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
