Jailbait Rock.
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Each night of the week there's some kind of cabaret performance in the adult bar and being absolutely frank most of the time it's dreadful; fifty-something never-beens who will probably do anything for sixty quid and a cab ride home who, most of the time are, at best, a distraction, and often actually turn out to be a major negative. One 'comedian' last week almost incited the audience into a riot, he was so awful.
Tonight, however, the male singer who turned up - late forties, shaved head - was actually half-decent. He had a well above-average voice and while as per usual he just churned out a bunch of 'classic' covers he did them well enough and had a good-enough grasp on the half-shot audience to be fairly entertaining. It's easy to be overly critical when you're stone-cold sober and looking po-faced from the back of the room but hat's off to him. He did alright. A rare bird indeed.
Birds of a far more frequent nature are the once or twice mentioned 15-16 year-olds in push-up bras and mini-skirts who seem to be multiplying in numbers each and every day I work. Now, I'm alright - I'm a happily married man* - but Jesus Christ these girls are jailbait personified.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but when I was 16-years old and skipping the only two lessons I had each week in the sixth form at school the average bra size amongst the ladies in my year was, at best, a B. Sure, you'd get the odd C-cup now and then but the only time your peepers ever stared wide-eyed at a set of Ds, or more, was on a girl who, let's be fair, was fairly equally proportioned. You know, 5ft2 and 14 stone, with Coke-bottle glasses and greasy hair. OK, so you probably still would, but somewhere between 15 and 18 you become almost certifiably mad.
About a decade ago I remember reading that the average female bra size had increased to a C. Nowadays, in the heady climate of 2007, if it's anything less than a D I'll quit the West and live out my dream life as a Tibetan monk. I'm not sure if they - and by 'they' I of course mean men - put something in the water or what but tits are everywhere.
That's all well and good, but tits on a 15-year old are bad news. Particularly when over fifty per cent of them are on view.
Now, don't get me wrong - I like breasts as much as the next man - but I have my limits. A code, if you will. But not everybody shares this samurai-like existence. And that's where yet another problem keeps cropping up.
I've already mentioned a couple of times about the problems with underage drinking and, specifically, service. Now, it's alright for me to be funny about very young girls in very tight tops because, quite frankly, I am old enough to be their father. In fact, in some cases, I probably am their father. But for a 19-year old bartender a 15-16 year old girl is a lot less of a taboo. Particularly when her norks are resting on the bar. Now, while there's almost no chance of him getting anything more than a smile and a cheeky conversation - her dad, after all, is probably less than 50 yards away at all times - it does tend to mean that he turns one or two blind eyes to, you know, actually asking her for ID and stuff because, fuck me, even if she held it up in front of his face his eyes would never leave her decolletage.
What this means is, as per usual, yours truly and the other mugs who turn up at 6pm have to pick up the pieces. This means ID checks around the clock, often in front of parents who don't give a fuck and more often that not will then turn around and continue buying the drinks for their nubile offspring even after we've pointed at a scoreboard which clearly states 'nil point'.
Believe me, if I had a pound for every time this has happened in the past week, I'd have enough to buy one of the young ladies a top that fits. The upcoming lecture to the barstaff comes free.
* Honest.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:43 am
