The Idler

Licence to Ill

In the Summer of 1992 I worked in an off-licence on the edges of a South Coast town. Minimum wage, of course, whatever that was at the time. It was an amount that ran constantly through the mind during the outrageous tedium of the day, the only answer to “what the hell am I doing here while all my friends are lying on the beach or still in bed?” Not much of an answer, either, more an insistent, constant insult.

The problem really was with the government. That’s who I blame anyway. It was around then that someone decided that the “socially handicapped” of the area should be “re-integrated with society.” All that was required of them was that they sign once a week at a hospital, and if possible not kill anyone.

Our offy was next door to the hospital, and therefore mighty handy for a post-signing tipple. Oh the things I saw. My personal favourite was the man with the funny hands who had me remove every can from his three 6-packs from the plastic ring. Which would have been fine, had he not also required that I insert each one separately into his special bag. Which was covered with shit. In and out. Literally.

In those days I had long hair, and hot summers frequently led to itchy head. However, this summer, the itching failed to stop. All the time I was not trying to persuade customers not to pee in the shop was spent scratching my head. Nits. My girlfriend of the time worked this out for herself, when she got them from me. I got them from a customer. Needless to say, she failed to see the funny side.

Martin’s last day was the final straw. He was close to a breakdown at that point I think, and had stepped away from the counter to nervously throw a balled bit of paper from one hand to the other, while I dispensed the Norseman lager to the 11 am crowd. A particularly minging man stood directly in front of him, mimicking his actions and hopping about in a crude dance. Eventually he went a little further, progressing from belligerent disco swaying into an old fashioned drunken waltz.

The pain in Martin’s eyes is visible to me even now. We cut out a picture of the chairman of the parent company from the Annual Report, mounted it on cardboard, and set it just above the counter with a sign saying “your money goes to me”.

Soon after, I left in the way you leave jobs when you are young, pissing off with several bottles and not coming back. As a consequence I still can’t really drink Southern Comfort. Or have long hair.

Harry P