The typical punter likely has little or no idea the kind of compromises, diplomacy and occasional cunning that can go into operating and staying in control of a licensed premise.
I was recently reminded of a slippery situation working at Drummoyne Rugby Club (back in the heady days before the ‘Dirty Reds’ were kicked out of first grade), in the 1990s.
We had a nightclub that was quite popular in an area largely bereft of late-night entertainment, in a small and under-membered sports club surrounded by far superior options, such as Drummoyne Rowers and the venerable Oxford Hotel, just a few doors up on Victoria Road.
Back then the vast majority of local establishments closed at midnight, at which time revellers would make their way to the upper level of the rugby club to boogie ‘til 3am.
So consistent was this trend, that although we opened the doors at 11pm it was unusual to get the first patron in before the clock struck twelve, and over time security began starting their shift at around 11:30.
As a locals’ venue where many regulars were loyal club members and generally products of the code of conduct embodied by the game of rugby, minimal security was rarely any issue.
But, of course, there are always people who like to be the exception to the rule.
One night, shortly after 11, a busload of somewhat intoxicated men pummelled their way up the stairs, pushing, stumbling and yelling at each other as they headed to the bar and the nervous looks on the faces of our two (very attractive) female bartenders.
As this mess of bucks party larrikins attempted to order more methods of intoxication and offer indecent and unwelcome proposals to the girls, with me the only male employee in the place, several opted to migrate to the dance floor to slam and tackle each other.
The group quickly objected to the vanilla pre-crowd background music that was playing, collectively insisting we put on tunes by headliners of the day Guns ‘n Roses.
Disinclined to attempt to administer this mob myself and even reluctant to fetch anyone from downstairs or go to the office to alert authorities, I decided I could probably get these idiots to burn themselves out.
Taking control of the music, they were regaled with the hardest-hitting, head-bangingest hits of the Roses, such as ‘Welcome to the Jungle’, ‘Paradise City’ and of course, ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’.
We watched as a dozen flannel-clad bogans chest-bumped, high-fived and screamed vocals at each other for at least 10 minutes … before I switched gears, to the Gunners’ mournful nine-minute long anthem, November Rain.
By the time it ended, at least three of the group had sat down and virtually passed out, two were hugging with one sobbing over an ex-girlfriend, and several had gotten bored and left.
To the relief of us working, our two security guards soon arrived and ushered the remaining dregs outside without incident.
I doubt it comes as any surprise to any manager that has had to deal with an unwelcome mob, my approach has often been to remind myself that it’s usually not too difficult to outwit a gassed-up twit, or even a buck-load of them.
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