We’d just worked an 8 hour night, us three. We’d served a stupid amount of people. I’d had a particularly horrible time. I’m not a very good bartender. I’m really really not. I spilt two Tequila + Cola’s over the till (twice) till it was sticky and not quite working right. I spilt half a bottle of Midori over the bar, and watched dumbfounded as two drunk boys ‘table sucked’ it straight from the bar. I dropped beer in the ice sink. I didn’t realise that the tip on the Tequila was free pour, until it wouldn’t stop and a boy told me I was ‘the best bartender ever!’ I gave people the wrong type of beer. I gave people coke when they asked for diet, and diet when they asked for coke.

Fail. And lets not even get into the dyslexic part where four dollars from every alcoholic non-shot drink had to go on the tab, which meant calculating how much went where in your head before you rang it up on the till. Epic fail. I’m pretty sure my till didn’t add up to any kind of understandable state.

Still, while I was no good to the bar, I had a good time. I made friends with the crowd, and people brought me shots. They gave me tips. They said that I was better than ‘that other guy’. I laughed at them, silly drunk people.

I also managed calls to Dubai when it was quiet (despite Frenchies head shakes and ‘you should be working’ looks), and dealt with drama the best I could. I helped clean the bar, when it was all said and done. Well, kind of. I collected balloons, and wiped tables down, and swept. And then I sat on my behind, much to Frenchies disgust. But I was exhausted, and over it, and very much not used to 8 hour jobs on my feet. Whats more, I was was covered in beer (having not perfected how to open a corona without it spraying all over me) and midori (from too many quickfucks) and butterscotch (because I dropped the bottle when I was pouring out Cocksucking Cowboys, and caught it upside down, butterscotch pouring down my arms). The insides of my elbows were sticky, and my dress dirty and I didn’t even want to look at the state of my shoes.

So it was very much a delight to have everything finished. Everything clean and shiny, with all the punters gone. It was very nice to sit down with the other two at the end of the night and just sit. Until the boys discovered a few left over helium balloons.

I laughed myself stupid listening to the boys inhale the helium and say phrase like ‘donut puncher’ and laugh themselves into a giggle fit. We spent a good fourty minutes sitting, and laughing. Capturing more and more missed balloons from the ceilings. Inhaling more and more helium. Laughing ourselves stupid.

When you’re sitting with two people who can’t stop belly laughing, suddenly the 8 hour night doesn’t seem to bad. Being covered in alcohol and goodness knows what else doesn’t really matter. The sore legs and aching muscles and the desperate need for bed just kind of fades.

It was a brilliant, brilliant end to the night. Working with two really brilliant guys, who reassured that while I was quite a bad bartender, I wasn’t THAT bad. Sometimes all it takes to turn a night around is a few good people, and some helium balloons.

Best giggle fit at the 1.42 mark. *grin*. Oh the things that are funny at 4 in the morning …

I don’t usually take my camera to the bar, not usually. This is because I know that I could end up anywhere, and that at 4am I’m not going to know where my very expensive, very precious camera is. So its always very exciting to discover bar adventures on Facebook the next day.

So I’ve had a few brilliant nights there this month, I think each of those is a confirmation on how I should NOT take my camera . . . Highlights, then:

* Dancing to the only Jimmy and the Goodbrew song I know (Golden Rule <3)

* Having @lellobot be home, and having her leaving drinks at the bar.

* The bartenders call of “Shots!” and having him pour me a sweet strawberry something, and everyone else something foul like Patron.

* Sitting around in the courtyard bitching with the Staff, both new and old, after closing.

* So much Square madness. So. Much. Madness. Square <3!

* Having the French Glassie teach us to say silly things in french, and letting us butcher it rather horribly (“Tu êtes une singe pute!”)

* Teaching the French Glassie english words like “Goober”

* Winning a stupid amount of pool games with tin-ass shots.

* Sitting around in the closed bar with my besties (<3 Lyth + Zes!), impressed that they came down in the early hours of the morning

* Watching the College Rifles Rugby team take of their clothes in punishment in Kangaroo Court

* Sneaking shots from behind the bar

* The mad affection which comes from having a family bar

Yeah, its been pretty brilliant. I’m not there as much now, but when I am, it works for me.

I didn’t want to work. I really, really did NOT want to. It was going to be a huge gig – two rooms, nine djs, something ridiculous like 600 tickets sold. It was going to be mad. Huge. Outrageous.

And I don’t work mad, huge or outrageous gigs. I’m not coordinated enough to work behind the bar on such nights. I’m too slow, and don’t have the skillset to handle that kind of gig, the press of people, working the till that they changed special for the night or the outrageous drinks (oh, I’m sorry, you wanted something other than a Corona? Sorry, we can’t do that. We only sell Corona now because its easy and I can do that).

Knowing this, I didn’t want to work because I’d be doing the jobs I didn’t really want to do. And then a few days before they got desperate. People kept dropping out and then they got real desperate. Not for someone to work behind the bar, but for people to work the floor. So, with a great show of reluctance, I said that if they were desperate, and if they needed me, I would work. They did, so I said I would.

And then I proceeded to bitch about it not wanting to do it. Because I did. Not. Want. To. Work. And I made it clear that this was the case. Being a glassie bitch is hard work. Really, really hard work, with almost no end result, no visible satisfaction. I worked it once before, and it was an absolute rubbish night. Its a painful, painful cycle of fetching peoples dirty glasses and cleaning them. I tried to find people to replace me, but the bar didn’t want strangers. In the end I convinced my friend Lyth (the amazing, wonderful, brilliant, best friend ever) to come work with me, so at least I wasn’t working alone.

And I bitched right up until I walked into the bar. I took a red bull shot, and then I bit my tongue, and did what I was asked to. And at first it as just moving tables, and many people trying to do a million things. Two hours in and there was nothing for me to do, so I danced on the tables in the VIP section, and then again in a big empty room filled with balloons. Both which made me feel exponentially better.

And then the night got started, people (an outlandish mix of the respectable and the manx) started showing up. I broke my first glass and was able to laugh about it. I polished wine glasses. And then before I knew it the bar had filled up. And the DJs were pumping out fucking awesome sets. And then I had a group of friends arrive. And another crew. And then I decided that fuck it. I could work AND dance. So I did. I’d do a round, clear whatever I saw whenever I saw it. Check that bathrooms, put a tray in the sterilizer, and then I’d head to the nearest group of friends and DANCE! There was so much dancing. Working meant that I had a reason to excuse myself (do another quick round) and then go dance with another crew. And it was BRILLIANT.

The music got under my skin, and into my blood stream. It was pumping, and put a bounce in my step and a smile on my face. The quicker I did a round, the quicker I could get back to dancing on the floor. I was downing energy drinks, and I rode a sugar high all night. I was dancing while I polished glasses, and collected empties. I danced through the crowd, arms filled with stuff. I danced with the bar tenders. I danced outside, where you could feel the beat through the concrete. I danced with strangers, and with friends and staff and it. Was. Brilliant.

I may have bitched right up until I walked in the door, but once I was there I was good. Amazing. Brilliant. I may have broke a few more glasses than anyone else. I may have sliced my fingers to ribbons, and have bruises in odd places and burns across my knuckles. I may have got smashed in the face by an idiot brandishing a cane. And been intimidated and threatened by drunkards in the garage. I may have worked a 15 hour day while hungover, but when I finally got home?

I was still dancing the shower.

I’m glad that the night turned out well, that despite my bitching, while not unfounded, the work did not eventuate in the way I expected. I met a fair few new people, and had a brilliant time with friends who had come down especially to see me. I was asked for my number, and then to dinner and was told that I was ravishing. I’m glad that I got to dance in rooms filled with balloons, and that the dj’s sets were so brilliant that I had to stop whatever it was I was doing and go dance.

It was a good night, a REALLY good night. I’m so glad that it was. Sometimes I think I get in a mindset and let it get me down. I’m glad that I was proved wrong. I’m so, so glad it was brilliant.

It started off quiet, I wasn’t planning on being behind the bar. A friend was over from London for a few scant weeks, and I’d suggested that we meet for cocktails. I’d dressed casual: my favourite pair of heels and tight jeans, a silk top with a pretty print. And the barman had acquiesced with my request of some kind of deal: two for one cocktails. It was going to be a good night. People started showing up, and it was brilliant. A pretty coloured drink here, a sweet concoction there.

And then I realised I’d double booked myself, so I invited the second crew down to the bar. Sent a few txts out to my besties, if they were free they were more than welcome to come down. And to my surprise, they did. They trickled in, one by one, and before I knew it the bar was filled with my friends. Different crowds mingling, in small groups all about the bar.

So much so, that the one glorified bartender got busy super quick. So I did what I always do in a rush, and jumped in. Behind the bar in heels, not a great idea. I stumbled, my stiletto’s getting stuck in the perfectly sized holes in the rubber mats. I was also ever so slightly intoxicated, having downed many pretty coloured drinks, but I’m fairly sure that only added to the experience.

It was such a high serving my friends. Hugging over the bar, in jokes and high fives and laughter. Cheers as someone else I recognised came in. I passed drinks out quick and fast, an extra shot there, beers with almost no head there . . .

I wasn’t behind the bar long, and to be honest, the rest of the night passed in a bit of a blur. I spent a long time moving between groups, gossiping and catching up on the news. It was a pretty amazing feeling, to have a bar filled with your nearest and dearest. Everyone in a good mood, glasses full. It was good for me, good for the bar, good times forward ho.

The next morning provided a delightful headache, the kind that was demolished by a walk and a plateful of Eggs Benedict. Less easily demolished was my tab, which sang to the tune of $200 plus. Apparently I’d been overly generous, paying for drinks here and there. I don’t regret it: I’d pay it off in full, with thanks. It was a brilliant, brilliant night, well worth any monetary costs.

I’m beginning to learn that each time behind the bar is going to be different. Whether I’m working for the night, or for half an hour. Whether I’m serving my friends, the band, the owners or strangers. The bar, the people in it, the nights that pass, they all contribute to the ever changing mood. Tonight was a good night. I hope the upcoming nights are just as grand.

Maybe it was just because I was exhausted. Maybe it was because I had other plans that I had to cancel. Maybe it was because they asked me at the last minute, after an epic day. Maybe it was the different crowd, the different situation, the different night.

Regardless of what it was, it opened my eyes. Last time I saw the high, the glamour and last time I had a brilliant, brilliant time. This time, this time I saw the underbelly of working in a bar. It’s hard work, and sometimes, it’s shitty work.

At the time, while I was clearing tables of the empties, I thought about how you couldn’t pay me to do this job. There is no amount of money that I would take to do this for a living. I find it ironic then, that there I was working for free. That I was doing it to help where I could, for the people that not only run the bar, but for the people who own it. The people who are near and dear to me. For them, I would do the shitty jobs.

Last time I was behind the main bar. And I loved it, I flirted and laughed and served drinks with ease, and put money in the till. It was easy, and fun and oh so simple.

This time? This time I poured beer in the ice sinks (twice). I couldn’t recognise the people I was serving, and gave the wrong people the wrong drinks. Someone would order a Macs Gold and would end up with a Speights. I burnt my palms trying to pack away hot glasses. I couldn’t figure out how to open the stupid top that keeps champagne fizzy, nor how to put it back on again. I cut myself trying to open a Corona (for serious, who cuts themselves on a bottle top?), and then again when I tried to cut lemons for said Corona. It was pretty abysmal. So I did the clever thing, and left the serving of drinks to people who do this better than I ever could.

And instead, I collected empties. I polished wine glasses, and tried to make sure there were always chilled bostons in the fridge. I cleared and wiped down tables, and picked up other peoples rubbish. I made sure the bathrooms were stocked with toilet paper, and I steralized the glasses whenever a tray was filled. I scraped down plates in the kitchen, I stacked glasses (and then got told that it was a bad, horrible thing to do, because it cracks them) and I was basically the bitch of the night.

And I did this for almost 6 hours. And that whole time I reminded myself that I was doing it for love. I was doing it for the bar. I was doing it because they needed the help, and because they asked. And think it was because of this, because of why I was doing it, that when what I really wanted to do was bitch and moan, throw a tantrum and storm out, instead I bit my tongue and got on with it. No one needs to hear my complaints. I did whatever I could to help, whenever it was needed.

And even though I snapped at the other bar staff, and even though I was exhausted, and grumpy, when I remembered I was doing it for love, it was easier to smile at the patrons. To take the empties with a grin, and a witty one liner. It was easier to stop and chat with the people looking for the bathrooms, the tipsy girls who had gotten themselves lost, and the hardened men who listend to blues.

When I remembered I was doing it for love, doing the shit stuff became easy. And I think that I’d forgotten that. I was glad to remember, and the night passed swiftly after that. Sometimes remembering why you’re doing something is all you need to keep on going.

It was different, on this side. Dressed down, instead of up. Sneakers, not heels. Drinking Redbull, no vodka. Simple black singlet, comfortable jeans. No short skirts or hot little dresses tonight. Before the night kicked off, I was anxious about getting in the others way. Worried that it would be harder than it looked. Worried that things might not go as smoothly as I would have liked. I reminded myself that I was doing this for love, and even if I cocked things up royally, my intentions were good.

I shouldn’t have worried, really. Once the night got started I fell into an easy rhythm. It was hot, with the six of us together. The camaraderie was tight. The jokes a little bit filthy. The winks and grins all alluding to other dirty things. We worked quickly, intimately. Hands on hips as we slid by each other. Working over, under and around. Passing cups under taps, shovelling ice into bostons, dancing around the tills. In and out of the fridges, the chiller, the store room.

And oh the attention! I was unprepared for the attention, and the way people clamoured for mine. I got more smiles, more compliments, more witty one liners, more ‘can I have your number?’s than if I’d been playing on the other side. And it was safe to flirt from over here. Easy to make small talk with the punters, the owners, the band.

I got better at working the taps. I remembered to only shovel the ice with the bostons, and I quickly adopted Asa’s technique to open the bottles. I learnt how to pour wine on the bar with one hand. It was hard work, but fun. The press of people would come in waves, and it was amazing to see them relax, drop social stigmas, and smile more. As the night wore on, we’d take ten seconds for us, ten seconds for shots, ten seconds to keep us going. Sometimes sweet concoctions. Sometimes Jager poured straight from the bottle into open mouths. Over and under, they called it.

By the time lights came up, and night was coming to close I felt like I’d been operating on some kind of high that had come down an hour or two before. I sat on the end of Asa’s desk and watched him count the take for the night. I listened to the boys clean up the bar, and I felt bad that I wasn’t doing more. That I was incapable of being anything more than a lump. I knew the boys night was just getting started. That there would be many more drinks to be had in the closed bar. A private party to celebrate a night gone well.

Alas, I’m not a nocturnal creature. And I left, before the party got underway. I drove up my driveway, sure that morning wasn’t too far away. I basked in the praise, that for my first night I did well. That I wasn’t useless and could pour drinks under pressure. They asked if I’d like to make it a regular thing. Of course I would, really. It was a given, I’d do anything to support the bar. But after tonight, I’d do it even if I wasn’t obligated. I’d do it to be part of that party, to be part of the camaraderie with those people. To work side by side, quickly, with a few laughs, a few dirty jokes, many good times.

They said they’d let me know about the next big function, but we all knew I’d be in next week. I can’t wait.