The Pub That Changed Me: A Tale of Panic and Humiliation Behind the Bar
In the mid-1980s, Simon Hattenstone, then in his early 20s, thought he had landed the perfect job. Thanks to his best friend Ned, he secured a position at the Friendship Inn in Prestwich. Pubs were his natural home, and working alongside his bezzy in a place called the Friendship seemed like a dream come true. He understood the basics of drink service: letting Guinness stand, aiming for half an inch of head on a pint of bitter, and not overfilling a whisky glass with water. It all seemed easy-peasy.
A Dream Job Turns Sour
However, as soon as Simon got behind the bar, panic set in. What looked like half a dozen waiting customers felt like a sea of thousands. The bar's unique shape, resembling the bow of a ship, added to the chaos. Every time he moved to one side, calls would erupt from the other. He struggled to remember faces and drink orders, leading to a complete meltdown.
The faces around him twisted into ghoulish, distorted forms, cackling manically or cursing his incompetence. He felt like Mia Farrow confronting the coven in Rosemary's Baby, though thankfully without a knife. In his confusion, he poured Guinness for those who ordered red wine and Budweiser for Boddingtons requests. Nothing went right.
The Breaking Point
The situation worsened as Simon broke his first glass, and the crowd's stares grew more intense, reminiscent of the eerie scenes from Rosemary's Baby. His pours were off: bitter was headless, lager was all head. After breaking another glass, dizziness and breathlessness overwhelmed him, and his legs began to collapse.
After just half an hour, the manager ended his misery, informing Simon he wasn't cut out for the work and letting him go without pay. Fortunately, he didn't demand compensation for the broken glasses. By this point, Simon's legs had given way completely, and he slithered out of the bar like a snake, but the humiliation wasn't over.
An Escape Fraught with Shame
Unable to find the hatch to exit, Simon walked in circles, his mouth dry and salted, unable to speak. Eventually, the manager lifted the hatch and let him go. The shame was so profound that he couldn't bear to tell his parents or even discuss it with Ned. How could this happen in a pub, his natural home, named the Friendship?
The embarrassment has never faded with time. Since then, Simon has held skilled bar staff in awe. Recently, he confessed his disgrace to Joyce, who runs the Lincoln Arms, his brilliant local in King's Cross. She has promised to give him a few minutes behind the bar for aversion therapy, 40 years later, to finally put the ordeal to rest.
