The concept of a regular is a curious one for bar staff. Of course, the bar is open to the public and anyone can pop in for a drink whenever they like. But those who always come at the same time, stand in the same place, order the same drink, they are more than just customers. They become a part of the job.
In this particular bar, we had two regulars who would turn up every afternoon. One of them was The Bore. He told everyone he used to be a low level rock star back in the 90s and had written a very famous song for a band who still fill stadiums. I never believed a word of this and many years later was shocked to find out from the internet that it was actually true. The other regular was Guinness John.
Guinness John was around the same age as The Bore, but that was where the similarities ended. Originally from some northern English town, Guinness John was a sporty man and had the camp performative demeanour of a 1970s club comedian who would never have survived the era of political correctness.
“I tell you Peter,” he would say after walking in with his umbrella, “it’s raining like cats and fuckin’ dogs out there.” He’d look around and address the rest of the bar. “I SAID CATS AND FUCKIN’ DOGS!” He’d take a sip of Guinness and roll his eyes. “I bloody hate cats… And dogs.”
One of Guinness John’s hobbies was seeking out former British athletes and pissing them off. “Did I tell you about the time I met Kriss Akabusi?” he asked me one afternoon. “I saw him at an event and I ran over going KRISS, KRISS, AUTOGRAPH AU-TO-GRAPH! When I get there, I handed him a piece of paper with my own autograph on it and I’ve said THERE YA GO. You should have seen his face, Peter, he was fucking raging.”
Listening to Guinness John was a great way to pass a quiet afternoon, but his interest in doing a stand up comedy routine for me every shift had started to raise eyebrows. This bar I was working in had some particularly unpleasant staff, and my female colleagues began suggesting that Guinness John was interested in more than just my ability to put a head on a pint of stout. It is not hard to imagine the direction this teasing took when he offered me a part time job renovating his tennis club.
This was not a euphemism. Guinness John had somehow bought this sports facility which he ran on the side in addition to his regular job. After hearing me complaining about not having enough shifts in the bar, he told me that he could pay me to do some painting and light repairs at the club, tasks he had been planning to do himself when he found the time.
I had utterly no experience of decorating and I was almost certain that this was the beginning of a gay porno that I didn’t particularly want to be in, but I agreed to it anyway, partly because I needed the money, but also because this is exactly the kind of risk I’d grown accustomed to taking.
As a bar hound, I was almost completely nocturnal, and so I would go to this leisure facility late at night when it was closed and do some very poor quality plastering or painting in the changing rooms and bar area. Guinness John never did show up unannounced while I was doing my shoddy work and I started to feel a bit guilty for even suspecting he had ulterior motives.
One day I needed some extra tools for a certain task, and Guinness John said he would come down to the club and have a look before going to the hardware shop. I was waiting for him on the front steps when he started flapping the letter box from inside the building and making duck noises. “Quack quack. Quaaaack quackquackquackquack.” This went on for about three whole minutes and then he then came outside as if nothing had happened.
“You see over there, Peter, there used to be a tree. Big tree. Nice tree. But I wanted that tree gone, Peter. So I called up these guys. They turned up in a car, Peter, a car NOT A VAN, a bloody car Peter. Right there.” He pointed at the parking space where the car had been.
“So they pulled out this little saw. Tiny saw, Peter, couldn’t believe it. I said I SHOULD HAVE JUST BOUGHT MYSELF A FUCKING BEAVER, a beaver, Peter, a bloody beaver.” Maybe he’s not unmarried because he’s secretly gay, I began to think, maybe he is just like this all the time and nobody can handle it. The man is relentless.
As we were walking to the hardware shop, we of course bumped into one of the girls I worked with. Our eyes met and I knew I was going to get a roasting in the bar no matter what was said next. Guinness John asked her what she was up to and she mumbled some reply about just enjoying her day off. With a smirk she then asked what we were doing out so early on a Saturday morning.
“We’ve just got out of bed..” said Guinness John, turning to me and raising his eyebrows provocatively. That was it for me. I was done.
The next week I quit both the bar and the decorating job and a week later I left town forever. No more cunty bar staff, no more regulars, no more sexual innuendo. That said, I am really quite thankful to Guinness John. That extra money I earned is what helped me quit the bar job forever, but even after all these years, I’ve never been able to look at a tennis racquet, a painting roller or a pint of Guinness the same.
Chinaskis - 239 North St, Glasgow G3 7DL, United Kingdom