This year’s definitive Christmas tableau? A St George’s Cross embossed mobile telephone abandoned on one of the pub’s outdoor tables. The snow was falling. On closer inspection the last call hadn’t been terminated and the timer showed 25m 34sec. The caller ID? Wifey.
A Streak of Piss in Artistic Black and White
Posted in ale, Beer, Enemies of the Pigeon, In Vino Non Veritas, Inbev, London, pubs, Stella on November 2, 2010 by barstoolpigeonDid we mention we hate advertising? No? Well please allow us to rectify that.
We name and we shame- Stella Artois- a brand owned and controlled by a lumbering behemoth of a multinational alcohol conglomerate which trades under the name, meaningless and moronic but no doubt inoffensive in 10,000 languages, Inbev; oh yes we can sense the poetic spirit of the master brewer at work in that moniker: Inbev. Whisper it to your lover sometime.
So Stella Artois, when they first arrived on these shores in their horse-drawn cart, the wild hops still entangled amongst their unkempt, rustic, blonde locks, actually had a reputation as makers of top-end, premium lager. It was seen as being a bit posh, at least compared to Carling and Tennants and had the sort of sophisticated and yet optimistic cache that came with a new British fondness for, or at least receding distrust of, their continental neighbours.
No sooner had this reputation been established than the suits at Inbev went about their business of destroying it. And what a job they did. They, in partnership with the big supermarkets, went about undercutting everyone. Not only was Stella about 1.5% stronger than its British-made competitors but it was also cheaper. It thus earned its rather charming and enduring British nick-name: wife beater- lovely.
Of course you can’t undercut the British brewers whilst brewing in Belgium with that pesky culture of long maturation periods, quality and unionisation so Inbev switched production to the UK. The quality drops with the price and all pretence of being a premium product is lost forever. Idiots.
All of which is fine: if they want to unload cheap, fizzy piss to the proles, who are we to complain?
Except that for the last ten years Inbev have been intent on re-establishing Stella in the mind of the great British public as a premium product. How have they gone about this? Did they move the brewing process back to Belgium? Did they transfer those long maturation periods over to British breweries? Did they simply source better ingredients and accept the price hikes this would naturally incur? Did they fuck, dear reader.
No, they have simply plowed millions of pounds into pretentious, quasi-noir, black and white adverts in which scalpel-jawed, unshaven male-model types ponce around wheat fields and quaint Belgian suburbs saying things like “reassuringly expensive” and “Pardon, Madame, you appear to ‘ave dropped your poodle” or some such nonsense. They have sponsored arty movies on the telly and thrown money at famously cash-strapped film festivals like Cannes and Sundance and generally acted like some jumped-up oik prancing round Monaco shouting about how his Ferrari speaks Latin.
All of which we could well have coped with had it not now become personal. To launch their new “premium” beer Stella Black (joining Stella 4, Peetermans, Stella Bock and Stella Eiken on the list of failed attempts to rehabilitate the brand) some tosser at an ad agency has arranged a piece of “interactive theatre”- two words whose combination sends shivers down our spine- at selected pubs around London. Guess whose pub got selected?
So now there’s a vintage telephone at the end of the bar which rings every half hour. When answered it plays one of several recorded messages of French accents pretending they are spies and encouraging the punter to ask for a card which they then fill in for the chance to win some sort of theatrical experience where they are picked up in an old Citroen and driven around for a bit by an actor pretending to be French. And a spy. They may drive to Luton. We don’t care.
And neither do the punters. These are Londoners people. They are not impressed by the opportunity to undergo some brewery branded exercise in embarrassment. They see the Stella logo and they quite rightly say pff.
We say to them, under duress from the woman who handles this sort of thing for us, “Go on, you answer it” and they look at us like we suggested they eat it. The woman says it a bit of fun. But it’s not a bit of fun; its a bit of expensive and deluded advertising payed for by a company who sold any goodwill they might have once had for a quick buck and talking Ferrari. Fuck you Stella, fuck you for good.
The Dog Fight
Posted in Customer of the week, Enemies of the Pigeon, violence on October 26, 2010 by barstoolpigeonFamilies eh? Shoot, they’re just as crazy as a fish in a barrel of sweet sherry arn’t they? You can’t choose what nest you’re going to be hatched into but once that coop is flown and its time to start building one of your own you want to be careful not to repeat the mistakes of you forbears… Take Dusty for example…
Its morning time and the Pigeon is going about our duties diligently and methodically, ignoring our searing headache and the little voice inside our skull saying- “you should have gone to law school, got into advertising, learnt to tap dance, done just about anything but follow this terrible, godforsaken vocation”. Last night was Halloween, Christmas and Armegedeon all wrapped up into one tight little parcel of bad vibes and frankly we’re getting too old for this crap.
A knock on the front window shakes us from our reverie of regret and we go to the front door. There we find a gentleman of about 35, raffishly dressed in a collared shirt with ruffles at the front, blue jeans and brogues. He’s a handsome fella and boy does he look ashamed-
“Hello my name’s Dusty- my mother and girlfriend were in here last night- I’m really, really sorry”.
Back, back we go friends, to the night before the morning after, a Sunday, God’s day, a usually pleasant evening shift, typified by the quiet, end of weekend libations and chatter of the Hackney chattering classes, the smell of roasting meat and the gradual relenting of the vice-like, psychological strangulation that is the weekend in an unitentionally fashionable east London boozer.
Ah but this is God’s day and if God knows anything its how to go about fucking us about.
The first we hear of it is a groan from one of our young, usually very capable barmen; “uh oh- I don’t think I should have served them.” No boy, we think you oughtn’t. Weaving away from the bar with their freshly poured drink are two ladies, one, in her late fifties, is wearing a white fur coat which seems to be covered in both blood and red wine. The other in her late twenties, dark, mediterranean looking, expensively dressed, drunk out of her tiny mind.
By the time we’ve followed them downstairs they have joined a couple of regulars and the older one- the white witch we’ll call her- has produced a small, furry, white dog from her handbag which the regulars are dutifully stroking. The dog looks very much like a relative of the creatures who sacrificed themselves to furnish this woman with a coat but happily it is covered in neither blood nor wine.
We’re pleased about the appearance of the dog. We don’t allow dogs. This means we have a way of getting them outside without having to insult their sobriety; as deserving as that particular virtue is of insult.
We approach the younger one- let’s call her the Grecian- and say quietly, in our best, politest, little voice-
“I’m sorry madam, we don’t allow dogs, would you mind terribly taking him outside”
Grecian- “No. He doesn’t want to go outside. He’s cold”.
Pigeon- “Yes, we’re sure he is, but the matter stands- we don’t allow dogs so you’ll have to go outside”.
Grecian- “I told you no. He’s cold. Leave us alone”
Plans for a simple exit strategy are fading like the light of an autumn evening.
Pigeon- “We’re sorry but if you don’t take the dog outside we’ll have to fetch the security woman”.
Grecian- “Oh for God’s sake- fine.” At this point she let’s out a little scream, the effect of which is very disconcerting indeed.
They appear to be leaving. We go back to the bar and wait. No sign of them. We go back downstairs and they are still seated with the regulars who, in a sad reversal of our best intentions, are preparing to leave. One of them we know works in another local pub and she looks at us with genuine pity and says “Good luck with that”.
The dog is no where to be seen. Nevertheless it can’t have gone far.
Pigeon- “Look, you’re going to have to leave we don’t allow dogs and frankly you’re very drunk”.
White Witch- “How dare you accuse us of having a dog. You are in big trouble tomorrow morning”
By now the boss has joined the fray and the security woman with him.
Boss- “Look, you’re both drunk. You need to take the dog and leave.”
Both women together, screaming “We don’t have a fucking dog. How fucking dare you.”
Dog- “woof”
Security- “Your bag is barking”
Grecian- “Don’t you dare talk about my mother in law like that.”
Pigeon- “arff”
At this point the boss-always spoiling for a fight come Sunday- grabs the women’s drinks and a very unsightly tussle ensues. The Grecian is now covered in red wine and she looks deranged- seriously deranged. The White Witch picks her bag up from under the table and swings it at the boss. Lucky for Toto she misses.
Toto- “whimper”
Appalled Bystander- “You’re hurting your dog”
White Witch- “Shut up you little bitch, I don’t have a dog”
The Grecian proceeds to punch Appalled Bystander in the face.
A ruckus ensues.
The women land punches on two more customers, security, the boss but not the Pigeon, praise allah.
Outside, in the stillness of a crisp autumn night in Hackney, two lovers stroll drowsily past a sleepy pub, candles shine winkingly out into the night as if to say- “Home friends! To bed! To sleep!”.
The doors burst open and a white clad fury is spewed out onto the pavement at the feet of the lovers. Startled, they hurry away but not before a demented Grecian is added to the raging pile of alcohol fueled hatred. They start screaming chinese curses at the doors of the pub and explaining to the bemused inhabitants how they will soon be slashed in their beds by sharp, greedy knives.
Boss and Pigeon stand watching in sympathy as a furry, white ball sees his chance and scampers down the street towards the blurred hope of peace and freedom.
Monday morning and we shake Dusty’s hand. The women were arrested and spent the night in Shoreditch nick. Dusty had to come and collect the dog. It seems Dusty runs a shop on the same street as the pub. Dusty, his mother and, it turns out, his fiance are all attending AA meetings. The ladies it seems were for lapsing and Dusty has to pick up the pieces. We fear the wedding catering may be awarded to a competitor.
Bon Apetite.
Posted in disease, In Vino Non Veritas on August 26, 2010 by barstoolpigeonRegular readers of these despatches will know by now that this Pigeon doesn’t like to complain. Give us lemons and we’ll squeeze ‘em in ya gin for ya.
We’re like that. We don’t make a fuss. Our motto? mustn’t grumble.
We’re well aware of the fact that no one likes a whinger. Low wages and poor working conditions are just our lot in the hospitality industry. If we didn’t like it then we should have tried harder at school, married that rich Russian or been a little more compliant with the director’s artistic vision.
No, what worries us is how low pay to catering staff can affect you, the punter. Of course low pay for them means to you: cheaper drinks, cheaper dinners, more easily accessible pornography… or perhaps we’re pushing that point a little too far… but anyways, we the chefs, waiters, dishwashers and barmen of this world pass the savings on to you.
Super, No?
Well, yes except: what happens when we get sick? What happens when the mucus is flowing like an early 1920s Hollywood Champagne fountain from the every available orifice of a sous chef? When the commis waiter has brought home one of those nifty skin eating viruses we used to hear so much about? When there’s pus instead of jus? When the KP’s cough sounds and spits like a Soviet tractor?
See, we’re not one of them dreadlocked, K-loving, nightclub-cubicle-humping, sorry-dude-we-can’t-make-it-in-this-morning ne’er-do-wells. Oh no. We’re the couple of drinks, episode-of-Madmen, maybe-listen-to-a-Fall-record-before-bed kind of ne’er do well. We don’t do sick days. Not even when we’re sick.
The Pigeon did his time in kitchens and if there is one thing you learn in that environment its- not, sadly, food hygiene- but: man-up, get off the floor, get to work, get the food on the plate No. Matter. What. Builds character that. Spreads disease, sure, but builds character.
And there’s the rub. Low wages, lack of sick pay, lack of holiday pay and a large dose of machismo mean that when you put something to your lips in a public establishment there’s a good chance you’re sucking up a wee sprinkling of another person’s suffering, bacteria, virus and/or disease.
You’re safe with us of course. Who ever heard of a human getting flu from a bird?
Sniffle.
Pigeon vs Mouse- a Michael Bay Production
Posted in vermin, violence on August 19, 2010 by barstoolpigeonSo we are sitting upstairs in the office this morning engaging in our favourite pastime: counting other people’s money. Yum. When from below comes the melifluous Southern Irish trill of our longtime cleaner Josie. “Pigeon!” she screams “Pigeon! Come down here. Oh God! Oh Jesus! But hurry for Christ’s sake!” Now Josie will sometimes invoke one party of the Holy Trinity in emergencies but very rarely two. We therefore assume the pub is either being robbed by armed men or is quite far advanced in the process of burning down. We scuttle down the stairs. Hastily, but graceful.
Josie is clutching a broom handle to her breast and staring into a rubbish bin. No armed thugs, no fire. I join her by the bin and together we watch a timourous wee beastie trying and failing to scale its steep plastic sides.
“Josie?”
“Yes Pigeon?”
“Did you call me down here to look at this mouse?”
“No Pigeon”
“Then what would you like me to do?”
“Kill the little fucker”
“Couldn’t we just put him outside…”
“No, no. Kill the fucker.”
Sighing the sigh of Pontius Pilate, we dutifully pour a few litres of water into the bin and leave Josie alone with her peculiar celtic bloodlust.
Twenty minutes later, the money counted, we return downstairs to find Josie fixed in the exact same spot, staring into the plastic bin. We stare too. Its a good swimmer this mouse.
“Josie, its just treading water”
“Aye. But he’ll soon tire of that”.
Talons
Posted in Uncategorized on August 19, 2010 by barstoolpigeonRound where we come from, going out in public with bare feet proclaims to the world “Look at me fellow citizens! I have the day off”. Here in London, we are sad to report, a lack of shoes shouts from the roof tops: “I am criminally insane and am just about to have a piss on your shop front”.
A Solitary Bird
Posted in In Vino Non Veritas, Pigeon about town, Uncategorized on June 9, 2010 by barstoolpigeonLet us pluck life’s pleasures: it is up to us to live; you will soon be ashes, a ghost, something to tell tales about
Perius, Satires
Pigeons are not generally seen as solitary beasts. Wherever humans have gathered together to discard-half eaten kebabs you will surely find a flock of our fellows, merrily besmirching your footpaths and edifices, in groups, sometimes small, othertimes uncountable but very rarely will you find us on our own.
Well this Barstool Pigeon is a slightly different beast. Our fondest memories from childhood often seem to be those when parents, siblings, babysitters et al would somehow mysteriously (or at least mysteriously as far as we were concerned) dematerialise and leave us completely, profoundly and wonderfully alone. Alone to watch whatever idiotic television we chose, alone to sit under the dining room table for hours on end, alone to, on a hot summers day, crouch in the coolness of our families’ wine cupboard and inhale the magical smell of wine getting older. And most of all, alone to raid the cupboards and fridge to make a meal of our choosing and anarchic composition and to sit and enjoy (or more likely, not enjoy) a meal entirely on our own. To this day we still find the sound of an empty house the most exciting and compelling music imaginable.
This is not to say we don’t enjoy the company of our family and friends- heavens forbid- but those happy times spent in the company of others only seem to punctuate and accentuate the pleasure we get from being alone. We find that age intensifies rather than moderates this pleasure.
And so to the thorny question of dining alone. The Pigeon works odd hours and, as our friends have children, obtain proper jobs and stop drinking on Tuesday afternoons, the Pigeon’s choice of luncheon companions continues to shrink.
This doesn’t bother us much as it should.
For some, the idea of eating alone at a restaurant, in public, where they might possibly be seen, is entirely beyond the pale. Even thinking the words “A table for one, please” can induce a serious attack of hives in some otherwise supremely confident acquaintances. When we tell colleagues that on our day off we went to such and such a restaurant, had three courses, plus wine and stayed for two hours, they look at us like we just told them we spent the Christmas holidays in Oxford Circus tube station masturbating into a hat.
You bring a book, look confident, smile and tip. You are universally adored as the platonic ideal of Customer, nothing embarrassing about it.
There is something meditative and yet decadent about eating alone. Coupled with a good book there is nothing more nourishing than enjoying the rhythms of a good, long meal, at your own pace, in your own time and in your own company. Unlike lone drinkers, lone diners are rarely seeking company or companionship and all that is required of the waiting staff is friendly, efficient service and no fussing ta, thanks. If we wanted someone to talk to we would spend the £50 odd quid on a good psychiatrist. Another tip we would offer to waiting staff dealing with loan diners is not to collapse in paroxysms of giggles when someone asks for a table for one as a middle-aged female colleague of ours never fails to do much to our chagrin and the customer’s embarrassment.
The only problem with dining alone is wine. It tends to be pretty tough to get a good wine by the glass or carafe. A bottle is just a little too much and besides, what you want to drink with your starter is generally not what you want with dessert. Our favourite solution to this is to order a good sauternes and order two courses of fois gras and dessert. This is expensive, cruel and bordering on suicidal but, hey, it works for us.
