hobby you clearly love.” (This is what you want to say.)
“Maybe don’t spend
your lovely (lucky, lazy, happy, horrid) day off, in the sun?” This is what you
do say, bar the brackets.
“Oh I couldn’t do
that! Carry my tea over to my table for me will you? My feet hurt and my arms
are shaky.”
Fuck. My. Life.
The Over-Sharer.
Discusses loudly controversial topics such as abortion, the
father of the baby, DNA tests, was she drugged or was she drunk? The smear test
last weekend, Aunty Marjorie’s rotting left foot, weight loss and cholesterol
levels, really bad morning breath, troublingly slow bowel movements etc etc.*
*The Over-Sharer is often also a bar-loiterer – choosing to
have these conversations whilst apparently oblivious to the fact that a
waitress is stood next to them waiting to take their order. Interesting
selective vision technique.
The First-World
Problem Fanatic. No sense of perspective.
“Oh no! I spilt my
glass of water!” Oh no! There’s a tap with running water two feet away!
“Oh no! You filled my
half-a-cider too full, how ever will I carry it to the table without spilling a
drop?!” Oh no! You’re allowed to drink some!
“Oh no! I dropped my
ice cream!” Lick it up off the floor then.
“Gosh! There’s
mayonnaise on my tie!” Gosh! We have washing powder!
“Fuck shit bugger
tits I burnt the toast.” Cock wank sweaty balls we’re lucky enough to have
bread – infact, twenty loaves of them!
“Crikey I just saw
Barry from the gym and I’m wearing no make-up!” Crikey, a) you have enough
time to work out in the gym, b) you’re lucky enough to be fat enough to need to work out in the gym c) no make-up, oh God you look like a
human! D) Barry’s gay.
The Sexist Whistler
Two actions from male customer – Whistle. And beckon.
Two actions from female waitress: Fuck. And Off.
The Ration-Grabber
Waitress: (Clearing plates.)
Ration-grabber: I’d like some tin foil please.
Waitress: Yes, certainly, what is it for?
Ration-grabber: the leftovers?
Wairess: Leftovers?
Ration-grabber: (pointing to a soggy strand of leaf on
plate.) Leftovers.
Waitress: (high pitched voice.) Cer….tain….ly?
Oh dear.
The
Mothers-Meeting
It’s just a mess of crockery and hair.
The Preacher
Leaning in surprisingly close with an outstretched finger directed
at your ‘heart’ – obviously as a self-conscious young adult in her early
twenties you misconstrue this as a bizarre attempt to touch your breast.
“They misquoted me.
MISQUOTED me. I said ‘faith in Jesus Christ.’ Not faith in religion. Religion
is the terror of the world. Look at Syria ,
Egypt
Honestly, I found
this conversation very interesting and, yes, I was enjoying the strength of the
topic, however, when you are simultaneously trying to steam boiling milk,
listen, formulate your own opinion, answer, avoid your friend who is looking
pertrified of the preacher whilst hiding behind the recycle bin, and at the
same time trying to avoid the accusatory touch of an outstretched finger
directed at the left breast, the whole conversation at seven o’clock in the
morning suddenly becomes quite a surprising handful.
Conclusion:
Bar work can actually be quite a fascinating experience.
