Why you don't pick up at bars

While in London one of the most popular things to be, other than a Shoreditch whore, is a bar-tender. The second most popular thing to be, is one who attends those bars, in the hope of attaining a free beverage or two or three. After listening to the late night tales of my many bar-tending enthusiasts, I have come to the conclusion that the bar-tenders themselves also enjoy benefiting from their position. Some know how to work the system, ie. each time they serve a customer they serve themselves, others are under the watchful eye of surveillance and rely on the kindness of customers. However, to expect such customer generosity it helps to be one of the following:

1)Very personable; in the way that you were voted person most likely to talk the pants off a nun.

or

2) Rather ravishing; in the way that you have learnt to deal with the fact that most people don't really care what you have to say but in an attempt to 'score' will pretend to listen anyway.

My friend 'Barry' is the latest individual to jump into the beer barrel and luckily for him he holds one of the above qualities. In this case, ambiguity will be upheld in order to ensure his head maintains its entitled surface area.

About a week or so ago, I received a call from 'Barry', he instructed me and another friend 'Syler' to join him and his new friends. Apparently, while closing shop, the generous strangers had encouraged him to join them at their Indian restaurant on Brick Lane. We reluctantly agreed and made our way. Upon arrival we were greeted by an empty eatery and thus followed the hedonistic sounds coming from the second floor, where we found Barry and three new friends, a young American lady and two British lads, chowing down on some curried delights.

While at the table there were whispers (by Barry) that the skinny one with the receding hairline and the stout boisterous one were in fact owners of the establishment, and as a result everything was 'on the house'. Syler and I exchanged glances and made our way to the refrigerated haven that would uncover the party about to be had.

Receding hairline explained that both he and his parter worked at Coutts Bank but as a side project owned 25 per cent respectively. He said they often recommended the establishment to their wealthy customers and as a result the bevy of regulars was enough to keep the place afloat.

The night continued with Mark the stout Englishman egotistically raving on about a whole load of crap which had no validity. On the rare occasion in which I sided with the nasal American gal, I received a reply of slurred barkings. However, the 'he's paying for our free night on the raz, don't tick him off' look from across the table, was as effective reminder for me to keep my eye on the prize.

After finishing my second bottle of cider and quietly noting that the night had actually ended quite successfully, 'Syler' returned from the boys room and promptly queried the where abouts of his iPhone. I had no reply other than a shrug of the shoulders. We looked high and low, quizzed the scurrying staff, 'Syler' retraced his steps and Barry even looked through the trash.

Skinny & Stout

We then turned to the respective owners, only to be faced with a M.I.A (missing in action). The stout gent had mysteriously yet conveniently disappeared, but the skinny bean pole quickly put our worries to rest by announcing Mark had gone out for a quick smoko. We followed him down the stairs, where in fact there was no smoking stout just a confused looking friend who hastily whipped out his phone and dialled Mark. Apparently, he had gone to catch the last train and was on his way back. By this time we'd spilled onto the street, fingers were being pointed and vulgarities were being tossed about in the hope that someone would confess.

Mark finally turned up and then 5mins later had disappeared again.

Things continued to spiral:

Fed up, Syler muttered future actions involving 'wrecking this place'.

The owner shot back with a threat on Syler's life, ie. 'I'll slit your throat'

Barry called the police.

We found out from a squealer that Skinny and Stout did not in fact own a percentage of the establishment.

The cook tried to backtrack, stating that both men bought the restaurant 'many, many customers' and they were 'ghost owners'. That's right folks you heard it here first, you can take credit for owning a restaurant and not actually own it at all. Just make sure there isn't a squealer in the group.

The police arrived, took out their pad and paper and lay down the law.
Nothing was done and we left, empty handed.

Moral of the story: Mark is a genius. Pour some free alcohol into an unsuspecting victim, then citing the need for a tabacco release take their iphone and run. Because apparently 'see no evil, hear no evil' is the name of this game. Sounds like a mighty fine business venture and something the rest of us should look in to.

Aside from attempting to merge the rear end of the owner with that of a nearby vehicle, overall 'Syler' handled himself with dignity and grace. I took much deserved pity on Syler and his 400 pound loss.

Two days later he mentioned that he realised he could claim it on travel insurance.

Yes, yes you can Syler you baboon. After that comment all pity points had vanished.