Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Barman duties

This is Bobbie. Actually this isn’t Bobbie, it’s just a photo of some Jack Russell who looks like Bobbie, pinched off the ‘net to use here. Bobbie’s anonymity, like my own, must be treated carefully. Because Bobbie, like me, doesn’t care too much for rules and duties. I won’t dig myself into a deep hole by saying exactly which pub regulations we regularly flout, but suffice to say that while I specialise in confounding our enemies through verbal sparring, young Bob is yet to learn such subtleties and likes to get right in there, get his teeth into a problem, you know.

The world is not yet in anarchy, however. Performing one’s ‘duty’ behind the bar, according to some of the Google searches leading here, does seem to have been on the minds of certain visitors to these pages. Maybe one day I will compile a list of ‘barman duties’ for those ‘net surfing defenders of civilisation – I will just have to use my imagination and perhaps cast my mind back to the last time I bothered paying real attention to anyone who deigns to call themselves my ‘manager’. Bobbie might even lend me a paw.

Until then, our mini-insurgency will quietly murmur along, leaving no mark on the rest of the world other than a few dented shins and a customer or two converted from belligerency to befuddlement.

We did indeed have a list of ‘bar workers duties’ pasted up behind our bar once. I apologise to those Googling for exactly that information, but the list seems to have disappeared now. It just might have been ripped to shreds by a small canine, I really don’t know. But at least now we have Bobbie’s photos pasted up there, and they fill the gap handsomely.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Source: The Daily Telegraph, last week

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

He's not dead, he's just having a tricky regeneration.

Slobodan Milosevic as 'Former President of Federal Republic of Yugoslavia' on trial.

Jack Nance as 'Henry' in Eraserhead.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Just what do you think you're doing, Dave?

Barman’s Words is it, then?’ My big, fat friend did not look happy. He looked like he was about to lunge at me. How the hell did anyone find out? I frantically asked myself over and over.
‘Barman’s words! I’ll give you fucking words!’ He made a move towards me. Other familiar faces appeared behind him, all equally angry. I stepped back and then began running, all I could think was:
How much have they read?
Can I wipe all the old posts before they cut and paste it all?
Why the hell is my fat friend even bothered? I haven’t even mentioned him yet!

The dream ended with me racing through one of those old Bletchley Park-style computers, yanking out circuitboards and hurling them to smash them on the ground.

Traumatic stuff, this blogging lark.

(And I'll finish the police 3-parter when I decide how I can make it unrecognisable without being silly).