Sloans

Flashbacks of a life in Glasgow.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty. Apart from Alban. He transcends guilt.   

As we wander down the darkened lane that leads to ‘Glasgow's oldest bar^TM’, I feel a quiver of anticipation for what I am about to see, along with a wistful yearning for times gone by and lingering sense of decades’ old shame. Sloans is not only a very beautiful 17th Century multi story pub, it is a place that comes with many memories. I have not just been to Sloans before, I actually used to work here. This will be a special episode of Pisse de Resistance. 

To help me remember what I’ve spent 15 years trying to forget, I’ve brought along some former colleagues who not only somehow survived the Sloans days but have also managed to escape bar work forever. They know what happened in this haunted old building. For some years, we were the ghouls who haunted it. 

The main bar downstairs is reasonably quiet for a Friday night. Everything seems clean and the staff are bright and friendly. This is not how I remember it at all. I poke my head into the bistro area and show my date where I used to wait tables. “Over there,” I say to her, pointing at the small curtained-off area in the corner, “that’s the cubby hole.” 

I explain that this spot, which hides the food lift running three floors up to the kitchen, is the first place we would gravitate to when entering the building. That is because the cubby hole is also where the urn warming the Soup of the Day is kept. Tired, hungover, and not fed since the last shift, we would hide behind that curtain, stuffing leek and potato, and cubes of bread into our faces like starving dogs, with only a thin veil of fabric separating us from the customers. 

This combo of starch and hot liquid was exactly what was needed to line the stomach before we got behind the bar and did what we did best: spend the shift getting discreetly shitfaced. Though that wasn’t always as easy as it sounds.

The main bar downstairs is a lovely horseshoe shape, but that means it is visible to the customers (and management) from all sides. Sneaking drinks down here required a bit of guile, but fortunately we had that in spades. “Remember the old Cop Killer?” asks D. I certainly do. 

We found that if you filled a coffee cup up with beer from the taps, initially the foam made it look like you were drinking a cappuccino. As it subsided, the beverage would take on the appearance of ice tea (or Ice-T, hence the code name Cop Killer). You might start your night with a few of these to take the edge off your hangover, while dealing with horrible regulars like Captain Date Rape - who used to slease on drunk office women - or that really old guy who would buy two cans of sugar-free soda to take into the bathroom where he would wank in the cubicle, occasionally opening the door to show people using the urinal his battered sausage.  

On a good night you would get sent to work on one of the bars upstairs where life would be a little easier. The bar staff tonight tell us that the Snug Bar and Restaurant are not open, but we simply go up there anyway and nobody stops us. I was often put on Snug Bar duty for specific events or to manage the upstairs restaurant. It’s a beautiful little bar and I enjoyed working it. Seeing those wood panelled walls and old mirrors again is causing the memories to come flooding back. Memories of more debauchery.

“What about that time we were chinning whole bottles of expensive champagne at the gay wedding…”, D recalls. Ah yes, that was a good one. The wedding reception had all gone downstairs to have photos taken and we were told to clean away the table filled with bottles of very decent bubbly, most of which were nearly full. For some reason, we tried to neck as much of it as possible, heads tilted back and bottles held high in the air. We had probably downed a couple of bottles each before remembering we still had another 10 hours of Saturday afternoon shift to do. We barely survived this by chasing cans of Redbull with shots of vodka throughout the night to keep the buzz going until closing time.

The really good spot, though, was the ballroom. On the top floor of Sloans, every Friday night there was a Ceilidh (traditional Scottish dance) and a couple of lucky sods would get to run the bar. It seems it is on again tonight, so we sneak up without paying and stand at the bar. When we worked here, this area was totally unsupervised and there was even a little storage room that was completely out of sight of any customers. This is where Alban wrote his name into the Sloans hall of fame. 

Alban was a tall, muscular Frenchman who was living on a different plane of existence to the rest of us. He once famously opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and started swigging from it behind the bar before someone pointed out that stock as expensive as that would definitely be counted. “No problem…’ Alban said, nonchalantly, before somehow forcing the champagne cork back into the bottle with his hand. 

If you have ever seen the shape of a popped champagne cork you will know this is a truly impossible feat, and we all just stood there mesmerised at how he had managed to do it. Alban, unfazed, simply put the bottle back in the fridge and went out for a smoke.  

“One night we were up here,” says J, “and Alban asks me if I have ever tried French Irn Bru. He then proceeded to take down every single bottle of top shelf, premium-grade spirits, and mix them in a pint glass.” 

“Voila, French Irn Bru...” he said, handing it over. A mouthful of that and you were fucked. 

The funny thing about working at the Ceilidh was that the customers were mostly there to dance. Since twirling around in circles in a hot room is really quite exhausting, the most requested drink at the bar was a simple glass of water. The memory of sober customers being served tap water by piss drunk bar staff who could barely stand is really starting to make me laugh, but then I look over at the present day Sloans staff working tonight and notice something strange. They are all visibly un-intoxicated. But why?  

“Cameras, man…” D says, looking around the corners of the room. “They are being watched.” Though I can’t spot any cameras directly, I do see some auxiliary non-bar staff who have earpieces in like they work for secret service and appear to be sending messages to other narks in different parts of the building. How on earth did this happen? 

“It’s ‘cos of us, man,” D laughs, “by the time we all left the stock deficit was running at 10 grand a month!” 

This hits me like a swig of French Irn Bru. We were drinking 10 thousand pound’s worth of booze a month while at work? And we still managed to somehow function? And most of us didn’t get fired? 

A strange emotion washes over me, one I have never associated with this place before. It takes a moment before I realise, it is the feeling of pride.     

Sloans - 108 Argyle St, Glasgow G2 8BG, United Kingdom