My friend James thinks we should apply for bar jobs at Gatwick Airport. He’s so keen to work there he thinks I should phone up to enquire while he shouts abuse at me to put me off. It’s summer 1988, Southern England, jobs are easy to come by and despite background abuse and laughing while I’m asking about the job, we’re asked to come for an interview. To get the job you have to show up for the interview and you’re in.
James is working in the departure lounge and I’m in the south terminal, at the Village Inn bar. At the supplies store they’re handing out the uniforms. It doesn’t get off to a good start.
“Got a young man here, needs a uniform,” shouts the woman at the counter to the woman hidden in the store room.
“Is he tall dark and handsome?”
“No, he’s the opposite.”
Well I’m not short, I am blond and if I’m the opposite of handsome I must be hideous. Thanks for rattling my already shaky confidence 50 year old supply woman.
The first day I’m working the bar. The pubs are open 11 – 3 and we get off to a quiet start; polishing glasses, wiping trays clean, serving the odd coffee, but come mid-day the place is packed, a sea of faces and fists clenching tenners eager to be served alcohol. Good under pressure? Oh dear. I get the orders wrong, I can’t find the exotic spirits they’re ordering, I spill drink on the bar, I input the wrong things in the till.
Not to worry, I need guidance, motivational talks, someone who leads by example, a kindly…
“This’ll be a laugh, seeing how many hundreds of pounds your till roll is out by,” snorts the bar manager.
He struts to the till, nonchalantly opens it and calculates my till roll.
“I don’t bloody believe it.”
My first day’s till roll is out by 1 pence.
The following day they’re not so keen for me to be behind the bar. I spend a lot of time taking glasses out to the washer-upper. He works fast loading up the huge industrial dishwashers, whistling and singing in the steam filled kitchen. He actually seems to enjoy his work.
They put me on the tills for the busy last hour. I repeat yesterday’s mistakes but I work the till right. The second bell is rung for last orders. A man sitting down leaps up from his chair and rushes to the bar.
“4 pints”.
“I’m sorry, last orders has been called.”
“I’ve been waiting half an hour.”
“You were sitting over there a minute ago.”
“Alright, 2 pints.”
“Sorry, we’re closed.”
“How dare you, I want to speak to the manager.”
“I’d prefer you spoke to him too.”
My shift is 8 till 4. There’s a train that gets me to the airport twenty minutes early, or one that gets in five minutes late. I opt for the latter. The first weekend is not part of my shift but the second weekend is. Don’t they understand I only live for the weekend? At the weekend I need to be on the other side of the bar. I decide to ring in sick, phoning the only number available which goes to some random answer machine in an empty office, leaving a message for someone to ignore on Monday. I also get Monday and Tuesday off as part of my shift to reward me for the weekend I’ve failed to work.
“Where were you yesterday?” asks the bar manager.
“I was off, it wasn’t my shift.”
“You were supposed to be in at the weekend.”
“I was ill. Did you not get my message?”
Myself and an impish looking lad are sent to see the boss in his office for a bollocking. We have to stand waiting while he talks to Mrs Bell, someone even further up the chain of command if her suit is anything to go by. Mrs Bell eventually leaves.
“That was Mrs Bell, we were a bit behind.” The boss says.
“She has a very nice behind,” the impish lad says, clearly having failed to pick up on any of society’s ways during his lifetime.
“I beg your pardon?”
I move slightly away from my fellow skiver, just in case the boss thinks we are in some way connected.
“I said she was a very nice woman,” the lad tries to correct himself, but fails due to the mischievous look on his face.
“How dare you speak about your employer like that. Mrs Bell eats young whippersnappers like you for breakfast. Do you understand”
“I do,”. Unfortunately his “I do” does not contain the amount of sincerity needed to get him off the hook and the boss lays into him a while longer. Long enough for him to forget why I’ve been called into the room and my two days bunk is left unpunished.
As he hands out the wages for the week, the bar manager is all set to have his revenge for my unallocated time off.
“I can’t wait to see how little you’ve made this week,” he scorns as he passes me my wage packet in its brown envelope. His face changes as he looks at my paycheck. “I don’t bloody believe it.”
Due to my non-work in the early part of the summer my tax has been readjusted and I’ve just been awarded an £80 tax rebate, putting my wages above everybody elses for the week. Serendipity rules this summer.
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