This week, GAVIN AITCHISON finds himself eating humble pie down a York local.

LANDLORDS have it easy. They get up when they want, put their feet up until tea time then enjoy a few beers with the regulars. Fancy an easy life? Run a pub.

That’s maybe not exactly what I said, but it was along those lines. Me and my big mouth.

Paul Marshall, the target of my banter, well and truly called my bluff. He gave a stirring defence of his profession and threw down the gauntlet. “Put up or shut up,” was the gist of it.

I came up with excuses but could refuse for only so long. And so last Thursday, after many years of propping up York’s bars, I made my ignominious debut on the other side, at the Waggon and Horses in Lawrence Street, Paul’s pub. Here’s how it went.

 

3.30pm: The pub is still quiet when I report for service, 30 minutes after opening time. Paul is cleaning the bar, and lays down the two fundamental rules. Keep the bar clean and dry. And don’t pile empty glasses on it. I nod and take notes and point out a spot he’s missed, but he doesn’t look impressed.

3.50pm: Cellar duty, and after narrowly avoiding decapitation by a low beam, I’m genuinely learning. We adjust the temperature to keep it between ten to 12 degrees, clean the pipes, and then I return to the bar to “pull through” the new ale, Hylder Blonde from Dark Star, to ensure the first pint is spot on. It’s a fantastic beer and I’m tempted to siphon off a few pints, but Paul won’t hear of it. “No drinking on duty,” he says, with a worryingly straight face.

4.15pm: We replenish the snack displays and the fridge, ready for the evening ahead. You can always tell a struggling pub because it doesn’t keep the fridges stocked, says Paul. New stock is put at the back, so the colder bottles are ready at the front, and although my elbow dislodges a couple of bottles of tomato juice, I avert disaster with a catch that wouldn’t have been out of place at Headingley. I don’t think Paul saw, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

5.10pm: My first customer! A barman from Brigantes, exploring the Camra Ale Trail. He orders a half of Otley O5, and I nail it first time. A bit of chat, he orders a second, and suddenly I’m in my element. Another punter follows, this one after a wine as well (I know!) and I get it spot on again. This landlord malarkey is a piece of cake!

6.30pm: The pace is picking up, but timely back-up arrives in the form of regular barmaid Laura. Less reassuring is the arrival of a devious friend, who threatens to spend the night ordering increasingly complicated cocktails, not to mention two other York landlords keen to witness any slip-ups. The pressure is on.

7.45pm: Laura looks relieved as Paul assigns me to the kitchen. It’s quiz night, so there’s a buffet to prepare: pork pies, quiches, Scotch eggs, sausage rolls and crisps. The five core food groups. A kitchen hygiene course from my school days comes flooding back.

8pm: High drama, and proof of how hard the landlord’s job can be. A punter who initially looked the picture of sobriety evidently is not. Before he reaches the bar, he is helped back whence he came. Paul returns to the bar, leans on it, finds a large wet patch and looks at me menacingly.

8.20pm: Crowds are building; so is the heat – and the pie oven at the end of the bar doesn’t help. A simple half of Foster’s turns into a disaster, a thin layer of gold supporting a 90 per cent head. Poor Laura is very polite, but quite clearly wants rid of me.

8.50pm: The Hylder Blonde is proving popular but is the liveliest of the beers. I pull four pints for one round, and realise the drip tray is overflowing on to my shoes. In these tough economic times, such wastage is criminal.

9.15pm: The quiz is under way. Question 1: What am I doing here? – PASS. Question 2: How much longer can I cope? – PASS. Question 3: Can I have a pint yet? – NO!

9.45pm: Wilting. No time to take notes. Pulling pints at arm’s length, to prevent sweat dripping into the ale from my brow. “I might call it a day at ten,” I tell Paul. “I need to write up my notes.” He sees through my ruse and shakes his head. I wonder how The Press might cover the story if I drop dead of exhaustion.

10.15pm: I sense the punters losing patience as I struggle to keep up. They’re a nice bunch, but revolution is in the air. Enough is enough. I take my five-minute break in the garden and Paul grants me my freedom at last, though not before forcing me into one last task – the hardest one of all...

“Okay, okay, you win!” I say, as he smugly joins me in the garden. “I take it all back”.

A triumphant grin spreads across his face. He sends me behind the bar once more, but this time in grace – I pour myself a pint, settle down to enjoy it, and resolve never to question Paul’s profession again. Well. Not for a while at least.

 

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