Almost Crimes.

Last week, I went home from work unsure if I'd ever return - I had no intention of leaving, but since the police caught us (read: Christine, one of our "new starters") red-handed passing alcohol to kids, everything has been a bit up in the air and we were unsure if the pub would be closed. You see, if the police had decided we weren't taking the licensing objectives seriously, they can revoke a license faster than Eddie can get out the door at closing time. And then that's it - no pub, no jobs, no nothing. Luckily, the police decided to fine Christine £80 for serving the minor and Henry £200 because he's the DPS (and, in accordance with the law, must therefore be punished if anybody on his staff so much as thinks of breaking the law), and we were told we could reopen Monday. We were all called by the company at various stages on the Friday and told to do what we wanted with the weekend; we would receive holiday pay (and it was good money; next time I fancy a break I might just take a tray of best bitter over the school and tell the kids to go bananas) but we would not lose holiday time as a result. Which is essentially the company's way of saying "thank you for not spelling out our negligence to the fuzz, here's some free money". It shows how utterly relieved the company must have been to get away with a temporary closure (especially when most other stings have resulted in licenses being whipped out from beneath their feet).

Of course, free money from the company is a rare occurrence indeed - therefore, it was very obvious that I needed to think long and hard about what I intended on doing with the small pile of gold that the company leprechaun had shat into my cupped hands before disappearing in a puff of smoke and a splat of stale beer. Eddie bought an Xbox and spent the entire weekend setting it up so he could go on the internet and shout at Americans while he shot at them from across the continent; Christine used her money to pay her fine and saved the rest (presumably for next time she takes a tray of Sambuca shooters to Sesame Street); Henry spent the weekend weeping into his fags (don't feel too bad for him though, he can claim the money back from the company at the end of the year if he's shrewd enough with his book keeping); Elaine tried to carpet her living room, decided against it and removed all the carpet again; I decided to go to Paris for a lovely, relaxing weekend in a modern European city. I was in desperate need of a diversion; the problem with living in such proximity to your job - in both a physical sense and in terms of the community impact - is that when something goes wrong, you can't really get away from it. The police may have shut us down for the weekend but in order to save face, we were permitted to keep it quiet; for that very reason, the party line was that we were "closed for refurbishment". The problem with this: what fucking pub in their right mind closes for refurbishment on a weekend? And believe me, that's not a rhetorical question, people would ask. Even as I waited for the next bus out of the village to whisk me away to the continent for a while, I was grilled on the matter by an "interested party" - e.g. a villager. Everyone's an interested party around here. That's why I had to get away from the village for a bit; we weren't allowed to talk about it - which for Eddie and the likes is fine, they don't live here. This essentially meant I couldn't go outside, and I opted out of a cabin fever weekend.

"Yeah, sounds fun man, France is banging," said Eddie down the phone over the sound of digital gunfire; he had clearly spent his payout wisely. "How long you there?"
"Only for the weekend."
"Alright, but we're having a meeting 9AM on Monday to discuss the new policies and stuff." And with that, I threw my phone in a draw and left for Paris, away from the village, away from the pub, and away from every nosey parker who thought they could glean a bit of information out of me while I went about the seemingly extraordinary act of buying a paper to read on the bus. That's one of the setbacks of living in a place where everyone knows you - most of the people think nothing of trampling into your private affairs and your business with all the grace and subtlety of a kick to the throat. Hence why I went somewhere where nobody knew me; where nosey neighbours and busybodies became struggling artists and onion salesmen. That'll be brilliant, I thought.

As I stepped out of the vast glass chamber that is Gare du Nord train station to a summery Parisian afternoon, I was:

- Sleep-deprived, mainly due to the efforts of a mouthy London couple who simply wouldn't allow me to sleep as much as my eyelids and yawns pleaded. I had been awake since five in the morning, during which time I had ridden five trains and one bus, and was in no mood to hear of the funny things their butler at the chateau gets up to; namely because - even while I was running on empty, with my normal sloth-like sleep requirements going by the wayside in the name of making travel connections - I sincerely doubted the very existence of the butler. It wasn't that his actions were outlandish or extraordinary, but that the people describing these so-called "riotous laughs" were very keen to kick off their well-worn and dirtied shoes and stink up the entire train with the smell of sweat, feet and out-and-out bullshit. Unless this chateau was some sort of refuge for the mentally ill, the destitute or the filthy and the butler was actually a warden, I got the distinct impression that these people were compulsive blagmongers. This schtick may reel in the occasional traveller, but not I - I have been working at the most intense psychology school in the land for over a year and I have since become hardened and deaf to tales of extravagance and riches from anybody with a paint-spattered "Odidas" tracksuit.
- Violated by the security guard at Waterloo, after my now routine move of setting off the metal detector. As the bearded French security officer - whose only credentials were a lanyard and an overly-familiar manner - patted down my groin and inner thighs before running a small blooping metal detector over the entire region for longer than I assume is strictly necessary, I came to the conclusion that he either 1) had a thing for me, or 2) suspected I was the not-so-proud owner of some sort of iron penis. I was eventually allowed to leave and was informed that on the way back I would perhaps like to remove my belt.
- Slightly travel sick from my brief, desperate attempt to escape the Londoners by standing in the buffet car for the entire journey. This plan fell by the wayside as I realized the buffet car was ever so slightly more annoying than the Londoners.

After this cacophonous cavalcade of channel-crossing clusterfucks, my first instinct was to find something familiar after several hours of hectic traveling, including a short spell I spent literally trying to find my way around the rotting, blistered, oozing intestines of Satan himself (this labyrinth of tortures, including attempts on my life by gangs of the undead trying to squash me to death in a small metal coffin buried deep below the surface, is better known as the London Underground, that weird rollercoaster underneath London that sucks all the joy and clean air out of your body and all the money out of your wallet). After three cars nearly struck me dead (prior to my slack-jawed realization that they drive on the right over there) I ran like a frightened rabbit into the nearest café. Why? Because on the outside, it looked like a pub. You can go wherever you like on this increasingly-accessible globe of ours but pubs look the same. There's a layabout outside with a pint in his hand (it wasn't quite a pint; I don't know the standard measure over there), two men obviously discussing politics as they pointed furiously at the likes of me piling out of the train station, presumably to mooch off the state and murder their children for sport (turns out racist punters aren't a Welsh exclusive either) and a woman behind what appeared to be a bar, thumbing through a glossy magazine, half-asleep with her head propped up haphazardly by her arm, whose hopes and dreams in life had quite obviously been crushed like so many discarded croutons. Yes, this is where I want to be, I thought - these are my people. I understand them. While I don't feel at home in this country, I feel at home in a pub environment - it's where strangers get together to hate eachother behind eachother's backs. And that's a feeling that can't be beaten.

I approached the bar, and what happened next was something I'm at a loss to explain even now. Thinking I would endear myself to the French by attempting to speak their language, I took a seat - "bonjour," I began, and saw the barmaid adjust to me; I was clearly not a foreigner and she could speak in her native tongue. She then proceeded to say something to me in French that I did not understand, due to the seemingly overlooked fact that I do not speak French. So - and this is what I'm still attempting to understand - I had to admit, in English, that "bonjour" was among four French words I understood and if she could speak English from here on out, that'd be wonderful. She picked up the English and we continued on along that route. While it's an ugly presumption to make - that everyone in France should speak English - I imagine I would probably have been better off taking the honest approach. I could have walked in there with all the grace and civility of an English football hooligan, thrown one of the tastefully-arranged hanging baskets at the blind beret-sporting gentleman in the corner, called his guide dog a wanker and proceeded to walk up to the bar demanding an English drink, in English, in an accent so vile it actually manages to transcend the five senses and fill the room with a sound, sight and stench so putrid it would make the walls gag. Even then I could have at least said I didn't waste anybody's time. I decided to order a black coffee and an omelette, fully aware that despite the horrible nature of my first impression, I would repeat it ad infinitum throughout the course of my holiday in some vague attempt not to be a "d'you speak English mate?" foreigner-type (at least not in the first ten seconds). And I did. At every possibly opportunity over the course of two days. Every taxi I got into, every omelette I ordered (I ordered a lot), every little French bakery that sold small lumps of undiluted diabetes (I ordered one - whose description, I assume, translated to "insulin-dependency surprise" - and only half finished it before I had to discard it), even the café where Amelie was filmed wasn't safe, despite its best efforts to hide where I wouldn't usually venture (up a reasonably steep hill) - nobody was spared from my hollow greetings, least of all myself.

A frustrating experience for all concerned as I'm sure you can imagine.

I came home bedraggled, violated (this time by security on the other end, and believe me, the British on the French side are a lot more thorough; there was active grabbing going on), full of omelettes and pastries and ready to give Sleeping Beauty a run for her money in the "out like a light" category (and the prince would have to do more than kiss me to wake me up; the prince would have to employ the frisky services of both France and England's border security guards to even get so much as a stir from me). That is, until my alarm clock went off six hours later to get me ready for my return to the pub for our "damage control" meeting. I didn't like the sound of damage control; what damage exactly? I wondered if anything would have changed during the weekend of unease; would our situation have been let out of the bag? Would we be derided as the corruptors of children? Would skinheads come and picket the place? Would The Sun name a campaign after one of the (probably innumerable) children we dragged, kicking and screaming, onto the premises before forcing alcohol down their necks and sending them on their giddy way? Would the Daily Express confuse me for an immigrant and try and deport me back to France, leading to me becoming the most hated barman the UK has known since Al Murray? I sincerely hoped not - I hate Al Murray. And children.

I walked towards my place of employ to see that fear number one could be instantly allayed; the place had not been burnt to the ground by ruthless campaigners. Brilliant. However, my second fear became a violent reality as I stepped through the door, and before we could all begin reminiscing about how great it was to have a weekend completely free of the other's company, I became transfixed on the wall that separates the lounge from the bar - "the poverty line", as some of our more wealthy punters call it, or "the wall separating the bar from the lounge" as it is known to people who aren't total shithouses - that had once been an inoffensive shade cream, but had evidently fallen victim to Henry's demented whimsy in the time I was away, as it was now bright orange. And I mean seriously bright; looking directly into it began to give me a headache.

"What the fuck is that?" I bellowed, averting my eyes from it as if it were some sort of deity of dickheadery.
"Henry decided," Eddie began, squinting in a way that suggested the wall was not news to him either, "that if we told people we were closed for refurbishment, there would have to be notable changes when we reopened. So..." the wall, casting everything in a vague orange tint and burning Henry's unquestionable authority into our eyeballs, began bearing down on us so we had to talk quickly. "He decided on this."
"But why -"
"It was the only colour he had."
"That's mental!" I protested. "He could've said -"
"That is was a cellar refurbishment, or anything, but he decided a visual change would be more believable."
"More believable!?" I could hardly believe what I was hearing, but I knew these weren't Eddie's words - only Henry would so transparently insult the village's intelligence to the point that he saw no problem in an alibi that involves:

A) Closing for an entire summer weekend, and
B) Doing nothing but painting one stupid wall.

One orange wall. A weekend of lost revenue, two days of fervent speculation that gave the pub a Salinger-esque quality of inscrutable mystery (and not the good kind), bar staff disappearing for days at a time... all because we evidently had to get out of the way so the world's slowest decorator could paint a small piece of wall with a paintbrush the size of a toothpick. Too say I was apprehensive about this story was an understatement - it was a pretty big leap in logic.

Before the orange wall could immolate me and forever taint my brain so that all my memories became addled with a luminous orange hue, we were called upstairs for the meeting. Henry had evidently taken his fine particularly badly; he emerged with a face that was hardened, stubbled, and even more wrinkled than it had been prior. Henry's famously "careful" with his money, so in real terms, a £200 fine to him is worse than a prison sentence. I'm amazed he paid it, I thought he would have gladly let them arrest him.

"Thank you all for coming," he began, his hands shuddering as if the loss of a few quid had chilled his very being to sub-zero temperatures. "Now, we all know what happened was unpleasant and largely unnecessary. To ensure that it never happens again, you are all set for retraining." A collective moan emerged; Eddie, Frances and I had done the training in question on our first day and it is based around the principle that people who go to work in pubs are recovering from a combination of a stroke and a lobotomy. An example lesson I learned from such instruction - if a child orders a pint for his father, are you allowed to sell the child the alcohol? The answer, as much as it may shock your very foundations, is no. During the two hour course - that occurs in-house before the doors open - other equally useful wisdom is imparted, such as:

- Beer that goes in the drip trays must be put in the sink at the end of the night, not in the barrels.
- If somebody dies or is seriously injured on the premises, we must stop serving the customers and notify the emergency services.
- Breathing is the process of drawing in air with your lungs in order to oxygenate the blood.
- Tongues are not for swallowing.

We then have the drool wiped from our chin, our nappies changed, and we are given a certificate that states we aren't stupid enough to be considered a risk. Naturally, my certificate went on my wall and took pride of place, but evidently others had not taken the achievement as seriously as they should have.

"Is that really necessary, Henry? We've done it once already, fair enough the new starters should do it but -"
"No, Frances," said Henry, cutting off perhaps the only sensible thing Frances has ever said. "Everyone obviously needs a refresher course." However, in an act of compromise, we were divided into two teams - those who had done the course before and those that hadn't, so at least Frances, Eddie and I would be able to get in there, prove we could work in a pub without accidentally stepping on our own faces and bursting into flames, and get out with minimal turnaround.

"Apart from that, let's put this ugliness behind us and move on - the village watch very kindly moved their karaoke evening to next weekend (dammit, I'd forgotten about that) so we should be able to just get back on track without any problems. Any other questions?"
"Yes - might I ask what on earth possessed you to paint the wall orange?"
"We were closed for refurbishment." There it was, straight from the horse's mouth. However, the horse's mouth offered no further explanation, so I persisted.
"Why didn't you say you refurbished the cellar or something?"
"I'll tell you at half three, you can go downstairs and work the bar with Eddie." That'll teach me to ask questions. We sidled down the stairs and got to work piecing the bar back together. I did wonder if anything would have changed in the time I was away, whether our new status as almost criminals would change the dynamic, on either side of the bar. We unlocked the doors and waited for the advances of the heaving masses outside, before realizing where we were. We were now alone in the middle of a deserted pub.

"What now?" Eddie let out a sigh before coming up with the answer I expected.
"501?"

We pulled the house darts out of the drawer, chalked up the board, and got to work on the real business of the day - our ongoing darts championship.

Eddie and I greatly enjoyed catching up on the last few days' worth of multilingual non-events over a casual game of darts, and as we did so, Christine came over to us with a clipboard. I'm still not sure what I feel for Christine, to be honest with you - on one hand, I want to punish her somehow for putting my livelihood in jeopardy - not in a "poking a bear in a cage with a stick" sort of way, but something large enough to show I meant business (maybe a strongly-worded letter without a signature; that would probably wind her up) - on the other I had to feel bad for her, and the £80 she had to take to the police station. I always wondered what an on-the-spot meant, and how they were conducted, but Christine answered it for all of us - she was given 48 hours to take the money to a police station; after that there would've been a warrant for her arrest. Heavy. I stepped up to the oche and wittled my score down by a mighty 17 points; Christine pulled the sheets of paper off the clipboard and approached me as I removed my arrows from the board.

"Could you do me a favour? I'm contesting the sting." I suspected as much. If you've been the subject of a police sting, you have the right to contest it; you can do this on several grounds, some being more successful than others.
"Sure - on what grounds?"
"I think the person they sent in looked way over 21." This seemed fair; plenty of people have had judges throw the case out, all because the little scrote they send in had been tarted up to look older than 21. In case you're wondering, to avoid any ambiguity, if you look less than 21 then you're meant to be asked for ID; it's hard to judge whether somebody's 18 or not, so the 21 thing gives you a bit of flexibility in the accuracy of your judgement, and that's the basis for ID checks these days. It's not the law, but it's something most companies have enforced themselves, and the police have since gotten behind it - most supermarkets do it if you look at the signage around the checkouts. Anyway, if you're going to get the case chucked out, this is the best way to do it, because obviously the stinger can't look older than 21 (that somewhat defeats the point). Christine had managed to snap a picture of the "perp" (for want of a term that isn't "jumped-up bar-baiting little shitbag") on her phone, and passed it over to me. I was particularly interested in seeing the girl who had nearly cost me my job, if only to see if I would have asked the little ratbag for ID.

I looked up from the array of confusing legal documents, saw the picture... well, she may as well have taken the lighter from her pocket and set fire to every piece of paper in her hand because - as I checked the photo carefully to see if the "stinger" was actually hidden behind the toddler at the bar - her case had just gone up in smoke.
"Is this... the one who asked?" The girl in the photograph looked not a day older than thirteen; small impish face, hair tied back, school uniform (OK, not really), makeup that looked like it had been applied with a battering ram, this was so, so, so obviously a kid. I tried my hardest to empathize with Christine's unfortunate situation, but frankly I was at a loss for words as I looked at the photograph every which way I could, trying to uncover what on earth had possessed Christine to ply the poor girl with alcohol (the only excuse I can think of was if she was attempting to numb the poor lass' teething pains). Even if she'd produced a driving license I wouldn't have even bothered checking it, because you simply couldn't show me a card or license in the land that would persuade me that she was born in Kurt Cobain's lifetime.

"Little slut, she was dressed up to the nines. She looked way older than in the picture."
"Eddie, have a look at this." Eddie pulled his 43 out of the board, chalked it up, and did the most perfect double take I have ever seen.
"Fucking hell Christine, I heard she was young but man alive..." He rustled the paper as if attempting to shake a few years onto the girl's face, but to no avail. "I know they're picking young'uns these days but I'd have thought they'd at least wait for them to get out of nappies before booting them through the door."
"Look, she looked a lot older!" Christine went on the defensive, snatching the photo out of Eddie's hand. Eddie began to cackle maniacally and I had to bite my lip for fear of joining in (and spoiling my aim).
"Older? Fucking hell Christine, you should've just checked the car park," Eddie muttered in disbelief.
"There wasn't a police car, they used a plain vehicle."
"I'm not on about that, I mean you should've spotted the training wheels on her bike." At this point I lost my composure; my last dart fell out of my laughter-shaken hand so weakly it didn't even hit the wall. Christine stormed off; as Eddie and I were crippled by mirth and forced to take seats, I looked to the wall; quarter of an hour had passed since we opened the door. We hadn't had a single customer. It was at this point I realized that nothing had changed around here over the weekend. And I was so, so glad of that.