Wrong Side Of The Bar – The Dastardly Danes


I work as a bartender across the world, to fund my travelling habit. In order to stop myself going insane, I write rants about the people I meet.


I came into work in a fairly good mood; I promise! I’ve just come back from visiting the family and I’d had a pretty decent wank, so I was fairly happy when I came in. The place was busy, in that frantic kind of ‘everyone is three sniffs of tequila away from starting a fight’ kind of way but that’s pretty standard so it was ok.

Then the Danes happened.

To be fair, I should say ‘then half of the Danes happened’. We had a few of them in and while they were all being loud and shouty, I can deal with loud and shouty. I can be equally loud and shouty. So when one of them (who from now on I shall refer to as Jutty-Chin Snarly-Mouth Man-Child) sauntered over, I thought I was prepared.

“Hello.” He said. So far so good, I’m on pretty stable ground when it comes to greetings. I replied in kind.

“We have been here now for nearly 5 hours.” Said J-C S-M M-C. I looked at the clock. He was right. They had.

“And we have bought many drinks and food from you.” he continued. Again, I was forced to concur. They had bought many drinks and food from us. A good deal of the drinks were currently inside one particular woman who was swaying back and forth like a particularly poorly tree. A good deal of the food was on the floor.

“So now what will you give us for free?” demanded my new friend. “We want a bottle of Jaegermeister and Red Bull, and some more fries. We are sitting” he gesticulated vaguely, obviously trying to pinpoint one particular table but instead waving so wildly that he’d included the toilets, the kitchen and the bar next door.


Now, I don’t necessarily begrudge people trying to get free stuff. Everyone likes free stuff, even small arrogant Danes. I’m not such a fan of people telling me that they deserve free stuff and, what’s more, categorising what free stuff they want. Not a fan. I tell him so.

He isn’t a happy bunny, not at all. During the ensuing tirade, I’m informaed that he owns most of Denmark’s bars and restaurants, can buy me and my immediate family outright, but somehow finds our prices ludicrous and can’t stomach the idea of paying a single penny more for anything. He wants – nay, he needs – a bottle of Jaegermeister, two bottles of Red Bull, and some fries.

I put him out of his misery by explaining kindly and slowly that he is, in fact, right – he won’t be buying anything else in this bar because he is, in fact, now cut off and if he’s not careful and doesn’t stop insulting the bar staff he will be, in fact, kicked the fuck out.

And here’s why I give him the nickname Jutty-Chin Snarly-Mouth Man-Child. His proposed form of outraged protest is to stick his considerably large chin out at me, make a noise like a dog who’s been interrupted mid-shit by a second, larger dog, and complain that I’m not being very nice. I agree. I’m not really being very nice, but that is the way the proverbial cookie crumbles.

He spends the next half an hour doing a strange series of mating rituals, which involve (not necessarily in this order nor in any sequence) running at the bar and jumping against it like he’s chest-pounding a friend, standing very close to any bartender who happens to be nearest and repeating his chin-mouth-whine routine, snatching glasses of water from his friends and darting away triumphantly, returning quietly as he realises its water, and occasionally screaming the word ‘DICK’ at the top of his lungs.

Problem is, a couple of his friends are very nice and I’m trying to help them get a taxi. Being, as I am, halfway up a mountain in the Alps, this isn’t an easy thing – nor can I, in good conscience, kick out this drunken ape while his friends wait inside for a taxi. So I sort of just have to ignore him until we find a local who’s willing to act as taxi, bundle them all into the car, and send them on their way. (During this whole time, J-C S-M M-C is quiet and docile, except his face is doing the J-C S-M M-C number increasingly quickly.) I shut the door, give him a little wave, and they’re off out of my life.

Danes are weird, man.

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