What's he on about now?

In case the articles, essays and opinions throughtout this site just weren't enough for you, here's my online diary (a.k.a. 'blog'). It's as close as you'll come to the inside of my head, so don't say I didn't warn you
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   Saturday, August 24, 2002

HAVING AN AVERAGE WEEKEND

Some people ask me if working the door at the pub is terribly dull -- imagining nights spent staring onto the street as I click the little counters when people pass me by. Other people ask me if working the door at the pub is wonderfully exciting -- imagining nights spent giddly with power as I wrestle drunken psychos down the stairs. The truth, I tell them, is usually in the middle and the '80/20 rule' applies here -- my nights are mostly dull with the occasional burst of drama.

What some people don't seem to understand is why I'm doing it at all. They seem unaware that a bar can be fined or even shut down for having customers who are under 19 or who get too drunk, either in our pub or somewhere before. The authorities refer to that second part as customers being "overserved" and it doesn't matter who does it. It's my job then to either keep already-drunken people from entering or escort out the ones who get too drunk in our own pub. Tonight, that meant keeping out these people:

-- A man in a T-shirt, a swimsuit(?) and sandals who was pointed out on the street by the other doorman as someone our pub has permanently barred for getting violent when he drinks. He kept arguing that, since we'd never spoken face-to-face before, I couldn't be sure it was him so he should be allowed in. I love 'drunk logic.'

-- A red-haired girl who had trouble pulling out her ID, after having "a few coolers." She and her friend had to drink elsewhere.

-- A baby-faced goth girl with no ID at all. Since I believed her when she insisted she's 20, I felt badly about sending her home but it's what I have to do.

-- Two guys on a pub-crawl. See 'the red-haired girl and friend' above.

-- A hefty, stumbling older man with broken blood vessels in his face. I had to keep explaining to him that, at 1:59 am, there was no time for him to make last call but he kept softly demanding "just a small pint." It's these types that make me feel the saddest.

-- And, my personal favourite, a man who'd passed by my manager inside as he led a staggering, lurching friend by the hand. My boss waved me into the pub, pointing and asking, "Is that guy blind?" Turns out no, not blind, and I was horrified that I could've missed such an obviously messy drunk. Fortunately, as I insisted he leave, it turns out he wasn't drunk either. "C'mon, guy," he said, as I pulled him out to the sidewalk, "I was just being funny." "Actually, you weren't," I told him, "You're not funny at all," and I let Seinfeld and Kramer practise their routine somewhere else.

Meanwhile this evening, there were two people escorted out of the pub by the security staff working inside so, out of nearly 1400 people who passed me on their way in, eleven were problems for us. Not a bad ratio at all and proof, I'd say, that most of our customers are lovely, agreeable people having a good time in our pub -- no matter what those eleven will say about "that red-haired bitch at the door." *

* an actual quote from an evening past -- it still makes me laugh!