People watching people

People make life worth living. They come in all shapes and sizes, with different attitudes, dirty habits and guilt complexes.

It is a rich, kaleidoscopic array with as many variations as the planet has colours.

And pubs are the best place to spot the differences.

You can call in a pub for a quick, after-work drink and discussion, only to be drowned out by the benefit brigade dancing after an all-day session. They're only dancing slowly, mind, because their feet are sticking to the claggy mat. Then they get on their mobile phones and order a taxi home by way of the takeaway. Where did I go wrong?

Then you can pop into an upmarket city bar and watch the beautiful set, once known as the Martini people, sitting there posing and willing to pay high prices for the privilege of being seen, waiting to be snapped up by a Hollywood talent spotter.

You may be put to shame as a keep-fitter arrives fresh from the gym, sweating all over the seats and sitting down to a pineapple juice while the rest of us guiltily down the alcohol and carry on with our hazy discussion.

It's crazy what people get up to. My village pub had its annual charity barbecue at the weekend. Hordes of people sitting on straw bales in a cobbled car park guzzling from plastic glasses, eating from paper plates and watching a rock band play from the back of a lorry on a cool September evening.

Fantastic fun, added to by the cricketers - male - who turned up dressed as nurses, flashing their plastic, strap-on breasts and hitching up their fishnet stockings to keep their hairy legs warm. So damned attractive.

People-watching is a fascinating pastime which should have its own university degree course. Students can find entertainment far better than anything television can dish up. A colleague confessed this week she is an avid people-watcher. She can be seen in any group of individuals just soaking it all up, only occasionally making a contribution. Then she does a wicked, irreverent impression of some of the characters. But not while they are there.

She'd have had a field day at the races on Sunday. The thrills, the glamour, the splendour of 25,000 people excitedly urging on the riders. It's a giant pub with horses.

Some of the punters had turned out in their grandest finery, dressing up for the occasion of occasions. Some of the women looked like a million dollars, like something out of the glossy pages of Vogue - until they opened their mouths. "Bloody hell, I've laddered me tights," screeched the designer-dressed fishwife. All this time the men are simply concentrating on the form - of either the horses or the female talent, offering equal dedication to each.

Whether they had placed a £2 each way bet or their shirts on the outcome, it didn't matter. The excitement was just the same. Funny how no one ever confesses to having to re-mortgage the house after a day at the races. They only tell you if they have won. Otherwise it's: "I came out about even, I think."

People's reactions are a fascinating aspect of the human character. Take my tongue-in-cheek column about tattoos the other week. All I said was they are a permanent fashion statement so think carefully before you scar yourself forever. The response from readers was breathtaking. The emails flooded in from around the world - especially America. Some said the world would be a better place if I were dead, some likened me to Hitler, one chap suggested I resign immediately (maybe that one was from the boss), another was full of mindless obscenities. Most were anonymous and no one wrote in to say they agreed. One person suggested I was taking backhanders for writing such drivel - from whom, the anti-tattoo corporation? I am sure it is a vast multi-national conglomerate with pots to pay to people such as me. Send your cheque now, to....

As I was saying to my armed guards as they walked me down to the car for the rest of the week: "There's nowt so queer as folk."

Updated: 11:13 Tuesday, September 07, 2004