So late into the season, Joy hadn’t the energy to retort. Before taking over the bar she would have counter-punched with some biting banter, a skill perfected on Bolton market. However, five months of facing the firing line behind the bar had taught her that in this job reacting to all the petty goading took too much time and effort and she had already bored of the same old jokes and comments. A humouring smile was the most accommodating response for all parties.
To a holidaymaker, the life of a sunshine landlord may seem like heaven in a glass but in reality it was as much work, if not more, as running a pub in the UK. The most successful landlords/landladies quickly had to adopt chameleon-like qualities, changing personality to suit whoever they were playing host to. In a resort bar, although there were a few regulars, the patronage changed on a wholesale basis every Tuesday and Friday.
Letting the jibes fly over your head was symptomatic of the changes in behaviour that we all had to take on board. On the market, cheeky banter was encouraged. The customers who shopped at Pat’s stall expected it and would have been deeply suspicious of straight-laced courtesy. But in the Smugglers, with its varied social stratum, the style of interaction had to adapt to whoever was commanding your attention at the time. We were sales people just like any other agent or vendor. Only we weren’t just selling food and drink, we had to sell the atmosphere, a party, and a personality.
Sometimes even the odd whiff of a certain perfume would trigger a metamorphosis. From bawdy backchat with Frank and the other barflies, we would have to climb a few rungs of the deportment ladder to ensure that a ‘swallow’ or stole-wearing expat would contemplate returning.
The downside of being a chameleon is that it soon becomes hard to remember your original colour. Personalities get lost, engulfed in a wave of adopted guises worn to please other people. From minute to minute we were both business people and cleaners, bar top counsellors and entertainers, drinking buddies and bouncers, party hosts and diplomats. In a twist on Pat’s favourite saying back on the market, ’we were losing a lot of ourselves, but making a lot of friends’.
The two Johns sauntered outside.
‘Mind if we join you?’ said John One, sitting at one of the vacant seats opposite Faye.
‘Looks like you ladies could do with some company,’ chirped in the other John.
Carole and Faye looked at each other
‘No, we’re fine,’ said Carole.
John One chose to ignore the rebuttal. ‘You two escaped from your husbands for a week of sun, sand and sex?’
Faye laughed. ‘Not at our age, love. Sun, sand and sleep maybe.’
‘A holiday’s not a holiday if you don’t sleep in someone else’s bed,’ continued John One.
‘Aye, and we’ve got very big beds, eh John?’ laughed John Two.
Carole and Faye continued to eat, ignoring the advances but John Two persisted.
‘What’s your names then?’ he asked.
‘I’m Faye, this is Carole.’
John Two extended a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m John.’ He shook Faye’s hand.
John One took Faye’s hand. ‘They call me John Juan,’ he said smirking and put her hand to his lips. Joy had been watching them from the bar and had seen enough.
‘Alright, you two. Go and mither someone else,’ she said, striding towards the table.
‘We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just keeping these two lovely ladies company,’ said John Two, trying to look innocent.
‘Well, go and keep someone else company. My mum and Carole, who happens to be Joe and David’s mum, can do without your slavering. Bugger off.’
‘But...’ protested John Two.
‘But nothing, bugger off,’ repeated Joy.
‘She said sling your hook.’ Wayne had been sitting at a nearby table. He got up and stood at Joy’s shoulder like a protective dog. ‘Do you want me to throw them out?’
‘No, it’s alright, Wayne. Thanks, but I think they’ve got the message. Haven’t you?’ She glared at the two and they slunk off like scolded puppies. ‘Watch those two,’ Joy said to her mum, ‘They’re a pain in the arse.’
‘Looks like you’ve got them under control,’ said Carole.
‘They’re not my favourites,’ said Joy, ‘Just watch out, that’s all.’
Unruly people weren’t usually a problem at the Smugglers. The rare few that did get too boisterous were politely asked to calm down or leave. They realised that we were the only British bar within a two-mile radius so were careful not to fall out with us.
The only time when things threatened to get out of control was when Tommy Cooper threw a skull at one of our customers. Perhaps that needs explaining a bit more.
One night we had tried out a Tommy Cooper show. The comedy act included many props, one of which was a small plastic skull.
‘Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well,’ cried Tommy, ‘but not that well!’ He tossed the skull to a member of the audience. Unfortunately, his throw went astray and instead of the skull landing in the man’s lap, it bowled over a full pint of lager.
The man shot up, drenched. The audience assumed this was part of the gag and continued to laugh but the victim couldn’t see the funny side.
‘You stupid git, you’ve soaked me!’ he shouted. His three companions slid lower in their seats as if they knew what was coming.
‘Ever so sorry,’ continued Tommy keeping in character. ‘Get that man a nappy.’
Joy was taking drinks to another table at the time and could see what had happened. She whipped two bar towels off the bar top and went to wipe up the mess.
‘Joe, can you get this man another pint,’ she shouted from amidst the melee, but the soggy customer wasn’t satisfied.
‘That stupid sod spilled my mate’s drink as well. I want another one for him.’
Joy could see that the other pint was still full but she shouted for two pints. Still the man refused to be appeased.
‘In fact, I want a whole round. Get us another round.’
Joy stopped wiping the table and straightened up. ‘Listen, it was an accident. I apologise that you got wet but I’m bringing a pint for you and a pint for your friend, even though he’s still got a full one in front of him. There’s nothing more I can do so I suggest you sit down and watch the end of the show.’
‘That’s not good enough. I’m wet through. I want a full round,’ continued the man.
‘Well I think you’re taking the rip. You’re not getting a full round.’ Joy came to the bar to collect the two pints. I was just pouring the second when the man walked into the bar and stood behind Joy.
‘If I have to be wet, so do you,’ he said and tipped his friend’s pint over Joy’s head.
Tommy’s voice came through the speakers, ‘I bet that was cold.’
I hurled the beer I was in the middle of pouring. The man leapt back, wiping his face as I scrambled to get round to the other side of the bar. The man couldn’t have picked a worse night to pick a fight as the majority at the bar were residents. Des, the bouncer from Bolton was one of them and I couldn’t get round him. He’d already lifted the man off his feet. As he swung his arm back to launch a punch, his elbow caught me in the eye, sending me scuttling backwards.
‘Ooh. That’ll smart,’ said Tommy dryly, continuing his running commentary.
Wayne had also fought his way through the crowd and was clamouring to grab hold of the man. Des was holding him aloft out of reach of the baying crowd. As he carried him through the crowd, each of the residents added to his sodden misery with the dregs of whatever they were drinking. Danny was following Des, jumping up to whip the man with a wet bar towel.
‘Rawhide!’ yelped Tommy.
‘The man must have thought his time had come and was now squealing for his life. Wayne managed to wrest one shoe from the man in a tug of war with Des and was now using it to beat the man’s bare foot.
‘Get off, get off me! Put me down! Help! Help!’ His cries could barely be h
eard above the rioting crowd.
I was back on my feet, nursing a swelling eye, dissatisfied with my part in the retribution and followed the throng outside to where Des had finally put the man down, drowned in beer, limping on one foot and striped with red welts on his arms.
‘I think you’d better leave, son,’ said Des menacingly. The man was close to tears.
‘And don’t ever come back, you’re barred,’ I shouted.
‘Bard. D’ya get it. Bard,’ said Tommy holding up his reclaimed Yorick.
As the man turned to climb the steps, a shoe sailed over the crowd and caught him on the back of the head, quickening his retreat.
‘Juss like that,’ barked Tommy through the microphone.
More time was spent herding animals away from the bar than placating the drunk and disorderly. Stray dogs and cats were a big problem in Tenerife. Packs would roam from community to community, seeking out the most rewarding territory and loitering for as long as possible before they were chased away with sticks and stones or fell victim to poison bait laid out by the technicos.
Some owners brought their pets with them to the bar. Most would lie patiently under tables waiting to go home again but there were one or two pampered pooches whose owners clearly had an unhealthy emotional attachment. I would be happy to bag up any leftovers for the masters to take away. I also had no problem in providing something for the pet to drink from whilst it waited to go home. What I did object to however was the dog sitting on a chair, being fed at the table. Even worse, I was asked to cook a chicken in wine and serve it on a plate for one particularly babied poodle whose owner ought to have been sectioned. The embarrassed pooch strutted around in a plaid vest. Pink ears poked through holes in a matching sunhat and its tail wagged a pink bow like a baby shaking a rattler. I refused to serve food on a plate to the dog and told the owner it had to be fed on the floor. She looked at me as if I’d just dug up her grandmother. Outraged, she whisked the blob of fluff off the chair and disappeared through the door, vowing that she and Mr Cuddles would never step foot in the Smugglers Tavern again.
Whether invited or not, animal incursions were part of day-to-day life at the Smugglers and except for mounting a permanent guard, there was not much we could do about it. Until Buster arrived.
Despite a sign requesting patrons not to feed the strays, most of our British customers actively encouraged cats and dogs to their tables. The unfortunate few who liked to eat their steaks without the front paws of a salivating Alsatian resting on their laps would glare at us with contempt for allowing such behaviour. But we were too busy to keep shooing animals away only for them to trot back down the steps again once our backs were turned. A recent invasion of mongrels and scrawny cats had forced us into finding a solution.
Thankfully the solution found us. I was crouched underneath one of the wooden tables located in the middle of the bar. One of the legs had fallen off, another victim of the curse of Justin. He had been sitting at the table with his parents the night before. His hands could be seen disconcertingly fiddling with something below waist level, a grin on his face suggesting he was gaining pleasure from the activity. It was only when I came to move it whilst mopping that the heavy wooden support clattered down onto my flipflop and the focus of his errant hands was revealed.
As I strained the monkey wrench to force the nut tight enough to withstand any other playful fingering, a swathe of black fur raced past my left side. A split second later the black was followed by a blur of ginger. The scene was then repeated on my right side, accompanied by a pitiful yelping. The gap between black and ginger had narrowed. I backed out of the table on my knees just as the black and ginger blur – now merged into one – hurdled the back of my legs, skidded round table seven at the end of the room and shot out of the doors at the other end. A cheer rang out from the terrace.
A sturdy ginger cat swaggered back into the bar on paws the size of junior boxing gloves. For a second he stared at me through half-closed eyes, like a gunslinger expecting trouble. On realising there was none to be had, he jumped up onto the padded bench seats near the door and began to lick his paws. His face bore the scars of combat and when he yawned I could see that he had the teeth of a bout-weary boxer.
He stopped licking his outstretched leg for a while and looked at me as I pondered what to do. He was clearly at home on this bench although I’d never seen him before. Unlike the other emancipated and timid strays that followed their noses to our tables, he had the stature of Des the bouncer with a self-assurance to match.
‘He’s a tough nut,’ said a voice from behind. It was Wayne. He’d been watching the antics from outside. ‘He just chased a big bastard dog up the stairs. If he can see off a mutt, maybe he can get rid of the mouse.’
I’d forgotten about our other lodger. Since his acrobatics in front of Faith, he’d kept a low profile, only appearing when the bar was empty. He’d still managed to leave his mark on our stash of crisp boxes. Quavers were obviously his favourites judging by the number of packets he’d infiltrated, though smoky bacon also bore the hallmarks of a rodent fan.
We decided to call him Buster after Buster Gonad, the ‘Viz’ comic book character. Unlike some cats, Buster’s gender was never a matter of debate. Not only was he as burly as a builder, two little cannonballs swung under his tail with each John Wayne stride
He had turned up to offer a security service for which he expected to be fed fresh chicken and fillet steak as and when necessary and be given his own room (a sturdy cardboard box would suffice). The deal seemed fair to us but I doubt it was negotiable anyway, so we started him right away.
Over the next few days Buster lived in the bar 24/7, emerging only to charge at four-legged foes who dared to stray onto his new patch. One of his first official confrontations was with a lunging mongrel that had become a regular caller at the bar.
The dog had spotted Buster lying under one of the tables and, duty-bound, scampered towards him, barking and snarling. Buster was taking one of his many daily siestas and thus was officially off duty. He opened one eye and disdainfully sniffed at the dog’s snout, now less than a few inches away. The dog, not used to this breakdown in social order - dog barks and runs at cat, cat scarpers, dog laughs and tells all his friends over a can of Chum and a bowl of water - was a little unsure as to how to react so he flopped onto his stomach to bark and snarl some more. Buster slowly stood up, arched his back in a slow stretch, and moved to within licking distance of the dog, staring him straight in the eye. The dog began to whimper in confusion.
As is the custom of all professional doormen, Buster had given the customary warning, allowing the offender the opportunity to back off. But the dog didn’t. Without a trace of fear or trepidation Buster’s paw scythed across the dog’s nose, sending it scampering backwards. His legs skated on the terracotta tiles as if in a cartoon as he raced to escape this anarchic ginger demon. Buster leapt after him, chasing the howling wretch outside and up the stairs. Happy that the matter had been dealt with, he sauntered down to the applause of those seated outside. His tail went up to acknowledge the adulation, then he turned round and ran half-way back up the stairs for an encore. He had proved his worth. The job was his for keeps.
His notoriety as a dog in cat’s clothing soon got round and he became as big a draw as some of the artistes that were performing. Nobody could fail to be impressed by his sheer fearlessness and determination. This determination also had its downside. For much of the afternoon Buster would lay comatose on his back, snoring at full stretch whilst brazenly displaying his cat-hood and occupying the whole bench seat at table five. No amount of cajoling could persuade him to vacate the bench or make room for customers. The price for waking him from one of his deep slumbers was paid in blood. The only way to make him move was to carefully unzip the padded cushion, carry him outside like a pampered emperor and unceremoniously dump him onto the warm tiles.
He was most insistent at meal-times. When hunger struck, customers would watch agha
st as he strolled straight into the kitchen, where he would make a nuisance of himself around my feet until he was served his ration of raw meat. We naturally tried to discourage his kitchen forays and bought a water pistol in order to teach him the boundaries. However, after one or two days of being squirted in the face and skulking off, shaking his head, he realised that being shot at was a small price to pay for eating well and the water pistol became ineffective. As soon as the gun was levelled at him he would stand his ground, screw up his eyes and wait for the deluge to finish before continuing his demands.
Whilst Buster carried on his one-man mafia operation, terrorising the local four-legged population, Micky and Ron were introducing more and more dubious associates to the bar, something we weren’t overly keen on. We had become the meeting place for trench coats and facial scars. Frank knew one or two of the disfigured faces as island hit men. ‘As thick as shit, which makes them even more dangerous,’ he whispered from a safe distance.
We truly had become their ‘doorstep’ and although playing host to a gang of hardened criminals was never in the job description, I figured that as long as Micky remained in charge, we were free from being shat on.
Ron was clearly still aggrieved from ‘losing a client’ and wasted no effort on pleasantries. Micky, on the other hand, had become a model of courtesy, even correcting his hit men if they forgot to say please and thank you.
Serving an armed hit man is a stressful event. Although at the back of your mind you know he’s not going to stand up and shoot you if you spill a drink down his leather coat, the pressure to stay on the right side of him is immense. On one hand, you want to appear friendly and accommodating but on the other, you don’t want to fawn too much otherwise you appear weak. As in their line of work, I adopted the silent approach - getting in, doing the job and getting out as quickly as possible.
‘Hey, Joe. You got a minute, mate?’ Micky had called me over to his table where six sinister characters had their heads down in deep discussion.
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