Tea Time Club

Or, 'I always stand here'

Most days, without fail, between four thirty and seven, we have a regular group populate one side of the bar. They have their own space. And woe betide anyone who should happen to take up their space. I’m certain that, if we had reservations, we would have a permanent booking for the long side of the bar.

I should probably explain the general layout of the pub. Our bar is in the round, which was once in vogue but now has its fair share of problems. Especially when you consider the large structural column in the middle, which means there is no place we can stand behind the bar and see all parts of it. Inevitably, this occasionally leads to customers waiting a minute or two longer than we or they would like.

It is for this reason that I try to stand near Tea Time Club during quiet times, rather than the other side of the bar where most staff tend to congregate. And thus, I often end up in conversation with them.

These folks come from all walks of life. We have a couple who are self-employed, a high-level manager who is currently flitting between Scandinavia and home to oversee a sizeable relocation project, a council worker, a retiree and a glorified bus driver.

Al Murray once did a skit about how alcohol unlocks the 90% of the brain that we don’t use, and how the more you drink the more information comes forward. After one pint, every man knows how to win the World Cup for England. After four pints everyone can outsing Lionel Richie. And so on.

Except with Tea Time Club, the more they drink, the more the know how to make the pub a success. Or at least, how to make the pub in their own vision, from which they would benefit the most.

Now most of their ideas are, on the surface at least, fair and reasonable. For example, they want to congregate as near to their ‘spot’ as possible, if it isn’t available. Which often means standing at the front of the bar, between the bar and the front door. At first glance, this seems fair enough; customers should be able to meet wherever they like.

Except we ask everybody to keep the front of the bar clear, and we do this for a couple of reasons. Firstly, an accessible bar when you walk through the door is a more welcoming sight. And secondly, the front of the bar is where all of our beer engines are. With six ever-changing guest beers and a guest scrumpy, customers need to be able to see what beers are available to make an informed choice. Tea Time Club mostly drink lager or our permanent ale. So for them, I imagine it isn’t such a concern if the pump clips are obscured; they don’t drink them anyway.

I’m aware this sounds like a moan, and I don’t mean it to. I genuinely love our Tea Time Club. Not just because they pay a decent portion of my wage. But also because they are genuinely good company. If I’m working, it certainly helps while away some quieter times by having a good chuckle with them. And if I’m drinking, we’ve had some genuinely engaging conversations, ranging from putting the world to rights to proper, old-fashioned, pub banter. Nobody is safe, but there’s normally no malice in any of it.

So it’s probably time I introduced you to a few of them.

Brunel

Brunel is a little bit of a contradiction in terms. A typical Yorkshireman, he loves a bargain. He trips off to a discount food retailer in Sheffield at least a couple of times a month to stock up. He often comes back with a boot full. And has freezers overflowing at home with previously-acquired bargain cuts and joints of meat. But unlike the stereotypical thrifty Yorkie, he’s also incredibly generous.

On occasion, Tea Time Club will share a snack or two. And, except when the snack is popcorn donated by my wife, who happens to work in a popcorn factory and has access to a surfeit of free bags, Brunel is invariably the one to supply such snacks.

His allotments are often also sources of rich bounties. He has two. And the excess produce from these is brought into the pub and left available to all and sundry who would like to help themselves, with nothing expected in return.

Of course, he isn’t the only customer who has their own produce and is willing to share it, but normally, such a transaction normally involves a beer or two being sent the opposite way.

This isn’t to say Brunel would turn down a ‘thank you’ pint. He is a Yorkshireman, after all.

He’s also Bantermeister-in-Chief amongst Tea Time Club. As an example, I recently made the point to him that I think it’s a little bit naughty for customers to bring their own snacks to the pub, especially if it is something we sell. By which I mean, crisps, nuts and pork scratchings. Other snacks which are not available, like pork pies, popcorn, sandwiches and the like, I think is fair game. And I don’t think my position is particularly unreasonable.

Cut to the following day, Brunel was at the bar and asked me how much a bag of peanuts cost and what the weight was. Naturally, I told him it was 90p for 50g, and he had a choice of salted, dry roasted, chilli or honey roasted. Then I asked if he was in the market for any. He explained that he remembered our conversation from the previous day and he took it on board. Which is why he’d nipped across the road to the local shop and acquired a 200g bag of roasted peanuts for 54p…

Pongo

Pongo is probably the member of Tea Time Club who spends longest in the pub, is usually the last to leave, and has frequently heard the last bell despite being in at around 5pm. Part of this is because he hasn’t had a lady in his life for some time, and his daughter is nearly 18 and dad’s company is no longer ‘cool’.

Consequently, Pongo’s social life revolves around pubs and his allotment, which he used to share with Brunel, until a neighbouring plot came available. By all accounts, Pongo has a thriving social life both in our pub and in others locally. And whilst he is an integral member of Tea Time Club, he can occasionally also be found in his same spot at lunchtime, particularly when he’s been spending time tending his turnips. Since he owns his own company, he seems to have plenty of free time to work on his allotment…

Despite his active social life, Pongo has been single for a while and doesn’t seem likely to change that status any time soon. As such, he recently bought a dog. I’m not sure whether there was an underlying thought that it would be a good ice breaker with the ladies, but on early evidence, the women seen more keen to stroke the dog and talk to his companions than Pongo.

Obviously, the dog isn’t just there as a trinket to attract the ladies; as his daughter shuns his company, Pongo needs some companionship away from the pub. And, I suspect Pongo also believes another benefit will be that he spends less time at the bar. If the dog is at home, he’s got a definite curfew which he must abide by, or else there will be little presents left around his kitchen.

Of course, how long the dog will last remains to be seen. Early signs, though, aren’t overly promising. Now, I don’t know how much of a part alcohol played in this; but I do know that Pongo blames the dog entirely.

One evening, recently, Pongo appeared to be in quite some discomfort. Lifting his beer seemed to be a struggle, and laughing caused him visible pain. He’d clearly damaged his ribs. It turns out, the previous evening, as he was for bed, Pongo, in the act of removing his trousers, had tripped over the dog. He stumbled, fell chest-first onto his wooden bed frame, clocked his head on his bedside table, then collapsed in a heap over the dog. As the dog extricated himself from underneath a prone Pongo, he didn’t quite know what had happened. Pongo, though, remained in a pile for several minutes, before clambering with a great effort onto the bed, and weighing up whether he was for sleep or the hospital. Sleep won out, and he drove the following morning to the local emergency ward. Where he was diagnosed with suspected broken ribs.

Let’s all hope he forgives the dog soon, or else Battersea may well soon have a new resident…