Table Dancing

I was a bartender for about three years.

Even though it was way outside my actual job description, I basically ran the upstairs bar that was used for private parties.

In that job, I dealt with people from all walks of life. I oversaw everything from civilized retirement parties to the local Rugby team’s end of season bash.

Basically, there wasn’t a strata of society that didn’t step through my door.

But there was one thing all these people had in common. One thing I could guarantee was going to happen at every single gathering I ever presided over.

It always started with a look. About halfway through the night, I’d be behind the bar, serving up some drinks when I’d notice someone who’d had one too many start dancing in their seat. Some big hit of the time would start playing, and the drunk who couldn’t control their feet…suddenly couldn’t control their feet.

So they’d stand up and start drunkenly dancing at their table, much to the general delight of their shit-faced colleagues.

Then, you see the look.

They look down at their feet, then up at the table, then down at their feet again…then back at the table with that “I’ve just had an awesome idea!” look that only drunks seem to be capable of.

By this time, I’m already halfway across the room, but it’s too late. The drunken ass-hat has climbed onto the table and is trying to dance, kicking over people’s drinks and generally making a tit of themselves.

Someone explain this to me.

You see, the average table in a big function room is usually one of those cheap chipboard-topped folding trestle tables, designed to take the weight of a few drinks and maybe some plates of food. I wouldn’t trust one to take my weight or stay upright if I was completely sober and being as careful as possible. So why do the 300lb fat bastards always think it’s a great idea to get shit faced and jump up and down on them?…and why do all their dumbass friends think this is always absolute hilarity that no-one has ever thought to do before?

In all my years tending bar, I lost count of the number of times I had this conversation:

“No, dear…no this isn’t my fault, and no you can’t sue me, or the bar…it’s not our fault you and your friends thought it was a good idea to jump up and down on a trestle table…and if you’ll cast your mind back, I was over there in fifteen seconds telling you to get down…and you said to me, and I quote: “Stop being such a spoilsport, we’re having fun, we paid for the room, we can do what we want.” Oh, and of course, “The table will take my weight, are you calling me fat?”…so, no, you can’t sue me…but you do owe us for the table and you can pay to clean my shirt that got splashed with the rum and cokes you were double fisting when you fat ass crashed to the ground.”