Life Behind Bars Read Free Page A

minutes
ago.  What the hell could have happened in ten minutes?
    An agitated David was roaring
down the phone.
    “You have to get back here
NOW.  There’s a crowd of bikers refusing to leave and demanding drinks in
the restaurant.”
    Jesus! Bikers!  Every
warning bell went off.
    “ Can’t you deal with
them?”
    “No, they won’t move, it’s
causing a problem in the restaurant.”
    This was serious, people don’t
come out on a Saturday night to become involved in, or watch ‘bar room brawls.
’  It had to be sorted.  And with great macho men, a woman is always
the one to get rid of them.
    It normally took about ten
minutes to go from one place to the other but I think I broke the sound
barrier.  I stormed into the building, crashing doors, screeching at
customers to get out of my way.  Now anyone who knows me knows that
although I’m formidable, I never lose my cool.  Well this was an
exception.
    No sign of hubby or
manager.  I marched through the dining room.  No sign of any
marauding hoards of leather-clad fiends.  I spotted a group of about eight
to ten extremely boisterous lads by the pool table.  No obvious clues that
they were bikers, but who knows?  They could be in their civvies. 
Well they were out, whether they knew it or not.
    I marched up, lifted all their
drinks, of which there were many, and threw them on the bar.  Grabbed a
couple by the scruff of the neck and propelled them to the door.  Grabbing
the next two wasn’t so easy as the element of surprise had gone, but come hell
or high water they were going.
     
    To say they were protesting is
putting it mildly.  They were shouting and jumping up and down and going
to smash the windows.  Anyway, I got the last one, who was snogging the
ugliest of ugly’s, (actually did him a favour,) and dragged him screaming to
the door to join the rest of his cohorts.
    This was accomplished in
approximately three minutes.  Once a punter is outside it’s easier to deal
with them; you just shut the door.  And that was what I was about to do
when the dynamic duo appeared.  The two of them stood open-mouthed at what
I thought was my speed and dexterity in dealing with the situation.
    “Who the fuck are they?”yelled
the manager.
    “The troublemakers,”was
my reply.
    “Troublemakers?  Why?
 What were they doing?”
    “I don’t know!  You damned
well called me.”
    “For fuck’s sake!  It’s not
them!  It’s them !”
    “Who?   Them ?”
     Having taken up residence
at the vacant pool table were a group of elderly gentlemen.
    “ THEM ?  You’re having
a laugh.”
    I’d risked life and limb to get
back in record time.  Thrown possibly a dozen young guys out on their
necks for nothing, risking a bloody riot to deal with a group whose collective
age would be about 400 years old — the youngest was definitely over 60!
    “ Them ?  You fucking
well called me back here to deal with a SAGA tour?   THEM ?”
    Meanwhile, the victims were
creating mayhem.  (All landladies are secret swearers, and what we utter
under our breath is never said out loud,) but not in this case.  I have
members of staff who have worked for me for over twenty years and have never,
ever heard, or seen me like I was that night. 
     
    I always say when I lose my sense
of humour, run for the hills, and this was it.  Those two fuckin’ eejits
were supposed to be in charge and attend to customers, see to their needs, or
if any problems arose, deal with them.
    It seemed that the group of
gentlemen, who were on their annual ‘Chapter Ride Out,’ had not wanted to
venture into the bar.  It was a little too noisy and maybe a bit
rough.  These were the ‘Hells Angels?’
     
    And what about the young guys I’d
thrown out?   Well they were pacified by a couple of free drinks and
the threat that if they caused any trouble, I would be back.

Lock In . . .
     
    Every manager or owner has one
golden rule: check everywhere, everywhere, before you lock up for