My salad dressing days

Why I never go to bars
November 2, 2007, 3:38 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

“Let me get the drinks!” I announce with the confidence of a novice.

I step up to the bar and wedge myself between the omnipresent solitary guy who is nursing a pint whilst eye-ing up the female talent in the room and another guy who is taller, burlier and louder than me.

My Respect For The Principle Of Queuing gene means that I am initially quite relaxed because I recognise that there are at least three other people dotted along the bar who have been waiting to be served longer than me. Nonetheless, I whip out a tenner from my wallet and wave it around casually, as appears to be the modus operandi.

Once my three fellow customers have  been served, I adopt my quizzical ‘please serve me’ look. This involves raising my eyebrows and cocking my head slightly. The bar staff (one grungy studenty male and one perky female in minimal attire, both in their 20s) succeed in looking right past me to a guy who has shuffled up behind me and who – it appears – is ordering drinks for two rugby teams and their support crew.

Just as I think the male bar steward is about to serve me, his boss comes along and asks him to bank his till. He does this and disappears. Meantimes, the female bar steward has hit upon a flirtatious stag night at the other end of the bar and shows no intentions of returning.

I stand on tiptoes and swap my tenner for the next demonination up. I fold the cute pink twenty in half lengthways and flick it around between my fingers as if it was a cigarette. Amy Winehouse booms through my viscera.

Still no service.

I start to sweat. I am absolutely 100% sure that the solitary guy next to me has decided that I am a total loser. I sense his silent sniggers and sarcastic sideways glances.

My sister taps me on the shoulder.

“You alright here?”

“Yeah, yeah! I’ll be over in a minute.”

But really I am DYING INSIDE because NO-ONE WILL SERVE ME.

Finally another bar steward appears and wanders over to my end of the bar.

“Oooooh, me next! Me next!” I yell shamelessly.

Another woman (young, thin, attractive), on the other side of Solitary Guy, pipes up.

“So, who was first then?” demands the bar steward.

I look downwards, a little sheepish, having quickly lost my battle-ready spirit.

The woman nods at me, no doubt in the spirit of the adage ‘age before beauty’ and Solitary Guy remarks: “At least you managed to get them back to this end of the bar!”

“Yeah!” I reply, enthusiastically.

But then I realise he is directing his comment at the nubile twenty-year-old.


This is why I never go to bars.

I’m too old and I suffer from a chronic lack of bar presence.