Jobsworthy?
Thursday, 31 May 2007
I've been called a 'Jobsworth' three times in my career as a door supervisor.
1. When I told a father that he was breaking the law by supplying his 8-year old child with alcoholic beverages.
2. When I barred a 17-year old kid for drinking on the premises - he'd flittered between sneaking in cans of Stella and getting his 18-year old mate to buy drinks for him - after two warnings.
3. When I ejected a 20-something bloke from the premises for stripping off... on the main stage.
I mean, fucking hell, what was I supposed to do? Look the other way? There's an area that's grey and there's one that's very fucking black and white. What most people don't understand is that if they're, you know, nice, and ask us for advice or help, instead of just assuming they can do xyz, then we'll usually make every effort to be of assistance. If, however, they're aggressive from the very first second - be that in regard to forgetting their pass, smoking somewhere they shouldn't, being generally reckless, etc - then they can fucking well fuck off.
You want me to look the other way? Don't be such a fucking cunt.
posted by Sheamus @ 4:00 am
Easy.
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
Another very late night. I need to get back on the
Worthy, who you'll remember is the latest DS addition, is working out very well. We're actually related by marriage (honest) but don't let that put you off. The important thing is that he's more than just a body, and I don't mean that in any post-modern gay sense. As I've said before, you're only as strong as your weakest link, although sometimes I wonder if that statement is a bit too close to the classic poker quotation that states that if, after the first 20 minutes, you don't know who the sucker is at the table, it's you.
Very busy tonight, but it seems to be a good crowd. Somebody pointed out that this half-term week is fuck-off expensive, and only a right cunt would pay good money to turn up and be a right cunt. Lots of pissheads, of course, but they're an easy-going, apologetic bunch.
One bit of good news today is that the complex is cracking down on the DJs playing R&B and the more hardcore dance music. Now, that might sound a bit off, and even a little prejudiced, but believe me - nothing gets the young'uns/hopheads more fucked than an hour or so of that kind of music (he says, in his mid-30s). The DJ booth now specifically states that that kind of thing must be kept to a 'minimum'. Time will tell if it actually happens, but it's a positive step forward. Fuck the kids, as Jonathan King once said.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:30 am
Ring.
Tuesday, 29 May 2007
It was a long night, we went the distance (2am), but apart from a few generally insignificant odds and ends, it was basically an easy shift.
However, we had a few owners in, two of which are a youngish couple (late 20s) who have been together for over five years and recently got engaged. They're both very nice, but they rarely come out and drink; the woman in particular. Tonight, however, they were celebrating another owner's birthday, and as it typically goes with non-drinkers, it wasn't long before they were both pretty drunk, her in particular. However, they're very pleasant, as said, and I figured that was that.
About midnight, however, one of their friends came up to me and said the lady had lost her engagement ring. The story was that jokingly she'd taken it off and thrown it at her beau, he'd put it in his pocket, and then lost it. Naturally, she was beside herself and because she was drunk quickly became a bit hysterical. The DJ put a call out to the bar and I spent the better part of an hour, on-and-off, looking for the thing. Especially when the chap mentioned it had cost him five grand.
It never turned up. I kept on expecting to see a glimmer of light somewhere near the dance floor (the only places he'd been was the bar, the dance floor and the toilet) but when it didn't happen after sixty minutes I figured either (a) somebody had picked it up, or (b) it had been kicked somewhere - most likely under the tiny gap beneath the stage - and it was going to take a miracle with a pair of eagle-eyes to find it. I even went up to the bloke and asked him if he'd searched inside his shirt, trousers, other pockets, etc, but he'd assured me he had, and it wasn't there.
About half an hour later I'd basically given up hope. I was walking down by the doors to the club when suddenly the chap walked by, got my attention, and beckoned me outside. We walked well out of earshot and he looked and me and said, "Tell her you found it."
And held up the ring.
When I'd left him earlier, he'd gone over himself again and, fucking hell, lo and fucking behold, he found it in one of his trouser pockets. Basically as I had said.
Now, understandably not all that keen on taking the full brunt from his missus who'd been doing her nut for a couple of hours while he'd had it in his possession all along, he asked me to pretend I'd found it. I double-checked with him to make sure this wasn't some kind of elaborate joke, and it definitely was the ring, but he assured me everything was as said.
So, I went back in, found her, dropped the ring in her hand, and Jesus Christ, the poor girl couldn't have been any more grateful. I was alright with that, but then when everybody else started shaking my hand and the DJ called out that I'd found it over the microphone, I felt like a right cunt. I even had to make out I'd found it outside the toilets, to cover the boyfriend's arse.
That's fine; all in a day's work, etc. And when he came back inside and she rushed up to him, passed on the news, and they embraced, it was all worth it. I guess. The bloke and I shared a private nod - him, thanks, me, no worries - but I felt ashamed enough to spill the beans to Jabba and Edmonson, neither of whom seemed to give much of a fuck. I guess you had to be there.
I tell you what, though, I'm not sure I've ever seen so many diamonds before. That thing was huge. No wonder she was crying her eyes out. I would have been.
Actually, I wouldn't; it's a bit harsh, but that's one of the big differences between a man and a woman. A woman loses her wedding ring, she's inconsolable. A man loses his engagement or wedding ring, and he's upset... but only because he knows his partner will be. Personally, he doesn't give a fuck. But he has to - and does - because she does.
But deep down, all he's really thinking about is the insurance claim.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:30 am
Sunday, fucking Sunday.
Monday, 28 May 2007
The final night of the footballers', and up until about 10pm all was well.
You'll remember last time I told you about the series of presentations/awards ceremonies that go on on the Sunday, and how busy that shit gets, specifically because, unlike the Saturday, each team hands out special presentation tickets to pretty much anybody they like. The place was heaving, and because of the bad weather (it rained solidly for about five hours), nobody really wanted to leave the complex. It's busy to the point where your presence is almost redundant; the place is impossible to police and there are so many people swarming around that you are almost compelled to not see the wood for the trees.
But... it seemed to all be in order. Kids doing their typical Lord of the Flies stint, their parents/uncles/aunties/someone they casually knew once getting smashed, etc etc. No worries. Jabba had even gone down the lower bar to help The Lodge out. Then, out of nowhere, a bloke chases two kids out of the complex. "You... get back in your fucking bed NOW!" he says to one, then, "And YOU... get in your FUCKING BED NOW!" to the other.
Hmmm, I think. What have we here. I follow them outside just to see what's going on, but they're turned the corner before I'm there. Somebody comes up to me and says, "Don't worry; they're his kids." OK, not the way I'd have handled it, in a public place and all, but fair enough. I go back inside.
Ten minutes later, my attention is drawn to a large crowd outside the complex collectively walking towards something. I look out, and the same bloke is back again, but this time he's going full on with another geezer. I run down there and force myself in between them, giving it the usual "Come on lads, break it up" shite, but then it gets a bit odd. One of the blokes is being quite aggressive; his opponent is adopting more of a restraining stance. The restrainer says to me, "Just leave us mate, it's alright." Which is all well and good, but when his mate says to the other guy:
"Don't do this; I'll fucking hurt you."
Well, I can't really just piss off, can I? I split them up and the aggressor just runs off, literally. I note then that a woman is watching, who identifies herself as the nutter's wife. Both of them then turn on me. "What did you go and do that for? We were trying to stop him," they say.
What transpires is as follows. Earlier, we'd had a report over the radio of some of the football kids banging on caravan doors, pulling out the electrics, etc. This isn't unusual when it's busy, but it was to the extent where it was a problem, and it was dealt with. The kids that the psycho bloke had chased out of the complex were his own, and were involved. However, other kids were involved too, and something appeared to have gone down between these different kids and psycho's because his agenda then became all about tracking down and, one assumes, physically punishing them, to the extent where his wife, and the guy who I now discovered was his best mate, felt compelled to stop him.
Nutter had already been ejected from the lower bar before he came up to see us. I'd already called it through to all security before he did a runner, and in the piss-pouring rain we all followed him outside the complex and down into the park. He was gone, but for a moment his best mate then became the issue. They were all a bit drunk, naturally, and he went from the usual accusations of 'all bouncers are cunts...' to us explaining why we acted how we did because of what we saw, and then him realising how it all looked. He was fine, we were fine, the bloke was gone, so we all went back inside. Not before, however, he'd revealed that the lunatic was one of the team's manager.
Then another call came over the radio from the new DS, who we'll call Worthy. I couldn't make out the message at all but it didn't take me long to realise that the lunatic had somehow doubled-back behind us and got back into the complex. Several blokes were now holding him back. Amusingly, as I walked up, the biggest of the football security blokes went up to him - he's at least 6ft4 and 20 stone - but was met with a resounding "FUCK OFF!", and duly did. Yeah, cheers mate.
Worthy tells me what happened. At the last minute, he clocked the guy going back inside but before he could act psycho had gone up to another manager and headbutted him. What is it about this fucking place and headbutts? Worthy managed to get him in an armlock and outside, and by now the throng had seen him well away from the doors but he was still acting like a proper mental. His mate had explained to us how us being there, but keeping distance, while his friends calmed him down would be the best medicine, and it was working. Then, naturally, another one of the football security boys walks straight up to him, says this and that, and it all kicks off again. Eventually, he leaves, has another go at the lower bar, is kicked out of there again, and then last I heard was being taken off the complex.
By now, the park had a real sinister vibe going on, was still packed to the gills with pissheads, and I'll admit I feared the worst. We're talking a couple of thousand drinkers here, and three doormen. You do the math(s).
Somehow, however, we got through it. A woman passed out in the main bar and had to be taken away by ambulance, and clearing a walkway for the stretcher wasn't a piece of cake, let me tell you (pissheads don't like it when they have to leave their comfy tables), and we had all kinds of petty crap with kids and teenagers doing their usual shit, and half an hour after closing time we discovered eight people were only halfway through their game of tenpin bowling (and the odds of the duty manager switching the machines off and refunding their money was somewhere between 'none' and 'fuck all'), but somehow we got them all out.
And Goddammit I'm fucking knackered.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:30 am
The Mystery Shopper, Part II
Sunday, 27 May 2007
Do you remember many moons ago when I told you about The Mystery Shopper? Do you? DO YOU?
Well, here's a slightly surreal tale.
It was another footballer weekend, as previously mentioned. Thankfully, the final one. Very busy, although not on a par with the sheer brutality of last time. Of course, we were understaffed - as Bilbo failed to show up for the second day in a row, it was once again just Jabba and myself. Poor Jabba; even Edmonson went home early yesterday, saying he was ill.
Anyway, we decided the best we could do was work the doors - specifically - and that was about it. Let the football security boys take care of the rest (i.e., stand around doing nothing.) So about 10.30pm one of the owner's kids, a chap who's well-known to us and generally okay, comes up and says he saw two kids with a screwdriver in the over-18's arcade. This, of course, is a big no-no. This is intent. As we're walking over, the arcade manager comes over and says the same thing.
So we go inside. We're not exactly sure how to play it; the problem is that if you haven't seen it yourself, it's always tough to call. But this kind of accusation must be taken seriously because potentially the venue could lose a fair bit of money if somebody managed to open one of the genuine 'Jackpot' machines. I figure the best way to play it is to wait for the guys to finish up their credits, and then ask them to come outside for a chat. So that's what I do.
Of course, they're adamant that they're innocent. To be fair, they empty all of their pockets, lift up their trousers, sleeves, etc. Nothing. Jabba goes back to the over-18's arcade to search where they were sitting, etc, and also finds nothing. The guy's aren't too happy about all this and ask to speak to the arcade manager, who obliges. He's not a guy who is prone to stepping back on a judgement, however - he has been doing this job for nearly 20 years - and his stubbornness causes one of the blokes to become aggressive and the arcade boss wants them both out. Then he decides that they can't stay in the arcade, but the clubs are fair game. When I point out (in private) that it's impossible to get to the clubs without going through the arcade, he suggests that it's okay if they are in the arcade - they just can't play any of the machines.
However, one of the guys isn't too happy with this call. "I put twenty quid in that machine," he says, "And I want a chance to get my money back." I tell him it isn't going to happen. He asks to speak to the complex manager. I call him. He agrees with the arcade manager's decision. That, as they say, is that. At this point, the other bloke starts going a bit 'wa-hey' with hands and accusations everywhere, a situation not helped by the arcade boss returning and basically telling him to fuck off. I tell both of the guys that unless they calm down, they're hardly doing themselves any favours and we'll have no option but to ask them to leave for good. Repeatedly one of the chaps asks the arcade manager for his surname, but he refuses to give it. This becomes quite the issue.
Eventually, they seem to basically accept it. Then, however, a woman, maybe in her early 40s, walks over. I suddenly realise she'd been watching us for a while. She tells the two blokes to calm down, and then says to me, "I'm used to this stuff. I've been watching you guys. I'm The Mystery Shopper."
She seems to know enough about the job to be credible; she informs us that we handled the situation well but the manager screwed up by refusing to reveal his surname. I'm contemplating exactly what I should be saying to her while she returns her attention to the other two. Then, out of nowhere, this bloke walks up, pulls her to one side, gets right in one of the accused's faces and barks, "What's your fucking problem!? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING TO MY WIFE?"
Shit.
How, exactly, does one compute this? Where in the handbook is the procedure for dealing with The Mystery Shopper's intoxicated, angry life-partner? Repeatedly, his missus tried to calm him down, or drag him away, but he wasn't having it. The two guys played it cool at first but when Mr Mystery Shopper said, "Do you want a smack in the fucking mouth?" their eyes went a bit blurry.
"It's alright mate," I said, "There's nothing going on here. They were just talking."
But it was no good; he was looking through me like all mega-drunks do when they're beyond the 10+ pint level. Suddenly, he turned to Jabba and said, "What's going on here? And tell me the truth..." So Jabba told him. To which he replied, "Look, we'll walk away, and they'll walk away, and let's just leave it at that, yeah?"
It was like some weird Alice in Wonderland trip. I was still trying to figure out exactly what The Mystery Shopper would put in her report if we were forced to put her drunk of a husband on the floor because he was a being a total cunt. She'd probably spend all night marking us up and then marking us down.
In less surprising news, the football security boys fucked off duty at 1am leaving us with another full-house at closing time. Que sera, sera.
posted by Sheamus @ 4:00 am
Gruesome twosomes.
Friday, 25 May 2007
Well.
The meeting was pretty much as anticipated - boring - but a few things of note emerged. One, that yes, it's true, 'the boss' has now moved elsewhere, and #2 is now #1. And Lynch is now #2.
Me? I've been offered the position of Head Doorman by #1, which of course I've accepted. It probably means more money too (he said as much), which I'm a bit uncomfortable about. It's not false modesty - nobody turns down extra cash but I'm not sure I deserve to be paid any more than Jabba or Edmonson, who do equally as good a job. I don't really know how I feel about it. This is somewhat evident in the fact that I haven't mentioned it to them. Yet. It may never happen, anyway. Won't be the first time for this place.
In other news, two incidents of note tonight.
One, we'd been closely watching a middle-aged couple go through their nightly 'domestic' all week. It's been building and building, and tonight there was a bit of violence. From her to him. It's a situation that's very tough to call. Both were pissed - her very much so - but she seemed to be going out of her way to piss him off. To get him to react. Maybe publically? She turned her back to him all night, called and texted people, slapped him several times (never on the face, but very hard) and told him to 'fuck off' left, right and centre. Edmonson checked on her a few times but, as they always are, she was 'okay'. The weird part was that each time she went to the toilet the bloke would just wait outside like a sentry, not moving until she emerged. At one point earlier in the evening the female cleaner came to get me because he wanted her to get his wife and wouldn't accept the toilet was empty. He'd been waiting outside for half an hour. It was empty. His missus was back at the table. Mental.
Eventually, they were asked to leave. I point-blank asked her if she was okay to go home with him and, of course, he answered. "I'm speaking to her, mate," I said, and repeated the question.
"Yeah," she said, "If there's a problem, I can always call you." And she held up her mobile phone.
Good luck finding the number. As I said, it was impossible to call as she was doing everything to push his buttons, while he didn't ever seem to do anything but make sure she was always with him.
The second incident also featured a domestic. This time, a much younger couple. I'd already cut off their drink supply at the bar as the bloke - basically a 6ft+ chav in a baseball cap - had already been on the verge of falling over. Him and his missus - who was with three very young children who may or may not have been his - were going through that endless drunk loop of having 'words' with each other and then smooching/slow-dancing etc. Tedious and boring, and when I left them to escort the aforementioned couple outside things seemed okay. I stayed outside with Edmonson for a few minutes, making sure they left without any problems. Then:
"FIGHT IN THE SHOWBAR..."
We rushed back inside. Cap-chav was standing on the dancefloor, looking stunned, with his missus being held back by Jabba. Cap-chav's t-shirt had been torn right down the middle, almost completely in two, and while I approached his missus managed to get in a few more pulls and face slaps despite Jabba's best efforts. I got in front of the bloke to attempt to calm him down, but he wasn't having it. There was a bit of to- and froing with Cap-chav announcing that he wasn't going to leave unless she was. That wasn't an issue, as both of them were, but we wanted to stagger it a bit. Her first, him second. But when she went out with the kids, he gamely followed, so I had to step in front of him again. At one point he had one of my fingers in the grip of a hand and I suddenly realised this could get very interesting. I was annoyed with myself for being so clumsy.
But he didn't do anything. We got them both outside and separated, and she went off with the kids, telling the 'cunt' that she didn't want anything to do with him again. All he could say to her was that we were going to put him in 'prison', but once we'd assured him that we were not, he calmed right down. Again, it's a hard one to call. All anyone had seen is her attacking him, but who knows what had been done or said in the minutes/hours/days/weeks/years leading up to this night?
Eventually a friend of his turned up and offered to have him stay in his caravan. Problem solved. Except, I later heard, on the way back Cap-chav had given park security (and the cameras) the slip and probably went 'home' anyway. But no further incidents were reported.
While outside, the aforementioned couple were still going through the motions, until park took them back to their abode.
The examples here are quite typical. Couples with 'issues' go away to relax and try and re-ignite old flames but once the alcohol starts flowing freely all that is given a spark is old wounds. And if a relationship is one that includes physical violence (or even mental bullying), the answer is rarely going to lie at the bottom of a bottle. But try telling them that.
Anyway, this is already old news. Finally, a day off emerges - I've done 46.5 hours on my fucking feet this week. And then, oh yes, it's the footballers. And a TV camera crew, for some fucking reason. Good times, good times.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:30 am
Changes.
Thursday, 24 May 2007
Well, the shocking news tonight is that five minutes after arriving at work I discovered that our boss, the head of security, is no longer our boss. That's right. He's moved to another department. By choice, they're saying, but methinks it might have had something to do with everything being such a farce these past two months and him wising up and deciding it's best to wash his hands clean of it all.
So, #2 is now our boss. Allegedly. There's a 'big meeting' tomorrow where I'm sure this will all be resolved. #2 being the boss is a good thing or, at least, that's how it been in the past. I'm hoping, as he chaired our previous 'big meeting', he'll pay heed to our suggestions, and push through some changes. Let's hope he doesn't morph into another #1.
I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before - I'm assuming it's come across in my prose - but everything in my place is money, money, money. Specifically, getting the most they can out of doing and offering the least. This, of course, includes staff, but does not stop there. That bullet runs all the way through the punters and their kids and right through the very park itself. The handrail on the stairs is a bit wonky, is it? Stick a bit of masking tape on it, mate. There's no ramp for the disabled folk in the main arcades? Chuck a bit of wood down. The toilet in the 'Mother & Baby' room has a ticking nuclear device in it? Try flushing.
Keeping an eye on the budget isn't unusual in a big organisation, of course, but there's a level of reasonability. And it doesn't seem to exist here. Nobody seems to notice or realise that screwing people over rarely leads to an increase in performance. Or, indeed, any performance at all. What happens is people leave. And they do, in their droves.
Every other day, somebody - a cleaner, an ENTS girl, a waitress, a barman - says to me, "You're going to leave soon, aren't you?"
I haven't actually said anything to anybody about any of this. Leaving, that is. It must be my wry smile and winning demeanour. I suppose folk hear security moaning a lot but only because that's our job. To pass on negative information, i.e., this is a problem, he is a cunt, they have to leave. It's not my fault; it's in the small print, dear.
But of course everybody notices the difference between a full security roster - like, for example, tonight - and when it's just me and Jabba clearing out a main bar full of 1000 pissheads at 2.30 in the morning, by ourselves.
But nothing changes.
Jabba, Edmonson and myself - who, without being even remotely arrogant, hold this fucking place together night after night - know damn well that every new day brings the possibility that we might be the only one on duty. We, that is, as in 'I'.
In this job somebody could die. Or, alternatively, you could slash a few quid off the annual budget. Hmmm.
As somebody once said:
You gotta operate the easy way
"I made a G today."
But you made it in a sleazy way
sellin'
"I gotta get paid,"
Well hey: that's the way it is.
Quite.
Good news: the footballers are back this weekend. Go me.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:00 am
Black.
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
At 9.45pm, The Lodge called over the radio that the lower bar had been throttled by a power cut.
A few minutes later, and somewhat systematically, different areas of the park started blacking out one by one.
Even the street lights went off.
By now we were all equipped with torches and shit, and I was so looking forward to C.S.I.-ing my way around a panicking complex, holding the light at head-height (like, you know, the pros do) and escorting screaming kids/drunks/ENTS girls to safety. When I looked down at the main gates and noticed that the lights there had gone out, it was only a matter of time.
Suddenly, the entire complex flickered off...
... and then came straight fucking back on again.
Damn you, back-up generators.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:00 am
They're all out to get us. Especially you.
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
One of the weirdest things about my place of work is all the conspiracy theories.
Everybody thinks everybody else is out to get them.
Not me of course; I know they are.
Particularly in security, there's a lot of "Did you hear what so-and-so did...?" and "I don't know about you, but I reckon..."
The problem is that we get fed so many half-truths and anorexic promises that it becomes easy to buy into it all. It also didn't help that the most experienced doorstaff member got the boot not too long after we started ('We Ain't Got Jack'). That added a lot of fuel to the fire.
Current rumours in circulation:
- The Lodge is suing the company for a recent injury that occured at work (she tripped over a plant. No, really.)
- The Lodge is being paid more per hour than anybody else on the entire staff roster. (security, or otherwise), despite doing a lot less work (certainly of the risky kind.)
- The entire park is some kind of Mafia front; there's no way they could take in so much money and put out so little. Where does it all go?
- Everybody outside of the security team is either related to or sleeping with somebody else (on park.)
- One of the managers is skimming from the till. Which explains the car.
- One of the bargirls is sleeping with no less than six other blokes (at the same time.)
- And this is the main reason why she recently got moved down to the lower bar.
- One of the older employees is actually a paedophile. Who would choose to suddenly start working in an arcade in their 50s?
- Several employees have 'hushed-up' criminal records, usually for GBH.
- After the security have left for the night, whoever is left converges into the main complex for Society-style orgies, which explains why several punters seem to just 'vanish'.
- Jimmy Krankie is, in fact, a woman.
To top all this off, I figured out tonight that I'm actually related - albeit by marriage - to the latest security employee, who'll soon be moving to the doors. And this is the first time I've ever met him, even though he's known my brother for years. Mental.
Additionally, Bilbo has taken a second job - cleaning, for some fucking reason, in the day - and we know this is going to lead to several 6pm-bouts of "I'm tired", and him not turning up for fucking work. It's one thing to need a few more hours, but why not just do a bit more in security, you cunt? Men.
Or maybe that's just what he wants us to think...
posted by Sheamus @ 3:00 am
Good times, good times.
Monday, 21 May 2007
A night, dare I say it, of silliness.
First of all, Jabba had a chronic toothache and literally didn't say anything for the first couple of hours (post: "I've got a really bad toothache.") Now, Jabba is one of those people who never takes any pain medicine like ever. And I mean, never, never ever. He doesn't drink either. It's like his personal Samurai code. Tonight, however, that shit must have hurt pretty bad, as he was popping back ibuprofen, paracetamol, Strepsols and even fucking Bonjela to ease the pain. And of course if you never take anything it doesn't take much to make you high. And around 8pm, that's what he became. Hilarity ensued.
And it wasn't only the big man who was popping pills. One of the bar staff overheard a group of eight lads talking about taking something a little stronger and as the evening progressed, they duly went mental - on the dancefloor, naturally. One hilarious chap thought it would be just wizard to get on the stage and strip off. Another felt that what the evening was sorely lacking was an inspired bit of breakdancing. A third liked the idea of walking around on his hands. And then they all did a majestic 'group hug' whilst jumping around like lunatics. Oh, how we chuckled. Naturally, this meant that all I basically did was pay endless trips to the dancefloor, like every two minutes, to a point where it became a farce. Mr Stripper decided to have another go on the stage, so I dragged him off. He got a bit arsey so I told him that his was last chance. So he went straight back on the stage again. Out. His mate complained. Out. A couple more came with them, and as I got the four of them outside, I looked back and the other four were being escorted to the doors too. To be fair, they went pretty amicably, but couldn't resist another group walking-on-hands session near the exit. Super.
Finally, closing time. A few potential tossers still in there, but Sunday night is rarely a problem as the weekend crowd have to check out by 10am the next day, so can't do anything too major. We get them all outside pretty quickly and lock the doors. Five minutes later, a call comes over the radio. "Yeah... a couple of blokes are in the swimming pool."
We have an outdoor swimming pool that runs adjacent to the complex entrance. It's protected with fuck-off iron railings (capped with nasty spikes), but does that matter? Does it fuck. The two of them thought it would be just gorgeous to strip down to their boxers and have a near skinny-dip. To be honest, I didn't give a fuck, as they got out as soon as we came down, and tomorrow they're really going to pay. Not only is that water unheated (i.e., it's freezing), but it's not been cleaned properly all year. Seagulls wash and shit in it 24/7 (in that order.)
Goodbye funtime. Hello, scabies.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:00 am
John Rambo (Rambo 4) trailer
Sunday, 20 May 2007
Excuse the fuck out of me for getting a little excited.
While I still haven't seen Rocky Balboa, even though I've had a copy for months now, the reviews were, predominately, good. Could this be a late resurrection in Stallone's long-dead career? This trailer for John Rambo could possibly be the most violent one I've ever seen. Check it out.
See? Man, that looks sweet.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:45 pm
What's in? Cider.
I always seem to miss the good stuff.
Last night, Jabba, Edmonson and the others had got everybody out of the complex after closing, locked up, and were almost on the verge of going home, when a call came over the radio. "ALL DOORS TO..." and the address was given.
That's right. Another massive punchup.
But this time: somebody had a knife. The police came out on three separate occasions. And some unfortunate woman got huge clumps of hair pulled out from the back of her head. By another woman. And both were primary school teachers. God bless the kid who won't stop talking in that class.
Friday is a volatile bugger of a night; generally peaceful, when it kicks off it really goes for it. Of course, it's a big check-in day for the 'weekend crowd', who are usually hardcore drinkers. Most of them you need to keep a casual eye on but they never really go beyond the 'silly drunk' stage, but there's always a few that are one snakebite away from a massive domestic. Or worse.
(And yes - my place does serve snakebite. It even has a button on the till. I couldn't believe it; I thought Hastings outlawed that years ago.)
So, Jabba wasn't in the best of moods early on tonight, particularly as we're currently being fucked-over for our wages due to an 'agreement' to pay back the company for our licenses, in chunks. This is probably fair enough, but we have also been promised an 'incentive bonus' to keep us sweet, and to kind of help us ignore that we're doing the work of a promised ten door supervisors, each night, with only 2-4 of us actually present. And yes, you guessed it, while the money is being taken out, it ain't going back in. So we're losing almost a day's pay each time we get paid. Which, as you may have gathered, sucks. You can't help analysing it to the point where you feel that the worst day of the week is the one you basically worked for free.
And when at 6.15pm - fifteen minutes after we'd started our shift - Jabba had to kick a drunk out for repeatedly giving the bird to the lead ENTS girl, it had 'bad omen' written all over it.
Amazingly, it ended up being basically alright.
Very, very busy, with lots of pissheads, but even though I spent a good couple of hours dealing with the same x amount of cunts repeatedly going back on to the dance floor with their pints, cigarettes, syringes, nunchukas, etc etc, they were an amicable sort and always apologised. They were simply just pissed, is all it was. No lip. No attitude. Just drunks. It quickly becomes tedious but better that, of course, than more psychos. Although one pair of dickheads did manage to drop a full pint right in the middle of the dance floor, their shame was to such an extent that they escorted themselves out. Trust me - that's the good shit.
And - gasp - we even got a pint picked up for us after work. Mine was a Blackthorn. I tell you what, I've drunk more cider in the past couple of weeks than ever before in my life. I went out last night and had about 11 pints, which is something I'd never have contemplated even a few months ago. The old palette is a strange beast, indeed.
I'm doing a couple of Friday nights in June to cover another chap's holiday leave and you know I'm going to get all kinds of crap. Meh.
I'm also working Thursday this week, simply because I'm broke, principally because of the reasons outlined earlier on in the post. What this means for you guys is more exciting bloggage. You probably haven't paid much attention to my blog timestamps (you selfish bastards), but each week they've dropped a little bit, and this boy's got to eat. So I'm gonna throw in a couple of extra days each month. Just to cover the cider.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:30 am
Another Wednesday, another psycho.
Thursday, 17 May 2007
Another fucking Wednesday, another fucking psycho.
It was a quiet night until around 11pm. I walk into the main bar where they've got their nightly 'adult gameshow' on, and the lead ENTS girl comes over to me and points out a chap who, she says, has mooned the stage a couple of times. I observe him for a few minutes and he's clearly pissed, a clarification not unassisted by him deciding to adopt his tie into a 'Rambo'-style headband while I watched. This is rarely something done by normal people. When he started to boo the people on stage a little while later, I decided enough was enough, and told the barstaff to cut off all drinks for anyone on his table.
Then, it was simply a matter of time. There were only two possible conclusions: one, that they went to the bar, were refused service, and thought "Fuck it, then" and left, or two, they went ballistic.
About midnight his missus goes to the bar, and is refused, so he tries, and is also refused. Naturally, assuming she was the problem, he does what every sane man would do... and HEADBUTTS her.
She has a swing at him, and he storms out.
After a bit of a struggle - the guy was no runt, standing about 6ft3 - we get him to the main doors and he's told he has to leave. Jabba stays outside with him, and Edmonson and I go inside to make sure there's no additional problems. You see, when something like this happens, all kinds of 'hangers on' make an appearance. We had one 19-year old saying he was going to 'do' the headbutting loony because, well, he was a headbutting loony. We had another who was pissed off with somebody earlier and just wanted someone else to be pissed off with. And then we had Rambo's girlfriend, her sister and her partner to contend with as well.
The missus was fuming. "Don't worry about me or him," she said, "When I catch up with him I'm going to beat the fucking shit out of him." Then, one of the arcade girls came over to me and said Jabba wanted me. So I go out and Jabba's still there with the psycho. I walk up slowly and casually just to see what's going on, and then Rambo says:
"You've got some cajones on you, haven't you mate?"
Except what he actually said was:
"You've got some gahoonies on you, haven't you mate?"
So I'm like: "What?"
And then he starts doing all this B-Boy hand posturing bollocks and says, "You know what I said."
But at the time I didn't; I figured it out later, but had no idea what the fuck he was on about, and so turned to Jabba. "You called me?" I asked.
Rambo spoke again. "Are you talking to me mate?" he said.
"Er, no." I replied. "I'm talking to this guy."
"Yeah, but are you talking to me."
"No. I'm talking to him."
He then jabbed me lightly on the chest with a couple of fingers. This, in case you don't know, is the first and last warning. A second occurrence actually gives us legal permission to use 'reasonable force' against him, which in my case would have been breaking those fucking fingers, using a technique I've recently been reading about and itching to try out.
But no. Edmonson showed up, and he went through the same drama with him. "Have you got anything to say mate?"
Blah blah blah, the same old mental ramblings from a total scrote. He leaves. We go back to his missus who is still ranting and raging about how she's going to 'do him', and then she leaves. The sister and brother-in-law stay behind, with the other couple's crying, 8-year old daughter (of course. Same old, same old.)
Edmonson calls through to the boys in park security to keep an eye on Rambo and his up-for-it missus, specifically because we want to know where they're staying in case it goes tits-up later. Fine. They put the cameras on them.
Five minutes later we get a call over the radio. "Yeah, that couple you asked us to watch. They've having a snog now. Should we leave it there?"
I'm sorry? What? What!?
Five minutes was all it took for a woman who had just been HEADBUTTED by her partner to welcome him back into her bosom. Five minutes. I realise this isn't a very PC thing to say but it's incredibly hard to have any kind of sympathy for somebody like that, who is so clearly fucked in the head and/or a doormat that she'll not only be with a man like that in the first place, but take him back after he assaults her in front of her child. In a public bar. Because she couldn't buy him a drink.
I mean, I don't even know how to process this. The mind doth, indeed, boggle.
Later, I spoke to his brother-in-law, who confirmed that his sister's partner was, in fact, "a total cunt." Then why do you stand idly by when he fucking headbutts her, you bellend?
Yet again, however, I'm almost certain nothing will be done about it. No action will be taken. While Edmonson and myself both strongly recommended to the boys in the park that the police should be called to handle this, they decided against it, waiting for 'something else' to happen. A kiss cures all ills, eh? What this means, of course, is that John Rambo will be back at the main complex tomorrow, wondering why the fuck he's been barred.
Oh well, not my problem; it's my day off.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:30 am
The Meeting.
Wednesday, 16 May 2007
Well, the meeting seemed to go okay, primarily because the head of security never actually showed up - as most of us figured he wouldn't - and so #2 had to chair it. #2 is a thoroughly decent bloke who always listens to what we have to say, which is all you can ask for, really, isn't it? He also has a way of presenting things to the boss so that he thinks they're his ideas, which increases the chances of them being actioned. Time will, as always, tell.
I'm not sure I've mentioned before how many days Bilbo takes off. About a month ago over a two week period he actually took eight days off, and he has this really irritating habit of not coming in on his entire weekend shift, say, then coming into the park on a Monday - his actual day off - and spending all night drinking in one of the bars. As opposed to, you know, helping out given he's just had two freebies anyway.
Well, it hasn't gone unnoticed so he's had to get clever, and there have been several cases where he's mentioned about wanting/needing a certain day off in the week, but has been unable to find anyway to cover his shift. So, lo and behold, on the actual day itself he'll either (a) be ill, and not come in, or (b) come in, but about half an hour into his shift get an 'emergency' phone call and have to leave immediately to deal with it. With no exaggeration, this has happened about half a dozen times, with the incidents ranging from an arrested daughter to an ill mother, and several deaths.
Tonight he had another passing; his nan.
Now, this all may well be the gospel, and he could be just on an incredibly bad run of luck. But there's something all a bit dodgy about it, as said. However, that aside, he was called up to the lodge today just after 6pm and came back about quarter of an hour later, looking all lost and bleak. He told me what happened and I offered my condolences. I have to do the right thing of course and when he started asking if we'd be okay, I told him to go home and deal with it. Then, without thinking, said, "Don't worry mate - it'll be dead down here tonight."
Cringe.
He never seemed to notice, but still; bad form and all that. It's probably fortunate that I didn't add, "The place is like a morgue."
Still, it was. It's the ideal crowd for the complex, really; big drinkers, but peaceful ones. The only incident of note tonight was one chap so pissed that he decided to go into the disabled toilet - which also doubles as the 'mother & baby' room - for a crap, but elected to not only leave the door unlocked, but leave it open. Hence, panicked 'mother & baby' rushing up to me to report the sordid news. Eventually he finished his business, and then promptly came out and collapsed over a table. Classy. We took him outside and he collapsed twice again before he'd moved out of sight. He's probably dead now. Still, one less to worry about tomorrow.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:00 am
ZZZZzzzz.
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
Well, there was two of us tonight, so it wasn't that bad.
It was, however, utterly dull. I'm not sure there's going to be much excitement or, indeed, a lot to report about, until tomorrow's meeting, which will either
(a) be a total waste of time, or
(b) feel generally unpleasant, with lots of finger-pointing.
Or possibly:
(c) feature a surprise segue from a trio of Page 3 lovelies.
I'm hoping for (c), but a combination of (a) and (b) seems more probable.
Until then, salut.
posted by Sheamus @ 1:00 am
Sunday.
Monday, 14 May 2007
Absolutely nothing happened tonight.
Quiet, even peaceful, it all passed with nary a strain or a bother.
Tomorrow, there's a chance I might be the only door supervisor on duty, so all manner of shit will inevitably kick off.
Tuesday, we have our long-overdue, frequently-promised security team meeting, at 4pm. The second-in-charge has suggested to us that if take this opportunity to, quote, "whinge", all that will happen is the boss will start working the night shifts more regularly with us. This is not a good thing. He's a nice enough guy, but has 'his way' of doing things and micromanages all the security issues, creating problems and jobs that simply would not be there if he wasn't around. Nobody wants that.
However, by showing up to the meeting and saying, "Yeah, everything's great!" (thumbs up), nothing is going to change and all that will happen is you'll get to listen to me constantly whinging. Saying nothing at all is not my style so I'm going to show up with several sheets of bullet points on A4. Naturally, I'll report back when I get fired.
posted by Sheamus @ 1:30 am
Saturday! Saturday! Saturday, etc etc, blah blah blah.
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Yesterday, while I was off, Jabba had to step onto the dance floor to break up a fight... when he was hit from behind with a chair. Thrown by a woman.
Marvellous.
She was barred, of course, but naturally still tried to get back in tonight as if nothing happened. Indeed, her friend later said that Jabba was lying as the doorman the chair hit "had glasses." Even if that was true (which it was not), how does that make it any better!? Oh, you went for four-eyes, did you madam? Come right in...
The usual nonsense tonight. A young mother and her sister so drunk that one of them passed out on the dance floor and the other was equally incapable of even getting the six-month old baby girl in the pushchair home, let alone, you know, actually fucking taking care of her. I see this week-in, week-out nowadays but it doesn't get any less sickening. Eventually the grandmother turned up to take care of the baby and the only amusing part was her throwing a mental each of the three times one of the door staff asked her if she'd be okay with the child. Later, she slapped her pisshead daughter fully round the face who then, after getting back on her feet, punched her mother in the mouth. Happy families! You see a bit of everything in my line of work. It's all good.
Two groups of four lads - all about 18-20, all your typical fuckwits - had been having 'words' with each other all night to the point where it got a bit silly. Really, it was like a scene out of Michael Jackson's Beat It, what with all the posturing and hand gestures going on. One of them even came up to me and said another one had 'pushed passed him' at the door. Hilarious. Where's the dignity? Eventually, a couple of them were so drunk that they were escorted out, but instead of going home and sleeping it off the silly bastards decided to wait around the corner for their mates.
Well, come closing time we were on the verge of getting the last few people out of the main bar when a slightly panicked call came over the radio. "ALL DOORS... THERE'S A MASSIVE FIGHT GOING ON IN THE CAR PARK." My inclination was to say, "Fuck it," and I did, as I'd already seen several doormen rush out and it felt like too many cooks and all that. But when Jabba bolted as well I figured I'd better at least have a look. Outside, of course, it was the same pricks from earlier, except a few of the now had their shirts off, and were revelling in their 18-year old physical nothingness.
The police were called and showed up in about five minutes. One quite amusing aspect of this incident is the 'two sides to a story' element; the chap we'd escorted out claimed he had been assaulted by several older gentlemen and gave this story to the police. Later, I spoke to one of our head security guys who'd monitored it all on the CCTV and the reality was the total opposite. Oh well. They're all barred. Everybody gets barred eventually.
The worst thing tonight is I've come home to a house that is absolutely dry of alcohol; that's really pissed me off.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:30 am
Ticket check.
Saturday, 12 May 2007
It's certainly not unique, but in the arcades at my place of business they have this thing for the kids where instead of winning money on their various machines, they win tickets. These tickets can then be taken down to the lower bar at the other side of the park and exchanged for prizes.
Here's one of the more lucrative ticket machines.
You may have seen one like this before, as they have a few in the Old Town of Hastings (which pay out in prizes automatically). You have to stop the light on the right spot and then it re-spins and, a bit like a roulette wheel, rewards you accordingly. They have games like this throughout the arcade.When you first see this system, you pretty much just dismiss it as a pointless gimmick. It is, however, a fiendishly clever con. Genius, even.
The catch is that while tickets do mean prizes, the reality is that lots of tickets mean prizes. It's my understanding that in the last couple of years the chap who runs the arcades and is responsible for all this stuff revised his little system so that the kids would need ten times the tickets to win the same prize. What you won for ten tickets two years ago - a model airplane kit, say - requires one hundred today. Of course, for kids, the idea of 'prizes' is so attractive that they'll get every penny they can out of their helpless parents (many of whom are too pissed to care anyway) and go after these tickets like flies to shit. And that's quite an appropriate analogy, as most of the prizes are shit; certainly, what you get for your tickets relative to what you paid for them is fuck-all.
When I first started here I'd see excited kids with loads of tickets asking me where they had to go to exchange them. Now, I tell them that unless they've got more than 500 they're largely wasting their time. Now, 500 tickets can be won outright on the machine detailed in the image above, but guess how many times that happens? That's right - never.
In some respects it's a bit like the reward system in supermarkets and places like Boots; you think they're doing you a favour, while really what you're getting back is so insignificant, but you totally lose sight of how much you've had to spend over the last x months because they've chucked you a couple of quid to say 'thanks' ("Free money! Free money"). Yes, it's better than nothing, but relatively, it is nothing. They've bought your loyalty for the price of a decent cup of coffee. These tickets are worth even less. I'd estimate that any one ticket has a value of about a tenth of a penny, but probably costs, on average, 1-2p to win.
The arcade boss, incidentally, is a millionaire who drives a Porsche 911 to work. Go figure.
posted by Sheamus @ 8:00 am
Howzat? The return of Numbnuts.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
Okay, so it's about 11pm and I'm thinking, Christ, I've got fuck all to write about tonight. Better go looking for a paedophile.
By 11.30pm, everything had changed. I walked into the main bar and saw Jabba chatting to one of the Aussies who worked behind the bar. There are three of them, but you may recall that two have been problematic in the past. I was some distance away and so asked Edmonson what was going on but he didn't know. I looked for a while and it seemed okay, so I went back to the main doors.
A few minutes later, the chap who ranks third on the security roster, but tonight was the main man, walks in. We'll refer to him as Lynch. He was in a good mood and we chatted about nothing for a moment. Then a call came over the radio from Jabba for him to go into the main bar. He went in, and ten seconds or so later, I thought I'd follow.
I go inside, and note that Lynch is up the back of the room talking to the same Aussie that Jabba had been speaking to. Suddenly, the Aussie starts making all these hand gestures, and then throws his pint glass in anger against the back wall. Naturally, it smashes everywhere. He's escorted out by Jabba and Lynch. All three Aussies had been drinking (it was a collective night off) and one of the other two hurries out to check up on his mate, but is stopped by Edmonson. Glass-smashing Aussie leaves by the firedoor. About quarter of an hour later, he's been fired.
However... the three of these guys come as a set. As a team. They're travelling the world together; chances are, if his dismissal sticks, and I really don't see how it cannot, they're all gone. It's not the worst thing in the world, particularly given how we're having as many problems with staff as anything else nowadays, but it's certainly going to fuck up the bar team. Jabba was a bit put-out over the thing as he felt it was all under control until Lynch came over. Nobody knows what he said, but it was clearly the wrong fucking thing.
Okay. So, I'm thinking, that's something to write about. Last orders are called, then time. I go back into the main club and behind the bar itself to get some plastic cups, when I see someone in the corner of my eye. For a moment I pause, thinking there's no fucking way. But there is: it's Numbnuts. And he's already got six drinks in. Four shooters and two beers. And the reality is he can only have been at that bar for a maximum of five minutes, long enough for him to dart inside (after having clearly been waiting for an opportunity outside the doors) while our backs were turned and then straight to the bar.
"Oi," I say to him, "You're barred mate. Out!"
He gives me a look, and it's evident that once again he's well and truly pissed. I radio Edmonson over the phone and walk around the bar to deal with the twat.
"Come on, let's go," I say, nodding towards the door.
"What?" he says, "Why am I barred?" He's being intentionally loud, and it coincides with the other twenty or so people in the bar going very, very quiet. Everybody was watching.
"You know why mate. For acting like you did last night."
"What did I do?" he mumbles, then goes on about some bollocks.
By now, Edmonson has arrived, as well as Jabba. Also, I look over and note that even the duty manager has come out to see what's going on. Jabba has never seen the guy before, and for some reason it takes Edmonson a while to clock who it is. I even have to say to him, "Look, it's the bloody bloke from yesterday!"
By now Numbnuts is in full-on mental mode. "You," he starts, "You security. You gonna call the police? I don't care."
"Time to leave mate," I say.
Then something odd happens. He gives me a strange look, and starts mumbling all this gibberish, that may as well have been fucking Parcel Tongue for all I knew. It was bollocks, whatever it was. The thing was, his eyes were looking slightly above me and so I turned around to see if he was speaking to somebody else. But he wasn't. "I'm speaking to you mate," he says.
"Oh right."
And he repeats his crap. Then says, "I'm from London. Do you want to come back to London with me and deal with this?"
"Yes," I say, without missing a beat, "You lead and I'll follow. Come on."
He mumbles some more bollocks.
"Right, outside now..." I say, and he turns to leave. We escort him outside, but Jabba steps ahead of me to speak to him. "Did I hear you say you're from London?" he asks Numbnuts.
"Yes," he says, "From Brixton."
Jabba points out that he's from round that way as well (he is.) The man then starts doing that clichéd drunkard, I'm-out-of-my-depth-get-out-attempt to side-up to Jabba with all this, "You're alright, you are," shite, and then I hear him whisper, "I don't really want to get arrested."
Jabba assures him that if he leaves peacefully, he won't. So he does.
Later, Jabba tells me that what I thought was gibberish was actually some kind of Brixton 'death threat' that's fairly typical around that way. But the thing is, even if that's true, if you're not from there, to anyone else it just makes you sound like a fucking moron. And as I've said before, anyone who tells you that they're going to 'do you' never, ever does. It's just your usual ego-driven, mentalist's bravado.
However, I was so pissed at this prick being served, again, after-hours, that I came raging back in the main bar with a, "Why the fuck did you serve him!?" to the bar staff, who were like, "We didn't know!"
The duty manager was still there and told me that he'd seen the whole thing. "It's not fucking good enough!" I yelled, before storming out. I go off and do my usual closing checks, and gradually calm down. It's not good enough, but shouting at managers rarely gets the results you want. Although in this case it might have done. I went back in and said, "Look, I'm sorry for losing my rag, but..." and he was totally fine about it, asking me to do (another) incident report and he'll absolutely take care of it. Better, he even picked up free drinks for the security staff, and mine was a Gaymers, thanks, which is absolutely forbidden for staff, but fuck it, I'm the only one dealing with mentals.
So... tonight may actually turn out to be a bit of a result. Less awkward staff to deal with, and maybe a hint of a sliver of a whisper of a glimpse of an eyelash-kiss of a chance of those post-closing time maxi-orders being put to rest.
Or, I'll turn up to work tomorrow and all the Aussies will be back and Numbnuts will be the CEO. Place your bets now.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:30 am
Headbutts & Numbnuts.
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
First of all, I saw The Condemned earlier today, and really enjoyed it. Yes, it's basically nonsense, but while I was sober in this viewing, it'll be essential in the future after a session or three. Vinnie Jones hams it to the nth degree and Steve Austin is actually half-decent. If you like 80s-style action films, it's recommended.
Now, on to tonight - a couple of experiences with customers that verged from a farce to a total fucking joke.
About 10pm. I'm working the DJ booth in the main bar. The cabaret is still on, but this chap comes walking over to, I assume, request a song. He gets near the booth and I step over to block his path, and politely enquire what he wants. He's about seven inches taller than me.
"Yes mate?" I say.
Blank stare. A few seconds pass. He's clearly pissed. I can smell it.
"You alright, mate?" I ask.
Another pause. He nods towards the booth.
"Yeah, if you tell me which song you'd like, I'll go up and speak to them for you."
He steps forward a bit more, now less than an arm-length away.
"Behave yourself," he says.
Hmmmm, I think. "Look mate," I say, "I'm happy to take your request. Just tell me what the song is and I'll go up and tell the DJ. It's company policy mate. Nobody's allowed in the booth at this time."
He mumbles something and I can't really hear what he's saying, so I lean forward slightly. BUT... as I do so, he leans forward as well.
And I accidentally headbutt him.
Now, it's certainly not full on or really even hard, but it's enough to get his attention. He stands back upright again and gives me a look. Oddly, it seems to knock some sense into him because he immediately begins speaking more clearly. He tells me he's worked as a doorman for 25 years, and today is his birthday, blah blah blah blah blah. He tells me the song he wants (Queen, 'Don't Stop Me Now') and I tell the DJ.
They never play it. He doesn't seem to notice.
Right. So the rest of evening passes without incident. We get to closing time, and there are a couple of blokes at the bar who have long since passed the key stage of 'pissed' and are now wankered. Both last orders and time have been called, but I look over and see one of the guys paying for something with his debit card. Not only have the bar staff served him after time but, get this, the two of them have bought an entire tray of vodka shots. Now, a couple of times a night one of the bartenders walks around with this tray trying to pick up a few extra quid from the crowd. The shots are two quid a piece. Fine. But each tray has sixty shots, and these two guys, together, bought (£120) and downed the entire fucking lot. And then got a couple of pints each as well.
Now, first of all, this is a massive license breach. The bar staff are representative of the licensee and as such act on his behalf; by serving anybody this much alcohol, particularly two gentlemen who are already well over the limit, they're acting extremely irresponsibly. It may even be a crime for all I know. Either way, and naturally, this pushes the two chaps well beyond any comfort point. They'd both been fairly pleasant drunks earlier in the night, but one of them - who was an Australian, naturally - now immediately had a clear and blatant personality change. From 'harmless drunk' to 'mental drunk'.
I have one of those annoying habits of calling everybody 'mate' (as you may have noted above), and while this had been okay with the Aussie earlier in the evening, he now suddenly found it insulting. Maybe it's because he was Australian, and that's a term they use over there a lot too. I don't know. But he suddenly came out with, "Don't call me 'mate'. I know you hate me."
"I don't, uh, mate," I said.
"You do. You hate me. Look at you, judging me..."
etc etc, blah blah fucking blah.
Well, he was the last one to leave but I got him to the main doors where Edmonson was waiting to lock up. And then he just started unloading the abuse. Two girls had stopped to chat to Edmonson on their way out - nothing at all dodgy - but Aussie didn't like that. Oh no. After finding out Edmonson was married, he started going into a "You disgust me. Fucking around with girls like that as a married man. You security. You're an insult to the badge," and all this sort of malarkey.
At one point I reached down under my coat to my belt to push my radio back, as it has a habit of moving forward as you're walking around. He notice this, and said to me, "What have you got there, a knife? You gonna stab me and leave me for dead?"
I wish.
We got him outside and I motioned for Bilbo to lock up. Oz was carrying two pints - in plastic cups, of course - and he turned to face me as the doors were closing, like he was standing in a lift. I could feel the tension rising and I was waiting for him to do anything to justify me beating him to a pulp. I mean, why is it that the people who can handle alcohol the worst are always the biggest drunks? What the fuck was the good Lord thinking there? It's one thing to have alcoholics, but why not them all the nice, sleepy, peaceful kind? Nooooo, they have to become violent and mentally ill. Which, of course, they are before they've even had a sip. It just makes it worse.
"You can get your Hastings police," he said, as the doors closed, "I don't care. Security. You..."
Finally, a bit of silence. But he stood there for a long time, shouting idle threats that nobody could hear. The problem, though, as I said, is that this job has enough risk as it is without the situation being made infinitely worse by incompetent bar staff. Now, what concerns me is that this place is so about the 'money, money, money' at the expense of everything else - it's getting the most out of the staff and the customers while giving them the least back - that I don't see this changing. The manager will weigh up this incident - which, after all, did not end with any actual violence - against the ker-ching of the £120 in the last five minutes and think, "Nice one."
And it's not just the punters; we've had consistent problems with staff finishing their shifts at 10pm, say, and then drinking themselves to stupidity/bravado at closing time.
And that's all well and good until one of these twats raises a fist and we take care of him, and then get dragged to court to defend our actions. Or a few of them kick off and one of us gets put in hospital. That is part of the job and I accept it, but you don't need additional problems on your home turf, too. That's just a poor fucking show.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:30 am
Burger Kunt.
Tuesday, 8 May 2007
Two things I never did before I started work as a door supervisor - ironing, and the consumption of Burger King produce.
Now I do both of these five times a week.
Let's get a couple of things straight - one, I can iron, and actually pretty well, but in the modern era who fucking irons? Your mother, that's who. Nobody else does unless they have to wear a shirt every day. Which is where I come into it.
Burger King. I hate the shit. I hate the way morons buy into the 'flame-grilled' hype when I know for a fact they just spray that crap on and cook it normally. Nothing in Burger King is as good as the equivalent product in McDonalds - nothing. In particular, BK chips are an abomination. And don't get me started on their fucking prices - even a bloody kids meal is £2.89, and a 'value' meal there can stretch as much as six fucking quid. They even charge you for the fucking dips. And, post Supersize Me, they still have a 'super' option. How the fuck do they get away with it?
I'll tell you how; because an enormous number of them have deals with the kinds of places where I work, and so not only do they get all that lovely business from the tens of thousands of people who pass through each week, but inevitably the late-night mugs like me (and Jabba, Edmonson, Bilbo, The Lodge, etc etc) get the munchies around 9-10pm (we have, after all, worked a steady four hours or less) and it's like right there, near the main entrance. Plus - and this is the key part - we get 50 per cent off. I've figured out that I can manage a XL Double Whopper, minus all the crap but with added cheese, for £1.69. It's got a lot of protein, I tell myself (55g, fact-fans.) Or eight Chicken Fillet Strips (an even more-impressive 56g of protein.) When you go to the gym, these things matter. Kind of.
BK is currently promoting a new burger with, and I kid you not, the oddly-approved mantle of Dark Whopper. Now, if that isn't a black porn star's name-in-the-making I don't know what is.
Otherwise, after the weekend's frenzy, tonight was dull, dull, dull. The place is actually pretty busy but it just doesn't compare. Poor Jabba just finished a six-night shift and really saw all kinds of crap; it's my turn this week, as we're short-staffed (again, and naturally) and so I'll be doing Thursday too. Probably.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:00 am
Fire, fire. Fire, fire.
Monday, 7 May 2007
I know I said last night was fucking busy, but really, last night was a fucking joke.
Tonight was the busiest night ever.
I mean, we're talking four thousand people here. 500 in the arcades alone. Five hundred. Ninety per cent of which are kids, running around like a scene from Lord of the Flies that William Golding tore up because it was too over the top. It was to the point of being a farce, because despite the previously-touted eight security guys and gals that came with the footballers, it was really only Jabba and myself, because Bilbo (yeah, he's still around) was down the lower bar and the football boys basically did fuck all. They even pissed off when last orders was called at 12.15am, leaving close to a thousand of the people they were meant to be looking after spread over our three main complex bars. Worse, they each got paid £350 for three days of work - and by 'day' I mean effectively 8pm to just before closing - which dwarfs the fucking money Jabba and myself make. Really, it absolutely takes the piss, but you have to ask yourself: who are the mugs here? Yeah, quite.
The reason why it was so mental tonight is that the kids' football teams - of which they were scores - had special trophy and award presentations in the main bar. Each member of each team obviously had his parents and siblings with him, and for tonight they also got special day passes for anyone else they wanted - aunties, uncles, grandparents, friends, that nice bloke from the corner shop, etc - which rallied the total up to that mystical four thousand level. As said, it was quite, quite mad.
What did amuse was that they'd roped in ex-England international Paul Parker to MC the presentations and hand over the awards. Now, you'll probably remember Parker's classic own goal in the 1990 World Cup, but most of the kids here were under-fifteen and didn't have a fucking clue who they were looking at. So when he was announced, quite brilliantly, about a hundred of them starting chanting, "WHO ARE YA!? WHO ARE YA!?" The look on his face was priceless. Good times.
So... it was effectively solidly mental from the start, and stayed that way right up until 10.10pm. And then the fire alarm went off. Once I'd figured out that the irritating noise I was trying to ignore was actually the alarm, somewhat to my credit, I got the main fire doors open in the main bar and everybody out in about a minute and a half. Thinking that that was basically going to be it, I walked back out into the arcades.
The other three thousand of the fuckers were packed somewhere between there and the main complex doors. Now, this was bad enough, but when we'd got them outside (which didn't actually take all that long), we were then told we needed to get them to the car park. This took forever. I can totally empathise with parents who can't find their young children and want to go back inside to have a look, because I'd do the same thing, but the simple fact is they cannot. But they don't care. But you have to. Hilarity ensues.
It was, of course, a false alarm anyway (quite literally) - some brilliant kid had devised the cracking wheeze of setting the thing off himself (well done there) - but for half an hour or so it was all a little chaotic. We got them out of the building fast enough to have saved everybody if the fire had been real (and obviously to a level that was threatening), but it didn't half take some work to get the fuckers moving once they were outside.
Bank Holiday Monday tomorrow; I'm working, but I don't give a shit. The footballers are all going home. Their security team left tonight. Oh, did I mention their hilarious, blatantly over-padded jackets to make them look twice the size they were? I didn't. Darn it.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:30 am
Woof.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
Couple of pretty big things happened while I was away.
Big Thing #1. It seems that the Incident Report I spent half an hour writing up early Thursday morning somehow, between then and when the powers-that-be arrived at 9am, disappeared without a trace. Hence, nobody read up about Psycho and his missus, and so Psycho and his missus were not only not banned, they tried to get into the main complex not once, not twice, but three times, before ultimately the police were called. See, Psycho made the mistake of threatening to kill the head of security - i.e., my boss. That shit never goes down well. Better, his missus went ballistic and threatened to have Psycho kill everybody, too. Right in front of their kids. What a pair of cunts.
Big Thing #2. Look away now if you love animals. Yesterday, it seems, two little old ladies were walking their dogs out of the park - and we're talking the tiny little dogs that little old ladies typically like to walk - when without warning one of the women trips, loses her balance, and falls on her dog. Killing it instantly. In fact, she fell at such an angle she almost beheaded it. She scooped the unfortunate creature into her arms and walked some fifty yards before being discovered by security. "It's still alive," she said, "Look, it's moving." And it was. Alas, it was just the twiching nerves of a long-dead canine, its head being held on by skin and hair. That's a holiday she'll never forget. Be fair; at her age, that's probably a good thing.
As for tonight... well, I know I say this shit every fucking Saturday, but believe me this was the busiest I've ever seen the place. Absofuckinglutely heaving. So busy, even the boss himself worked the 6-2 shift, which is unheard of. And even the fucking restaurant bar didn't close until 1.30am. And to be honest, it all went like a dream. The football security boys were even polite. There was eight of them in total, and they caused nary a bother. The only item of note was discovering yet another patron - this time, a bloke - sitting down in a cubicle full of his own vomit. To his credit, he managed to pull himself together enough to go back into the bar, retrieve his jacket, and say goodbye to the people he was with, all without them seeming to notice he was (a) shitfaced and (b) reeking of puke.
Quite anticlimactic, really. Disappointing, even. I really thought somebody was going to die tonight. I suppose there's still time.
posted by Sheamus @ 3:30 am
Psycho.
Thursday, 3 May 2007
So, right up to about 11pm it was the third in a row of a really tedious, 'what time is it now? Fuck.' kind of shift.
Then it all went a bit mental.
I was waltzing around the arcade when suddenly one of the senior ENTS girls hurried out to speak to me. "Can you go in and help Jabba?", she asks, nodding towards the family bar, "We've got some people in there who've been heckling my team and they called one of them a cunt." Well, I could hardly say 'no'. So in I went.
Inside, I saw Jabba chatting to a bloke who I had seen a few times over the past couple of days. I remembered him because he always seemed to have whatever shirt he was wearing totally unbuttoned. We have a 'shirt at all times' policy and he was always kind of on the line but I'd basically ignored it. So I walked over, and Jabba turns to me.
"This guy has said he's going to headbutt me."
I look at the bloke. "Right," I say, "I'm gonna have to ask you to leave mate."
He was taller than me by a couple of inches. I'm certainly no giant, but Jabba is about 6ft4 or so, and dwarfed the guy in height and stature. To threaten such an action against him was indicative of either dump-truck filling balls, drugs, or some kind of mental ineptitude. With hindsight and analysis it became clear it was probably both of the latter.
Later, Jabba informed me that originally he'd gone up to a group who he thought had been causing the abuse, but this guy had come out of nowhere and said it was him. Jabba took him at face value. At this stage, however, after I'd said my one line, the guy went kind of defensive, and started saying he'd done nothing wrong. That he was innocent. That he chose to use 'fucking' in every sentence didn't do him in favours. We called over the same ENTS girl I'd spoken to outside to get clarification. The thing was, like us, she hadn't seen anything, but one of her team had singled the guy out. At this point the bombshell was dropped that he'd also been going around 'getting his willy out' and showing people. Lovely. On hearing this, the bloke went into major protest, and started claiming that it was only because he was wearing ridiculously low-cut jeans. He was, and as he was probably in his early 30s, took 'right cunt'dom to a new peak.
He was now becoming more aggressive and threatening, repeatedly using 'fucking' in a negative manner against the ENTS leader and it was all becoming a bit questionable. I ask him to stop swearing at her, to which he replies, "I've been swearing all night." He was speaking at a mile-a-minute and didn't seem to understand really any point that was being made to him, nor was he capable of making much of a point himself. When it was suggested to him that he had called one of the ENTS girls a 'cunt', his line of argument was: "No I didn't; I said that to my wife." In a bar full of kids, including his own. Charming.
Jabba asked him to go outside, suggesting it would be easier for us to talk without the loud music. The bloke said he was going to leave when his wife and children returned, who were outside the bar in the toilets.
Right. So a minute or so later they come to the door, and Jabba and the bloke walk over to them. I take a moment to talk to the ENTS leader, and then walk to the bar exit, trailing Jabba and this dufus by about maybe ten yards. When I get outside, Jabba turns around to look and me, and then motions for me to back off. I'm not really sure what's going on, but when another doorman does this to you (and I've done it myself), it basically means it's under control, and that your presence is not required. It can also mean that your presence might make things a hell of a lot worse, and that was the case here, I later discovered. The bloke was ranting and raving about something but it was all out of earshot. Suddenly, his missus grabs him by the shirt, throws him around a bit and then pushes him towards the door. I can't hear anything that's being said but when they've left the complex, Jabba tells me that the bloke said to his wife, "When we get back I'm going to beat the shit out of you." Score another point for Romeo.
So, he's gone. I look at Jabba and go, "What was that all about?" And he tells me. Remember that incident I had a month or two back with the owner who didn't like something I had said (or not said), and threatened to punch me 'in the fucking face'? This was all oddly familiar. Basically, the guy had told Jabba that he'd speak to him, but not to me (or, indeed, the ENTS girl), as "I was pushing him to do something violent", or somesuch nonsense. And that if I came up to him again, he was going to "have me". Oooo, missus. Again with the idle, out of range threats. See, the thing about people who tell you that they're going to hit you, is that 99.99 per cent of the time they never, ever do. It's an ego thing. Especially when women are present (his wife, the ENTS girl). What you have to watch out for is the ones that don't give any kind of signal and just lamp you from the off.
However... what's been bugging me is the possibility that something I'm saying, or not saying, or something in my tone or body language, or whatever, acts as a trigger in certain individuals. Now, there's a pattern here, both in the behaviour of the two blokes I'm referencing, and the fact that both of them were totally off their trollies. There's also the likelihood that in any kind of conflict situation the bully-type personality will automatically single out the shortest guy in the group, irrespective of anything else. It's always bemused me that an aggressor always assumes that because a person is tall that they're more of a threat, even if they're rail-thin or much older. I suppose it's some kind of basic instinct. The thing is, I weigh nearly 15 stone. Jabba, however, is much taller and weighs about 19. I imagine our BMI is basically the same; mine might even be a little higher. But none of these things, of course, are known or matter to your common or garden lunatic. They just see what they see and very quickly do the math.
It's bothering me a little though; I mean, how do you find out if you give off a kind of unconscious trigger to certain, albeit fleeting individuals? And at the end of the day, does everybody do it to somebody, and therefore it doesn't really matter?
The annoying part about all this is that this same twat had been kicked out of the lower bar not once, but twice... earlier today. I mean, Jesus, this place is a fucking shambles. Naturally, we had to incident report the cunt to death and while I'm not in tomorrow, I'll find out from Jabba or Edmonson if he shows up, because really and absofuckinglutely the park security needs to go down to see him first thing tomorrow morning and pull his fucking pass. Thing is, if he attacks his missus tonight, the police will inevitably get involved anyway, and then he'll be booted off to the cells, but that's hardly the desired outcome, is it?
The reality is nothing will be done and the guys will have to deal with this shit all over again.
I'm really not looking forward to this weekend. We're fully booked, with 600 units having been rented to footballers from all over the country that have come down for a series of local tournaments. Most of them are under-eighteens, and operate under a curfew, but it's their pisshead dads, and the in-house security of 10-15 old-school fucking muppet bouncers that they bring with them that are the real problem. The latter whom, naturally, down pints all night and cause more problems than they start.
Fucking marvellous.
posted by Sheamus @ 2:00 am
"Smile."
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
People look at me and they see my brother.
Actually, that's exactly what my brother said to me when we had a big heart-to-heart a couple of months ago. And specifically, he informed me that this was how he felt growing up, as we both attended the same secondary school, albeit two years apart. The thing is, my brother was always the tough guy. At one point when he was about fifteen or sixteen he was probably, if not at the very top, one of the toughest five or six kids in the school. I was more about the charisma. I was reasonably well-liked at school, had my share of girlfriends, kept my nose reasonably clean, and look back on it with a fair bit of nostalgia. It's rose-tinted, definitely, like everything else, but I certainly never hated school. I fucked it all up, sure, because I spent my entire sixth form playing pool and drinking coffee, at the absence of actually, you know, attending lessons, but that was a fun time.
That's twenty years ago, however. Frightening. And since then, as it's prone to do, life has weighed down upon me a fair bit. Now, my life has certainly not been bad, but it hasn't come without its complications and its share of difficulty. Misery, even, at times. And this, naturally, has turned a once pretty upbeat kid into a guy who, at best, is of the 'half-full' variety. Quarter-full is probably more accurate. At least, that's how it looks to other people.
"Turn that frown upside down!" cunts like to say, and then usually point out how it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile. Yeah, and it takes two seconds to say 'fuck you', too. But they're right to an extent; one thing I hear, without fail, three or four times a night, is somebody coming up to me and going, "Smile!"
I'm absolutely one of those people who frowns a lot; who looks jaded, even, or perhaps 'serious' is a better term. To others, particularly people who don't really know you, this gives the appearance of being miserable or negative which, while sometimes right on the money, usually isn't the case. In my job I do have to observe and put up with a fair bit of crap, but most of the time I look like I do because that's how my face falls. I default at serious. Some people default at ecstatic. These people tend to work in entertainment.
What it doesn't mean, however, is that I'm a 'right old miserable bastard'. Indeed, I would like to think that the people who actually know me - i.e., my friends - think I'm a fairly funny guy, or certainly one who at least attempts to crack jokes, and to make them laugh. But a stranger doesn't know this, of course, and neither do most work colleagues, who, for the most part, I tend to only let see so much (drawing the line at pubes and nipples.)
"Smile!"
The thing is, this simple statement is a great, if totally superficial icebreaker, because the only thing you can do in response to it is smile, even if you're faking it most of the time. Otherwise, if somebody you don't really know says 'smile!' to you, and you just look at them po-faced, you're pretty much ticking the boxes that say 'I'm very pissed off' and/or 'I'm a sociopath'. Now, sometimes this can be a good thing, but typically the person asking you to flash a little pearly white isn't a cunt. They just don't know better.
The problem is when you find the same person saying it to you repeatedly, almost on a daily basis. That simple statement then becomes an irritant, like most things do that are overly familiar or expected. You find yourself waiting for them to say it. You find yourself avoiding eye contact with them, because you've thought about it and forcing another fucking smile will potentially lead to violence. Or extreme sarcasm, that may lead to an eating disorder on their part.
Of course, all of this risk could quite easily be solved by just smiling more often. By just looking happy. But who looks happy all the time? Cunts, that's who. And morons. Nobody of even moderately above-average intelligence can honestly claim to always be happy, surely? It's the domain of the intellectually spent, and never-theres.
And the rich, naturally. And male porn stars probably can't believe it. In some respects their life must be like an inverse take on what I've heard many people who've recently lost a loved one say when describing their world; how they wake up in the morning, and for maybe a minute life is absolutely perfect, and then they remember, and are crushed all over again.
For a male porn star, each and every day they must wake up, think that they're just a normal person for a minute, suddenly remember that they're not, and then a huge smile breaks out on their face and it's all like, "Fuck yeah!"
I guess the bottom line is you have to have something to smile about. In any passing second, for the rest of us, there really isn't all that much.
posted by Sheamus @ 11:30 am
Hole.
I take back what I said yesterday.
Tonight was officially the worst day ever.
Nothing happened at all.
Actually, that's not quite true. We recently discovered a big hole next to the dancing arcade game and tonight a fuck-off sized rat came out of it. Indeed, the hole has been getting bigger each and every week. I reckon there's some kind of monsterous, King Rat of a cunt in there. Or possibly one of these:
Then again, half the female punters look a bit like that so it's going to be hard to tell.
posted by Sheamus @ 1:30 am