He’s a lush, our landlord answers the door to the beer delivery men with a glass of Red in his hand, Red for the winter, White for the summer and Rose’, unless of course the Rose’ is in short supply in which case it’s Red. In the winter sometimes there isn’t a bottle of Red to hand so it may have to be White, warmed up, in tea, maybe. YThis is possibly conjecture, possibly not; nevertheless he’s a lush but innocuous, harmless and a bit of a dick, in fact a lot of a dick. For fucks sake you shouldn’t have to order drinks from a man with his trousers half way down his trousers, he’s not a rapper, he’s a 65 year old man. The rumour is he’s a man of means, or was; used to live on Britannia Square, Georgian Houses, with 4 floors and a basement, servant’s quarters, tiny garden though. Thing is he’s got a bank of servers in the back room, heating up the back room, heating up all the pub’s crisps, peanuts and pork scratchings; its odd having warm crisps, really warm like he’s reheating them for whatever reason. Well he’s drunk, so it probably makes sense. These servers run 24/7 365 days in the year and they translate apparently, how they do it or why they do it is not yours or mine concern, but apparently they do and they earn him £20k per year allegedly. It is this money that allows him to run a pub (in the losest sense of the word) and to drink as much as he wants, when he wants to. And that is up to him.
However my daughter works at this pub, in the kitchen, chopping veg, prepping it for the Sunday lunches which may or may not happen, I’ve stopped going there, he talks about people behind their backs and makes me wonder what he says about me, now I don’t go there, he’s boring and the pub is boring.
So a couple of Saturdays ago, my 15 year old daughter’s in the kitchen, cutting some potatoes, broccoli or carrots, and L, the cook, (she’s been sacked and so her name is no longer relevant, but followers of my blog will recall I tend to like to keep things anonymous). Suddenly T, the landlord comes in and starts reprimanding L for something. L looks up, pointing her knife at T and shouts back calling him a Fucking Drunken Bastard, it escalates, T walks towards her spitting vile insults at L and spittle on the food. My daughter is in the corner at he chopping board, chippety chopping potatoes into chips. Cutlery and Crockery is thrown on the floor and L runs for him, staggering, T drunkenly swerves out of the way as only a drunken man can. L is really irate, in case you haven’t realised, by this time. It seems that a customer has complained about the food, I don’t know the specifics, but she tells T to “Fuck off” and storms out of the kitchen, throwing her little hat at him, still brandishing the knife. She runs out into the bar asking where this bloody customer is; he’s left by now and so she turns, smashes through the back door into the beer garden and into the car park shouting at the driver of a car which is just leaving, could be anyone, spitting at the car as it crunches over the broken asphalt onto the main road out of here; children in the back of the car shouting and pointing.
She did’t come back and apparently she was “Dismissed for Gross Misconduct” on the following Tuesday, turns out she’d been helping herself to Vodka, possibly to cope with T’s ridiculous demands on her. Who knows? My daughter hasn’t gone back, I told T she needed stability and order not drunken chaos in the workplace, amongst other things.
So there we go, a story which is largely true, in rural Worcestershire, you heard it here first but if you want to buy me a pint then it’ll have to be at the Lenchford, a mile south from here, next to the river; good garden terrible carpets, I’ll be there for the Bonfire.