Mr Worth

Mr Worth, I call him that because it was his name. Besides which unless he's now 120 or more years old he has since done everyone a favour and passed away. He was a cantankerous old bastard. Misery in a Macintosh. Every day and without fail he would turn up at dead on 6:00 PM. The very time I was rushing to open up the pub, demanding he be served. The year was 1969 and I lived in Bristol, England. I had a job as part time barman, working six evenings a week trying to augment my meagre income from my full time job as a young engineer. It was in a very popular and extremely busy, ‘up-market’, pub in the suburbs of the wealthier part of town. I’d worked there for a couple of years already and Gerry the landlord, a really pleasant chap and ex WW2 Spitfire pilot, trusted me to open up the pub each evening. It was a push though as my full time job on the other side of the city didn’t finish until 5:30 PM each day. I then had to drive through busy rush hour traffic to get to the pub; and Mr Worth knew it.

Every evening Mr Worth would stand at the public bar, still wearing his Macintosh and Trilby hat and demand a bottled Guinness along with a whisky ‘chaser’. He was a retired bank manager and thus had been able to hone his skills in obtuseness over the years into a fine art. I was just twenty years old and still naïve but nonetheless eager to please.

‘Speciality’ beers were stored on the floor under the shelves at the back of the bar, still in their crates. The crates were turned upon their sides so as to speed access. In full swing and in the days before various governments had conspired to block all avenues of fun and pleasure in Britain the pub really heaved. Speed and efficiency along with not a little skill serving behind the bar were essential. Occasionally we would get a crate of ale that could best be described as ‘lively’.

No one knew the reason why but a whole batch would appear to be simply over gassed. No matter how slowly and carefully the crown cap was lifted the contents would fizz out furiously.

I reached behind me into the crate and retrieved a bottle of Guinness for Mr Worth. I raised the crown with the fixed opener that was screwed to the back of the bar and almost half the contents ejected. Mr Worth gave me one of his looks. I didn’t hesitate to reach for another bottle and repeated the exercise. Same thing. Half of the contents of the bottle lost again. I was about to apologise to Mr Worth for the delay and also to explain that the whole crate was 'lively' and needed replacing when some of his Domino and Cribbage playing friends arrived.

Mr Worth turned to his friends and announced “Look at this idiot. He hasn’t got a clue. Can’t even perform a simple task like pouring a Guinness. Gerry should fire him!”

There is a little known feature of bottled beers and if you wish to discover it for yourself then please do try this at home. Tap the bottom of the bottle on a hard surface such as a quarry tiled floor. Then try opening it. Bring an umbrella.

The pub had such a quarry tiled floor behind the bar. Over the bar was a mock thatched roof canopy with, and presumably for fire risk purposes, a plywood false ceiling under it. This ceiling was quite low. Perhaps only about 6’ 6” above the floor. So just above Mr Worth’s Trilby donned head.

I retrieved a third bottle of Guinness from the top of the sideways on crate and discretely tapped its bottom sharply on the quarry tiles beneath. I then passed the bottle along with a hand held bottle opener over the bar to Mr Worth. Taking a couple of steps back I then said to him, sternly “You do it then!”

You'll probably be ahead of me at this point won't you? He did. The entire contents exploded from the bottle in the manner of a Yellowstone Park geyser. They hit the canopy over the old fart's head with some violence. Then ricocheted downwards, showering him from head to foot in fizzing Guinness in the process.

“That’ll be Half a Crown please Mr Worth. Would you like another?” I said, as I strode out towards the cellar to fetch another case.

Mr Worth never gave me any grief again.

I’ve finished serving now.

For the day anyway.

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