A Day in the life of Duncan Nesbitt

 Today should have been a glorious day for me. The sun was shining, I had my health, I loved my wife, and I was on my way to a new job. But it was not a good day. My sixteen years old daughter, Tricia had just relayed to me that she was pregnant! How could she? Well, I mean, I know how she could, but why? And with Charlie Frazer! Charlie fucking Frazer, goddamn it. Forest Gump was Einstein compared to Charlie Frazer. I did not
know it yet, but my day was going to get worse. A lot worse.

    Uncle Sam's was one of those new-fangled American theme bars that had just opened on Tottenham Court Road. The pay was good, so I guess I was willing to put up with all the American crap; even going as far as wearing the stars and stripes waistcoat and red shirt, but I drew the line at wearing a top hat.

My first impression as I walked through the front door of Uncle Sam's was how tacky it was, but I have to admit, the furnishings were top class. A large, white, marble, oval bar was set in the centre of the room. The customers as they did in America, would sit around the bar if they so wished. I would get used to it I suppose.

    The manager, Mr Darcy, a young man not long out of school greeted me. I noticed immediately that he was not wearing one of those ridiculous waistcoats. I was introduced to Penny, a likeable, redheaded, short girl, who was constantly chewing gum of course. The numerous stars and stripes flags reflected in the global silver lights. This would take some getting used to.

    Darcy approached me. “Duncan, I have to be somewhere else, I'm afraid. Open up in five minutes… Steve and Jenny should be here at any minute.”

I answered the telephone when Darcy departed. A meeting indeed!
It was Steve, phoning in to say that he was sick. That's all I needed on my first day. Well, I suppose it shouldn't be too busy…not on a Sunday afternoon.

    I opened up, and a burly, shaven-headed man, who was wearing a white vest, his arms covered with tattoos, followed me in and immediately headed for the toilets. Only one customer. Perhaps it would be quiet after all.

    A small man, who was wearing a green tank-top entered the premises. He looked to be in his fifties, was wearing spectacles and sporting a Bobby Charlton haircut.

. "Yes, sir, and what can I do you for?" I asked.    

.     “What can I do for you?" he responded.

    "Sorry?" I quizzed.

    "It's what can I do for you? Bloody Yanks, cannot even speak the Queens
English."

    I couldn't be bothered telling him that I was born in Camden Town.

    "What can I do for you, sir?" I put the emphasis in can.

    "I'll have a pint of best bitter… I cannot drink that American crap."

    "A pint of best English bitter it is then."

    "That's not English,” he complained.

    "Sorry?"

"It's not English. Its brewed in Ireland."

    "Indeed… A pint of our best Irish bitter, sir."

    I hoped that he would only have the one. The last thing I needed this afternoon was a moaning old crone like him. I had more pressing worries. My bloody daughter for instance.

    Penny was stocking the shelves, so I prepared myself to serve Tattoo when
he returned from the toilets.

    "Screwdriver," he ordered, in a voice that made Lee Marvin sound like a
soprano.

     "Coming right up, sir."
    I mixed the vodka and orange, applied the ice and placed it down in front of him.
    He looked at it and frowned, the veins in his head pulsating. Not another awkward customer; that's all I needed.

    "What's this?" he growled, pointing a finger that was almost as thick as my wrist.

    "A screwdriver…. Vodka and orange."

    "No, a fucking screwdriver. I've pulled your Johny machine off the wall."

    I smiled, searched his face and waited for the punch line. There wasn't one. He was serious. I rifled about in the cupboard, passed him the tool and he was off.

    "Excuse me," said baldy. "This beer, it isn't a full measure."

    "What?"

      "It’s not a full measure. Look, you can see for yourself."

    "Sir, its the standard measure. I can assure you its a full pint."

    Penny was giggling at my misfortune.

    "The customer is always right, remember," he insisted.

    "Indeed." I topped his glass up and my eyes were attracted to the door. A crowd of about ten people suddenly appeared. My quiet afternoon was not to be.

    "I'm going to ring Jenny," said Penny. "She ought to have been here by now."

    The next person that I served was a woman in her forties, who was wearing a ridiculous low-cut, red top. She was obviously not wearing a bra. She had jet-black hair and was fluttering her eyelashes at me; her eyes heavily made up with black mascara. She had this permanent smile on her face. She looked like a rabbit on heat. As she sat at the bar, I could not help but notice the length, or should I say shortness of her skirt.

    "Excuse me. I say excuse me."

    Baldy was back, only this time I ignored him and served someone else. The queue at the bar was now horrendous, and Penny was nowhere to be seen.

    "One lager with a touch of lime, my friend," ordered a Pakistani gentleman, who was smartly dressed in a cream suit.

    "Excuse me, bartender," interrupted baldy.

    "One moment, sir! I'm serving."

    "Have you a light?" asked the rabbit.

    "I'm sorry, I haven't… Here's your lager and lime, sir."

    "Goodness gracious, isn't it expensive?" moaned the Pakistani.

    "You're new around here aren't you?" asked the rabbit.

    "Yes, its my first day," I answered.

    "Excuse me," butted in baldy.

    "One moment, sir. There's a queue."

    "I'll have one of those moliboes please," insisted a small, fat man with a
squeaky voice.

    I frowned. "Excuse me?"

    "You know…a molibo."

    "Excuse me," complained baldy.

    "Wait!" I did not intend to get upset, but this bloke was a pain in the arse.

    "A molibo please. You know, one of those," he said, pointing.

    "Oh, a Malibu. I'm with you now, sir."

    "Excuse me."

    I ignored baldy and served my next customer, looking over my shoulder to see where Penny had gotten to. The rabbit blew a cloud of smoke in my face and I coughed. If here's one thing I hate, its smoke.

    "Excuse me," persisted baldy.

    "Ok, what now?"

    "This beer…it's warm."

    "What?"

    "It's warm. My beer."

    I felt his glass. “No it’s not."

    "It’s warm, I tell you."

    I ignored him and the Pakistani beckoned me over. "Can I tell you a joke? It’s really funny."
    "Maybe later, I'm busy right now."

    "I'll tell it to you as you serve… There was this Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman, and they were the prisoners of Saddam Hussein during the gulf war."

    "Hey Abdul, I'm an Irishman," snarled a red headed man, who did not look too bright.

    "Ali, not Abdul friend," responded the Pakistani.

    "Excuse me, are you going to change my beer or what?" moaned baldy.

    "No, I’m not changing your beer. You've less than half a pint left. It’s probably evaporated the time its taken you to drink it."

    "A glath of whithky pleath."

    I looked at the new customer; a curly haired man, his face covered with so many freckles. I was tempted to play join the dots.

 "Come again," I said.

    "A glath of whithky. Are you death?"

    I smiled and looked to the ceilings for the hidden cameras. "Okay, Beadle, you can come out now," I muttered.

    The customers looked around and shrugged their shoulders at one another.

    "This is a wind up isn't it?" I grinned.

    "Excuse me…my beer," persisted baldy.

    "A glath of whithky, pleath!"

    The Pakistani continued with his joke. "Saddam said, “sing me a song about a dog and I'll let you go free. So the Englishman sings; How much is that doggie in the window."

    "A glath of whithky, pleath!"

    Baldy tapped me on the arm. "Excuse me, Yank. My beer remember."

    "So, he lets the Englishman go free… He turns to the Scotsman and he sings; I'm nothing but a hound dog, and so he releases him."

    I turned my back on the joker as I poured the whisky and gave it to short tongue. The rabbit was now wiggling her tongue at me in a provocative way.

    "Oh, my fucking God," I mouthed, as I watched a pink-suited man in a black beret approach the bar.

    "Excuse me," continued baldy, slamming his glass on the bar. "I never fought
a world war for a Yank to treat me like this."

    "A screwdriver, darling," said the man in pink, pouting his lips at me.

    I grinned and watched when Tattoo returned and passed me the tool.

    "Here you are, Madam," I mocked, handing the screwdriver to the gay man. I was convinced that this was a wind up.

     “Cheeky bastard,” he pouted, eyeing up tattoo.

    The Pakistani continued. "Then he turns to the Irishman and he sings; Strangers in the night, forever dancing."

    "Excuse me! My beer," whined Baldy

    I squared up to the little irritant. "Fuck off, you little shit! Of all the bars in London, you had to choose this one." I'm certain my eye was twitching when I said this. It was totally out of character for me, but there's only so much a man can take.

    An old man, one of those gurners I think they call them, was now standing at the bar and started to whistle, his fingers inserted in his mouth. He whistled something unknown to me.

    "A bod," ordered Tattoo.

    I wasn't about to argue with him, and so I placed his Budweiser  on the table. Again, I received that look that told me, I didn't have long to live.

    "What the fucks this?" he moaned.

    Baldy was persistent. "Excuse me, bartender."

    "Shut up!" I screamed.

    "What?" snarled Tattoo.

    "No, not you, sir… What’s the problem?"

    "I asked for a bod…a pint of Boddingtons, you silly bastard."

    "Oh, of course. How stupid of me."

    The Pakistan raised his voice as his joke neared the climax. "So, Saddam turns to the Irishman and says, there is no dog in this song. The Irishman says, you never let me finish. Strangers in the night, forever dancing, scooby dooby doo, scooby dooby."

    The Pakistani fell about laughing, as a spoon player appeared from off the streets and joined in with the whistler.

    The red headed Irishman squared up to Ali. "So what was wrong with that then? Scooby Doo is a bloody dog."

    Ali laughed louder, holding his sides.

    "Scooby Doo was a dog," insisted redhead.

    "Excuse me, bartender, I want to make a complaint," moaned baldy.

    By now, another old gent, who was wearing a flat a cap joined the whistler and the spoon tapper. At the top of his voice, he sang; "If I ruled the world."

    I was now on the verge of a stint at the cuckoo's nest, when Penny and another girl joined me.
    "Where the fuck have you been?" I asked.

    I heard a loud slap and turned to see Ali lying prone on the ground, the Irishman standing over him. “I like Scooby Doo, Abdul."

    "A glass of whithky, pleath."

    "I'm sure Penny here will get your glath of whithky. I quit!"

    Penny tried to console me. "Don't be like that, Duncan. I went to pick Jenny up. She broke down."

    "It was awfully nice of you to let me know," I moaned.

    "Well, I saw that you were busy."

    "Too fucking right I was! I've had bad jokes thrown at me, smoke blown in my face, went through I think the language barrier trying to take orders, had to listen to the Bee Gees over there, and had this old git moaning at me non-stop. Oh, and the durex machine is knackered."

    "I want to speak to the manager.”

    "I'm warning you, baldy!" I growled.

    "Ooh, who're you calling baldy? I fought a war while you Yanks ate your doughnuts and worked on your peanut farms."

    I pulled him over the bar by his lapels. "Look, do I sound like a fucking American to you?"

    He shook his head rapidly.

    "Put him down, Duncan,” ordered Penny. “Here's Darcy."

    "What's going on here?"

    "Are you the manager?" asked Baldy.

    "I am."

    "Well, I have a complaint to make… This employee of yours insulted me, before assaulting me."

    "Is this correct, Nesbitt?"

    "No, it is not."

    "Make yourself useful. Go and collect the glasses. The collector hasn't turned up," ordered Darcy.

    I reluctantly succumbed; after all, it was a break from the asylum. The singer, spoon tapper and the whistler were now doing a bad rendition of Two little boys, as I collected a large amount of glasses, being careful to avoid the man in pink. One more glass and I had finished. I had not reckoned on the rabbit taking a firm grasp of my arse and nipping it with all of her might. I watched as the glasses toppled over. I could have sworn that they moved in slow motion.

    A million pieces of glass covered the floor and Baldy said; "You ought to sweep that up before someone gets cut.”

    That was it. I went behind the bar and poured two pints of best Irish bitter. Darcy tried to stop me, but thought better of it when he saw the manic look in my eyes. I approached Baldy.

    "I didn't order them," he stressed.

    I grinned. “On the house. Full measures, and I hope it isn't too warm."

    I laughed loudly as the beer ran down Baldy's head and soaked his pathetic green tank-top.

    "You're fired, Nesbitt," yelled Darcy.

    "I'm fired; I'm bloody fired. Oh Lord, thank you."

    I left Uncle Sam's and went home to my wife and daughter. Instead of moaning at my pregnant daughter, Tricia, I hugged her. At least I could look forward to a healthy normal grandchild. I hope!"