Dear Students

"Can i see your ID?" "But the bouncer already checked it?"

“Can we order some food please?” Guess what? No table number. “Can we have three shots of sambuca?” Guess what? No I.D. But she has her university ID, can I accept that? No, I cannot. Just like you wouldn’t accept the fine I’d be given if you were under 18. Students, why do you think the world owes you something? You stroll into any old bar with debt, deadlines, and depression on your shoulders, and your first words are “Can we have two pitchers?” As you say this, I am using my psychic abilities to figure out which pitchers you want and watching your twelve university mates tear our perfectly assigned table plan apart.

Little do you know, I am not giving the full measurements that you presume I am going to give you, you’ll get four shots rather than six. I’m not under-pouring because you’ve done anything to me, I’m under-pouring because of what you’re ABOUT to do.

Or worse… You stay seated, and stare at me standing on the empty bar and what happens?

The App screen goes off, not once… not twice… (Sorry Lionel Ritchie.) But ten different bloody times.

Pepsi Max here, Two VK’s there, Double Jack Daniels and Coke here.

As I stare endlessly at this screen questioning why I am even in this bartender job, I wonder something way more important. WHY can these students who are apparently full of so much potential not get off their fucking arses and come to the mother fucking bar? But our regular John, 72, can walk to the bar for every single pint of John Smiths. I do not recall being hired as a waitress.

Regardless, I’m being paid to do something. So what do I do? Naturally, I under-pour everything. Double Jack Daniels? More like 12.5ml shot which double the amount of ice! Am I miserable in my dead end job? Probably. But I’m more angst by the students who feel they’re a priority because they’re spending their student loans here, but guess what… You don’t pay my wages.

Of course, I come back to the bar and Jessica here is clicking her fingers at me, thinking that means I must serve her, but I don’t have to. Just because Daddy answers to stomping feet, and clicking fingers doesn’t mean I have to.

Jessica’s friend is trying to apologise for her actions and is promising that is wasn’t meant in the way I have taken it, but screaming “HELLO. BARTENDER?! I WANT A DRINK?” Makes me think you believe I should care. Manners cost absolutely nothing.

Here comes Johnny big bollocks, but we will call him Tom. He’s clearly on the Rugby team, and he is the lad. Tom here wants 20 Jager bombs, but he’s baby faced. So here, I do my job. “Do you have any I.D.?” CUE THE ABUSE.

“I bet I’m fucking older than you, can’t believe you’re asking for my I.D., who do you think you are?” Well, Tom, you see if I believe you look under 25 then I can ask to see you I.D. and oh look, you’re not even 21.

So students, let me just explain something to you…

I have chose this job to get me by in life, it is a job I would like to keep until I can start my actual career, yes I chose it. I am not unhappy in my job, I am unhappy with your attitude. I’m not your mother, I won’t take your princess/prince attitude. I will however accept a simple please and thank you. Some of you are like angels sent down from above that makes me believe there is HOPE. But then, you and your herd leave.

I’m then left with 12 seats jumbled all over the place, glasses, and plates everywhere because you wouldn’t allow staff to clear it. Three long tables smack bang in the middle of the walkway and lastly but not least, a pitcher full of every single condiment in the building.

And you want some respect?

Practice what you preach, bitches.