Stories from the Bar

August 26, 2010 in Out of my Brain, Personal

The young woman just ordered her sixth pint, it’s only 6pm and she’s quite clearly not happy, she occasionally sobs before heading to the toilet to do a line of cocaine. As she lifts the pint glass to her mouth her hands shake, the tremors only subsiding after a few large gulps. A regular at the bar she is an alcoholic and drug addict, she drinks everyday, and she’s not the only one. All in all there are about a dozen ‘locals’ that call the bar home most afternoons, and some mornings.

There are the older gentleman that spend every afternoon sitting in the bar downing pint after pint, talking to no-one just watching, and occasionally staggering up to the bar for another. There are the women, all mostly recent divorcees or in bad relationships who drink before heading home after work.

GKWT-London1

Don’t think I don’t like these people, most are lovely. They love a chat, as I pour their drink. The woman I mentioned in the intro is lovely when she’s sober.

The problem as I see it is England lacks the responcible service of alcohol laws that Australia has, the laws that I will admit arn’t enforced that well, but still can be used to cut people off. Here in the UK it is nearly unheard of to be cut off or for a bartender to stop serving someone drinks. So every afternoon thousand if not hundreds of thousands of men and women slowly drink themselves to death, pint after pint.

So what has brought this post on – simply I’m now part of the problem. I’m a bartender, I serve the drinks, pour the pints, and I feed their addiction. I’ve tried, and succeeded, on a few occasions to get them to take a pint of water, but this is rare. These people will never seek help, never accept assistance, they are, in a strange way, content with their lives. I’m not saying they’re happy just that most are complacent to the fact that this is how it will be.

Now I drink, sometimes to excess, but I don’t need to drink, these locals do.  Their hands tremble as they take the first pint from the beer mat, their minds racing till the warm blanket of beer floats down and numbs them. I’m not judging their choices in life, they are free to drink to a point that their livers fail. This borders on the euthanasia debate and I like most of my friends stand on the side that says ones body is ones body and we are free to decide how we leave this mortal coil. What I don’t like is being the unwitting assistant to their deaths.

It has only been recently I’ve started to notice these people, sitting alone, drinking themselves to death and I’m the one supplying the poison, and it make me sad.

A slightly somber

GK Out