I worked there around 83 to 84, under Don and Pam. Wolverhampton and the West Midlands was really down in the dumps, and I was unemployed. Spotted an advert for a pub job, popped in, and that was it for the next year; I was a barman in a rough pub. Indeed Don eventually had me as what he called his trainee manager - fooled me for a week that. I was really the dog’s body who would start at 6am to get stuff ready. Didn't really mind, as Don was Don and everyone loved him. Pam was the boss though.
What was it like? Fun. It wasn't like work. The people were like the staff; societal misfits. Some were punks, others rockers, mods, skins and new romantics. They all mixed, but the punks were the most interesting. One girl used to wear a string vest with nothing underneath. That's the type of crowd I wanted to mix with.
It was rough. Smage, the tall punk, the tough skinhead, and all the Angels. Odd fights here and there, but mainly people doing typical stuff when pissed or spaced out. Usually at throwing out time, you would find somebody asleep. Invariably a mate would have pulled their pants down, and drawn a face on their penis. Sometimes an Angel would ride their bike into the pub, and nobody thought that odd. There was always sick. Got to the point I could clear sick up whilst eating a sarnie.
Don was always a happy drunk, and Pam took us all under her wing. She had so much energy. Not sure which one was in charge of the music, but it was superb. And loud.
In the end my maths let me down, and Don threw me out for screwing the till up. Never blamed him - I no longer had the heart for it, and I was probably a bit of a prick. Starting at 6am, finishing at midnight, then drinks after until 2am was harsh. Plus Don would make us pay for after hour drinks, which took all my income from that night. I worked non-stop for the year as the concept of a holiday was alien to Don. He was probably a terrible boss really.
Had lots of jobs since, but nothing as fun, or where I was allowed to be drunk on the job, or where the odd customer would let me sleep with them. Or one where the toilets were so far underground, and the real worry was falling down them. I recall one night, I was so drunk that I climbed onto the bar and went to sleep.
I wasn't strictly a punk, a rocker or whatever. I liked Talking Heads, Joe Jackson, Whitesnake and Jethro Tull, but dressed in what I could afford from charity shops, and dyed bits of my hair red. There was no actual style or concept to my dress, other than perhaps tramp.
Nobody ever believes me that a pub could have ever been like that, or that people actually enjoyed it, or that I coped. Different life, different times. I actually think that the customers were very, very tolerant of anyone who was out on society’s fringes, more so than now. Nobody gave a crap who you were, so long as you got pissed and didn't judge them. Hard to judge others though when you yourself were unsure what you were, and where hardly anyone worked or had real money.