the big angry

sunday night was a funny old evening. We had one of our six monthly staff meetings/pissups kicking off about 7pm at the pub. well attended and positive vibes all round. Shaun the booker gave a cracker of speech based on his attendance at an award ceremony sponsored by a popular bourbon maker in sydney the week before. He gave great perspective on how our venue is viewed by the bands who play there and we all had the warm fuzzies on by the end of it. So far so good. We all then wandered around the corner to the local plastic paddy pub to dump the contents of the tip jar on the bar, drink deeply and indulge in large platters of deep fried goodness.

Fast forward 2 hours and we've fucked about $700 worth of tips between 20 people and things start getting a little lairy. I'm stil drinking off a hangover from the night before so I'm a little behind but I can see the mood is a little variable. One of our bouncers (who used to work at the plastic paddy pub) has sighted a couple of irish lads who got a touch fightative on Paddy's day and is making noises about belting one. Nick's getting in his grill about it (fair enough too) and two of Nick's other mates have arrived pretty messy simaultaneously. Chewy is doing her Pussycat Dolls dance to the fascination of every dude in the place and Lize and Jules appear to be having a very loud convo about, well lets say a very uncomfortable way of making love. This is also fascinating the male barstaff. (it emerges later the shafting they were referring too was metaphorical rather than physical, but you could have fooled me at the time.)

Anyway everything is happening at once when when all hell breaks loose in the men's toilets. Angry bouncer boy has followed one of the irish lads into the toilets and roughly a dozen on duty bouncers, barstaff and concerned onlookers have all piled in after them prevent trouble. Cue much throwing of the hands in the air, protestations of innocence and lengthy meaningless arguments outside the pub. Time to move on.

After apologising to all concerned I decide it time to move on to the club around the corner. This venue is rather new and feels it unneccessary to have security on any but the busiest of nights. This is to prove somewhat of a hindrance to my enjoyment of the evening as the night wears on. All is going swimmingly - the drinks are too dear, the music is too loud and one of former saff members is the harried sole barman behind the jump. Nick's two mates have come with us and this is where shit gets messy. One of them, who we'll call the Serbian has had a rough trot of late. He's slept with girls he shouldn't have, drank too much, drugged too much, his folks have split up and he's finished uni and managed to get sacked from his first job already. He and Nick begin having an animated discussion and disappear outside. I don't think anything of it, they do this all the time but after half an hour Nick can't be found. I'm breathlessly informed by one of their social circle that Nick has gone home after the Serbian had punched him twice in the face.

Now dear readers, if any of you know me, you will be aware of my placid nature. My patience and tolerance are famous within the small bounds of my circle of acquaintances. But when I caught sight of the Serbian calmly quaffing a pot of cold beer at the bar after maiming my dear friend and valued colleague my blood fairly boiled. Steam issued from ears, red mist descended and the old hackles well they rose too. I issued instructions through a third party that if the serbian didn't depart immediately I would want to know why.

Well the cheeky little fucker ignored me. What happens immediately after this is a touch hazy. Apparently I grabbed him less than gently and barreled him out the door and was waxing lyrical on his shortcomings as a human being when the cavalry arrived. I was restrained from hammering the little bugger by my bemused staff and the Serbian was dragged away into the night howling threats. I must have tipped down a dozen Jacks afterwards and smoked half a pack of fags trying to calm down. Full credit to Lizey and big Liam for holding the hand of man incoherent with sadness and anger for the next hour.

Anyway the wash up is as follows - apologetic texts have been despatched and a state of truce exists. I feel ridiculous and still a little angry. And that club around the corner better fucking lift their game security wise - letting people walk back into your bar after belting someone is a recipe for trouble and plain silly.