The Pub That Changed Me: A Tale of Bar-Floor Terror
For Simon Hattenstone, pubs were a natural home—a sanctuary of camaraderie and comfort. So, when his best friend Ned helped him land a job at The Friendship Inn in Prestwich in the mid-1980s, it seemed like a perfect match. In his early twenties, Hattenstone was eager for his first shift, imagining it as a blissful experience working alongside his bezzy in a place aptly named for companionship.
Confidence Crumbles Behind the Bar
Armed with basic knowledge—like letting Guinness settle and aiming for half an inch of head on a pint of bitter—Hattenstone felt prepared. But as soon as he stepped behind the bar, his confidence evaporated. What appeared as a handful of customers morphed into a daunting sea of faces, all clamouring for service.
The bar's unique shape, reminiscent of a ship's bow, added to the chaos. Each time he attended to one side, shouts erupted from the other, leaving him disoriented and unable to recall orders or faces. The situation quickly spiralled into a surreal nightmare.
A Descent into Panic and Humiliation
Hattenstone describes taking a "funny turn," where faces twisted into ghoulish, cackling visages, mocking his incompetence. He felt akin to Mia Farrow confronting a coven in Rosemary's Baby, though thankfully without a weapon. His practical skills failed miserably: he poured Guinness for red wine requests and Budweiser for those wanting Boddingtons, breaking glasses in the process.
The crowd's stare intensified, becoming more sinister by the second. His pours were off—bitter turned headless, lager overly foamy—and dizziness set in, making it hard to breathe as his legs threatened to give way.
The Manager's Merciful Intervention
After just half an hour, the manager intervened, putting Hattenstone out of his misery. He was told he wasn't cut out for bar work and let go without pay, though mercifully, no compensation was demanded for the broken glassware. By then, Hattenstone's legs had completely failed him, and he slithered out like a snake, humiliated and speechless.
Adding to the disgrace, he couldn't find the hatch to exit, circling in confusion until the manager lifted it for him. The shame was so profound he couldn't bear to tell his parents or even discuss it with Ned, questioning how such a disaster could occur in a place he considered his natural home.
Lasting Shame and a Promise of Redemption
Decades later, the humiliation hasn't faded. Hattenstone now holds skilled bar staff in awe, recently confessing his past disgrace to Joyce, who runs his local, the Lincoln Arms in King's Cross. In a twist of aversion therapy, she has promised him a few minutes behind the bar to finally exorcise the ghosts of that fateful shift—a small chance at redemption forty years on.
