Cocktail - The Remake
During my last year of A Levels, I decided that I needed extra beer money - don't we all - and managed to blag myself a job behind a local bar, helped by the fact that a) I went to college with the landlord's daughter and b) Because the landlady apparently considered me to be "dishy".

My choice of employer was an out of town pub which enjoyed a decent clientèle and was a prime spot for folks stopping for a pre-club drink before heading into enjoy Colchester's nightclubs on a Friday night. With enough gel in my curly locks to glue a Boeing 747 together and a modestly suggestive twinkle in my eye, my secondary plan was to serve side order of charm with my drinks as a means of lubricating my way into many a lady's line of sight and thus combine earning money with getting my end away as often as possible. As plans go, this one seemed distinctly flawless.

The thought of effortlessly mixing cocktails behind a bar evaporated with my first request:

"I'll have a Snowball please" chimed one lady

"Erm... What's in one of those again?"

My other main characteristic feature, upon which to this day remains oft-commented is my complete Bealdlehandedness. I'm as graceful as a snorting Wildebeest riding shopping trolley along a poorly cobbled street.
At an average rate of one item an evening, glassware was relentlessly sent tumbling to oblivion closely followed by poorly coordinated swiping hands trying to catch the tumbling item before it shattered, accompanied by a strangulated "Oooh fuck, fuck it!", necessitating yet another apologetic retrieval of the ash pan and broom under a cloud of shame.

Flailing, spade-like, spazzy hands like mine were probably not generally envisaged caressing the gentle female curves of their owners as they sat coolly sipping gin and tonic in a vain attempt to quell their desire.

After five months of toil, I'd pulled an awful lot of pints and fuck all else.

My crowning glory came one night in April, as I was cack-handedly trying to take a basket full of glasses out of the washroom before stacking the rapidly diminishing supply behind the bar. I collided with a passing waitress in a hurry and the basket began to lurch lopsidedly as I desperately tried to keep forty pounds worth of glass from destruction.

I flailed and fought to keep my balance, but the end result was what is best described as a "mixed success". While every single glass remained undamaged, I'd fallen sideways into a row of optics and ripped down a full bottle of Bacardi, the optic attached to it and the wall fittings to boot. The landlord was surprisingly nice about it, explaining that I'd caused £60s worth of damage, but that these things happen.

With my exams looming, I decided that this bar work malarkey wasn't all sex and sophistication so I handed in my notice. With a couple of weeks employment to run, I kept my head down and stayed away from controversy. Right up until my final night.

At 10pm I was emptying ash trays when the two female occupants of the table I was cleaning made an unexpected comment.

"oooh, you have very nice muscles" opined one.

"Hmm... Must be very hard going dashing around all day. Would you like to come back to ours for a foot massage?" said the other, staring right into my startled eyes as she stirred her drink.

As I blinked in response, my mind's eye played out all manner of equally delicious scenarios, way too blue for me to share here - even with you fine people.

The part of my brain which commanded speech was attempting to say "Give me five minutes to get my coat ladies while I quit this job and rejoin you to tantalize the parts Carlsberg never knew existed".

My left eyebrow raised at a suggestive angle as I galvanised myself for a response surely destined to open the doors to the deliciously decadent ménage a trois I would be smugly regaling the grandkids of one day.

However, what bizarrely tumbled from my lips was a squeaky "Erm... Erm... Thank you, yes" as the desire being loudly voiced in my brain suddenly mutated into "Retreat!".

Bah... Bar work. It's a mug's game if you ask me.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Sun 25 May 2008, 14:54, 6 replies)

Clicky
The baffling ability of the mouth to reject the words the brain suggests has caused me not only to miss out on much, but to embarrass myself on far too many occasions.
( Moey, Sun 25 May 2008, 15:03, closed)

So...
did you pump them?
(Stevie Ruggling, Mon 26 May 2008, 11:19, closed)

I'm very sorry but....
This story does not equate with the dashing, confident and suave PJM I've met. Must be another PJM on here I don't know about : )
( girlinthehole, Mon 26 May 2008, 18:15, closed)

Ah, Ms Blouse...
You flatter to deceive!
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Mon 26 May 2008, 22:10, closed)

Well,
Though I don't think I ever broke a glass and am anything but cack-handed, I too spectacularly failed to pull owt but pints during my nigh-on 14 months behind the bar.

I was groped once while making my way through an 18th birthday celebration though - groped a bit too firmly if truth were told but then none of them wanted to catch my eye...must have been disappointed!
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Tue 27 May 2008, 14:25, closed)

@ BGB
I can confirm that PJM is indeed dashing, suave and confident but he's also an eight year old boy trapped in an adult's (tall) body.

Ever seen the film 'Big' with Tom Hanks?

Based on PJM.


Ever seen the film 'Thirteen going on Thirty'?
It's the female version.
She wears some fantastic clothes in it and gets to snog Mark Ruffalo.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Tue 27 May 2008, 17:12, closed)