Henry counselling and sober sausage

A quick update from Plough towers where I have just finished work for the day and settled down with a pint (sorry not sorry).

I have nearly completed the first stage of white painting, it is staggered to make sure we don’t run out of paint, and moved onto colour. I am approaching the task with renewed vigour and this is reflected in the fact that I am shattered, a very positive thing in these times.

I must apologise to anybody who observed me appearing to perform some sort of odd dance in the window and will explain the scene for anyone that is still wondering what I was doing. I had removed some caulk and loose material from the top of the window reveal in order to replace it with filler. One of the things with old buildings is that when you expose the structure it likes to get out.

So I was faced with a constant stream of debris coming from the void that I was back filling. The solution to fighting this tide was good old Henry but, with soft gloss paint around, I couldn’t let him thrash wildly around. That is why, if you happened to look at the window during this time, you will have been met with an odd image.

I can assure you that all was entirely innocent and what you actually saw was me, stood on a chair, retaining Henry’s hose between my thighs and attempting to direct said nozzle so as to best capture the flowing debris. All is good now and Henry is currently being counselled by CB duck in the hope that she can get him back to work in the morning.

I was reflecting earlier that it is just shy of five years ago that the pub looked like this and was closed as I pushed through many long nights to get ready the first time around. I may not be pulling as many hours this time around but that is the lack of a deadline, I still managed a healthy 12 hr shift today. The big difference this time though is the presence of my buddies.

Now when I can’t find that thing that I swear was right there a minute ago I immediately look for Terry duck to see where he has hid it. Every time I pick up a paint brush I hear sausage duck (3 days sober) say “I wouldn’t do it like that”. Thanks guys now lets have a beer its another day tomorrow.

 

You can’t run but they should pay

I am sorry to say that I have to start with a little rant today, please bear with me. As we know we are in very difficult times and I, for one, applaud the way that our government have supported and protected us. I am surprised and saddened that the business community has not all worked with that support to support those who we employ and who need it most.

Whilst many in the business community have acted to support their employees, fully aware that the state will step in at some point to assist with that burden, many haven’t. I have heard countless stories of staff being told that they will receive furlough payments (80% of earnings) as and when the state pays the employer.

I am not talking about the millionaire businessmen who have been shown to be the self serving ungrateful sods that we always knew they were. I am speaking of small businesses who are the soul of our community and whose staff are the soul of their businesses.

I am sorry but if your business runs so close to insolvency that it cannot fund a few weeks payroll, in the knowledge that this is state backed, then you are not actually in business. You are in the big chair, the boss, the one who takes the risks, this is what YOU do, not your staff. Your staff come to work, work hard for you and need your support.

You are turning away from your staff in their time of need and you do not deserve their support or respect. I have heard the excuses, its been a slow year, we have had expenses, suppliers still need paying…. Man up, the state has guaranteed you support you only have to buffer this for your employees so if you don’t have the cash then use the overdraft, load the credit card because your staff need you to be a boss.

It now appears that my inability to purchase more of one type of paint was a blessing since I am 60% through and not started the second of the two tins that I have. I think gloss may also win out so its looking good, well by good I mean bloody boring!

A courier delivered a parcel today and we were discussing how we are respectively getting on and I mentioned the constant debate about speeding up to get it done versus the risk of finishing and having nothing to do. “You still got the deck to do” was his response, followed rapidly by “after all you already did my van”. This was the guy that answered that question that bugs us all …’how far does 5 L of decking oil go in a long wheel base sprinter van’. At least we know now mate*

I noticed this morning that one of the ducks has turned his back on us and seems to be protesting about something. I can’t imagine what his problem is after all we are all in the same boat. A little panic ensued when Dave sent me a picture of an escaped duck in his neighbours garden. Could the mardy blighter have travelled to Derby? I found the duck, still moody, on his stool and we worked out that whilst he would merrily have gone to Derby he respects the government advice about travelling and anyway he can’t afford the ferry.

On the subject of ducks, special mention has to go to Tiggy for hunting out an image of the special duck which can remain in his custody for as long as is possible.

 

*The answer, for the curious, is it goes everywhere

Blood, sweat and pride

I know that I have tried to explain where I find my life a number of times but hey, lets try again.

So recently the ‘don’t need to make money’ comments from a certain quarter were clarified when it transpired that said quarter ‘knows’ why I am here. This story, which is a new one and therefore worthy of record, is that I received compensation for my accident. So, most of you guys know this, let me be unequivocal on this, the accident was life changing in many ways but only one of those was good and that was that it (as these things do) showed me who my friends were (love you guys). There was no compensation, no financial boost, it slowed my pub search and life in general.

So how did some ugly, scruffy old man end up owning a pub? Come on you know the answer really don’t you? So the secret, the ‘magic’, well gather in close because we very clearly can’t have everyone knowing can we….. Well I worked, hard, no not that hard but much much harder. I mean I worked 20 hrs a day I was on call 24/7 for 20 odd years I never spent time with my family I worked so hard that colleagues actually doubted I was human. You see even a scruffy old git can earn a couple of quid if he is determined and if you know me you clearly know determination.

So that is how I got to be here, I sold my life, my time, my blood sweat and tears, my family life and that brought me my Plough. No Lotto wins, no compensation, no inheritance, no criminal backers, no drugs money just every last bit of me, every tiny bit of my body and soul. Just for reference, I didn’t get here with a pot of cash, when I opened the sofas were owned by the credit card company and the change in the till was my overdraft. I literally threw my shirt in the pot because, as I mentioned, I am a determined sort of bloke.

Now question 2 is why? Why I am here? Why the Isle of Wight? Why a pub? Why the Plough? Well now it gets difficult. I have studied Engineering and Law but I think we need a psychologist here, in his absence I will give it a go.

So the first thing that the psychologist would tell you is that I am not put together well. I am basically a mess of issues ignored and boxed away by my workaholic personality, hey it works right? So working in the Phoenix way back then made me feel part of something so amazing that I knew I had to come back as the ‘Tel’ of my own place I genuinely think that man sealed my fate as young boy (cheers to the ‘old man’).

So when I took the Ship it was just an opportunity that arose out of a silly night. It was only a pub, only a bit of rent, bit of fun. Now those that know me well, and one in particular (Andrew), knew that I can’t do that I am not that person. The keys for the Ship included a Carling bottle opener that to this day sits in my office, it was that important.

When I came out of the Ship in 2011 it was Andrew that saw the itch, saw the discomfort, knew that I was never going to stay away. The truth is not having pub keys killed me, every time I checked my pocket it was a reminder making me feel incomplete. I genuinely missed those keys more than any woman it was a real hole in my life.

Now this is where it is hard to explain, what was it that I missed? Was it haemorrhaging money? was it living in sub zero temperatures? Never sleeping? was it battling against the odds? fighting on all fronts at all times? Did I yearn for the scary weight loss, the hypertension, the zombie like state and the inability to function on anything more than a basic level? Obviously not. Was it the access to beer? the company? the gratitude for saving the local pub? No it wasn’t even that. I missed smelling of beer and that magical moment after you close the pub and you are still inside.

I cannot begin to explain how privileged I feel now to be sat inside a pub that has been here for centuries. This is my home, I am so proud of this old lady and never tire of the smell and sounds of the pub. You know I can walk every inch of this majestic old lady with my eyes closed, not just the bits you see but every inch of the place that I am so proud to call home. I live on the island that has always been my sanctuary and I own the most wonderful pub.

So I guess I have done my circle and I am, almost, back to the Phoenix on a Sunday listening to some old boy singing Sweet Caroline or (sometimes) back to Reflections with the mania that was a Saturday night.

So for the accountants out there that is the ‘story’ some dumbass worked his life away to buy a pub. I was always going to lose all that I have lost, always going to carry that pain but (determined) always gonna end up where I am and I couldn’t be prouder of the Plough.

 

Threatened with success…

I apologise in advance for the lack of humour in this post, I will do my best to rectify this in the next post I promise.

I have realised that there is somewhat of a dichotomy in the opinions that people have of where I am. On the one hand I hear that I am a ‘success’ and on the other I am warned that I will end my days as a ‘lonely old man’. I would like to right the natural order and settle this difference, you see these are not the polar opposites that they may seem.

Firstly if I end my days as an old man I will be pretty happy with my lot, indeed I was quite proud that Mr Bill Downer thinks that I have his thirty years in me* As to success, well it is a very subjective measure but I think I am doing ok. The Plough would have been demolished by now if I wasn’t here and instead she is being loved and cared for like only a lonely single old man can 🙂

In truth it is only a woman who can say ‘lonely old man’ in a way that makes it sound bad. In fact it is only an inference, like any good salesman they just make you think that it is bad they don’t actually say it. Being alone allows me to spend all of my time and energy on the wonderful story that is the Plough. The story of the Plough has run for hundreds of years and will, hopefully, run for hundred of years more, I only write my chapter. So my chapter wontt include another name, I am not part of some couple but actually I am more than that. In this instance I am more than the sum of one half.

The thought behind this post, which was inspired by recent conversations, is simply that I understand and am comfortable with what I am. Don’t feel sorry for me because I am not compromising or negotiating with a partner, I choose to be who I am and that enables me to do what I do. Please don’t think that there is such a thing as a threat of being a lonely old man, I can assure you that I know what I am and what I will be and that there is no threat possible. When you tell me that I will be a ‘lonely old man’ you simply expose your own insecurities and, if I may be so bold, your abject inability to function on your own.

Just to be clear this post was prompted only by recent, and innocent, conversations it is not some rant aimed at anyone in particular. It is also worth noting, when you ask where my life is, that I do not have my children at home. Like so many men I lost any interest in a life when I lost the sweethearts that are my children. I was brought up to believe that we are here for our children so without that its just about ticking days off. Sure we do the best that we can do to get through the time that we have but I stopped seeking a life a long time ago.

I hereby promise a return to normality on the next post, sorry.

 

*people are realising that I may just beat that record

I was meaning to do it – honestly

Having done my chores for the day I thought that it was time for an update from the front, after all some of you don’t get to keep up with it all in person.

As we rush into the last weekend of February Christmas is, at long last, a distant memory and the Summer is approaching whilst my task list remains steadfastly long.

Cutting, splitting, stacking and rotating logs is a never-ending task at this time of year just to keep on top of consumption. The hope is that the Summer will allow me to get on top of this activity at least but I guess the realist in me knows that the Summer tasks will make this a struggle. There is still a mass of painting to do and I am horribly embarrassed that the stain block that I used in preparation for painting some of the ceilings is now over a year old and remains uncovered.

My builder has taken to picking up the small outstanding tasks that he left me rather than just keep nagging me (although I do think that he appreciates that it is not laziness). There is so little usable time in the day that it is quite scary. Gloss paint is a classic example of the publican dilemma in that I can paint gloss only at night, in order to allow it time to dry, so the soonest that I can get the paint out is midnight. Of course the corollary of painting at night is that I am later to sleep and in a worse condition in the morning.

For those who wonder what fills the canyon that is the hours between 07:00 and 11:30 (currently) allow me to share. Firstly there is the routine, orders to be placed, shelves filled, toilets cleaned and replenished. The preparation of the bar itself takes some time with beer mats and drip trays to lay out, seating to replace from last nights clean up and, of course, beer to pull through. The fire also needs cleaning out and rebuilding ready for the day and fuel stores replenished. After some accounting and invoice reconciliation we can get down to the additional task list unless, of course, we have a delivery due and there are at least 3 of those a week.

I would love to say that I have a schedule of additional tasks but sadly it is more a never-ending loop. The pub gets deep cleaned in sections as does the bar and toilets. The office gets vaguely tidied occasionally and I even manage to vacuum upstairs from time to time. Outside cameras need wiping, and floors need sweeping and of course we have to attend to the ashtrays. Whenever possible I try to also target a job from the list, today’s small success was the replacement of two emergency light fittings but within an hour I had replaced the task with a more pressing one to address on a flat roof.

In between all of this I am trying to plan some form of progress. I know that I need more staff for this season and I am regularly in some form of negotiation for fuel, phone, stock or some other service. Then there are the bigger jobs to schedule, the window and wall replacements, roofing issues, gardens and the elephant in the room that is the other bar.

As I have said before, if I look calm just think of the duck furiously paddling beneath the surface. I have always worked at 100 mph but this is something else, so all-consuming that there is not a thought that passes through my mind that does not, in some way, involve the Plough.

The key point remains that I love doing this. I am fiercely proud of the pub and remain privileged to be her custodian but don’t ever think that it is easy. Before writing this today I uncovered my sofa, it has been under a dust sheet since we started the building works in October. Think about that for a moment, my lounge has been empty for nearly 5 months, that is how much down time I get. My reward for this is to keep seeing the little pub grow into the friendly community pub that I knew it could and should be.

In another pub development I have finally, and somewhat reluctantly, declared the pub a child free zone. Having fought long and hard I have to concede that it is just too much trouble to try to regulate families. I am also acutely aware that there is no reason for children to be in an establishment that does not serve food, is not near the beach and has no facilities for children.

I am now considering branching out into medicine, as well as the obligatory counselling, since the swelling and pain are reducing in pinky and he is being cautiously welcomed back into the club. There is a way to go yet but I think I can confidently say that the resultant digit will be no worse than it was before it chose to take a different path to the rest of my hand.

Single groceries and party bathrooms

It is often said, by others, that I have a ‘bad relationship with food’ although I am not sure exactly what that means. Having spent the majority of my adult life working away from home and single I think that it is simply that I have no romantic attachment to food, no love for the task.

For me food is a chore that, by default, brings with it other chores. So eating a meal isn’t the end of it there is all of the preparation and clearing up, in honesty the actual eating of the meal is the shortest part. I rarely feel hungry and can merrily go for days without eating but that said I am pretty healthy so must be doing something right.

I wanted to share with you my shopping experience the other morning because, contrary to popular belief, I think that a lot of you will find something in common with it. To set the scene, so to speak, I should establish that I am a single man with a very small kitchen so on any given day my entire food stock will amount to bread, butter, some baked beans and a bag of pasta. On this particular day I was at work from 11:00 until probably 01:30 which meant that the shopping trip was preparatory towards having dinner ready when I finished.

The day stated well with various ideas of what I could variously put in the oven or the slow cooker and even some back up plans if those ideas didn’t make it to fruition. We have two supermarkets in town and I boldly strode off to the larger of the two, after all if you are going shopping you may as well go large.

My first frustration was met as soon as I got inside the door, no traditional baskets in sight just those monstrous deep things. Not for me the embarrassment of a few measly items languishing so far down the basket that I need a crook to pull them up with, where were the normal baskets? I wasn’t going to let this small issue set me back though, after all I was on a mission, I only needed a few items so I would make do without a basket*

The first thing that I am presented with is fruit and salad so these are readily discounted. I am not adverse to a salad but producing one at 1 o’clock in the morning isn’t happening. Next up is the fresh meat and it is here that we will make big gains. A chicken perhaps? thrown in the slow cooker with some seasoning a full bird will result in succulent fresh chicken for dinner so it looks good. But then there is the hassle, remember its at 1 am, of stripping the carcass, clearing up etc. BBQ shredded beef, again slow cooked to my own recipe, sounded good until I concluded that all I would do with it is put it in a sandwich. What is the point in cooking if what you end up at the end is a sandwich?

Having pretty much discounted all of the meat products for various reasons I hit upon a stunning piece of smoked cod. It was, almost inevitably, a short meeting because the lingering smell of cooked fish has long ago consigned the activity to restaurants only.  Next up was the ‘ready to cook’ style meat products which had been on my mind previously. An oven cooked chicken perhaps or a beef joint? Pre-prepared so just throw it in the oven and they even come in their own tray. The choices of honey glazed ribs or stuffed chicken breast all seemed to either need accompaniments, and their associated hassle, or were more like snacks.

I rapidly passed the ready meals because I refuse to acknowledge publicly that I am only really eating for one. There is something deeply ingrained in me that finds it embarrassing and somewhat offensive to purchase meals for one. Next up was chilled pizza, I don’t mind a pizza on occasion so this could be lucky….. but then there is the fact that if I cook a pizza I will invariably eat more of it than I need to eat and just end up feeling bloated. The challenge of discarding uneaten pizza seemed a step too far so I turned on my heels and left.

I stopped on the way home at the smaller of the supermarkets, although I have no idea why I couldn’t have made the purchase in the store that I had just left, and purchased a loaf of bread. At half past one in the morning I ate dinner, whilst going through some paperwork, yes you guessed it I had a couple of slices of toast.

I don’t believe that I am the only person that has this type of relationship with food, one where the simple act of food shopping can turn me apoplectic and see me returning empty-handed. I am sure that I am not the only person who can cook and then decide it’s too much or too heavy or just can’t be bothered and trash it before moving straight to washing up. So if you recognise anything in this post please let me know that I am not alone.

I will finish this post with an aside that occurred to me the other day after a sudden bout of social media. On this particular day there were no end of posts from mothers lamenting the fact that they don’t even get to use the toilet on their own. On the face of it this seems like a reasonable complaint and one justifiably voiced but is it really? The complaint is that there is no solitude to be found in the bathroom yet women always attend in packs. Girls always go the bathroom together and indeed I watched a lady shepherding her young teen daughters into the ladies with her the other day. So what’s the problem?

 

*In truth I think that this was an early indication of failure

Ploughing ahead

Well hello to those of you who inhabit a normal world and, of course, to those who don’t. I am starting this post on a quiet Wednesday morning on the little island, I still open at 11 am at the moment but it is not uncommon for me to see no customers until long past 12. I feel obligated now to say that I was fully expecting a Winter downturn, and it is better than expected so far, because everybody tries to explain this to me for some reason. When you ask me if I have been busy and I respond “no” that is the end of that conversation, your question has been answered and we are both ready for the next question. Before you launch into an explanation of seasonal trading could I ask you, please, to phrase a further question such as “before you purchased a pub in a tourist economy had you considered the effects of seasonal trade” this will give me the opportunity to tell you that this was fully expected. As you may be able to tell this is not what happens and the person who asks the question launches into an explanation of seasonal trading which leaves me feeling like I had been complaining which is far from the case.

So how is trading during a chilly October in a seasonal town? You know what, it’s not so bad. Its eclectic, unpredictable and therefore impossible to plan for but overall its ok. The fact that I remain here in October and am still following the ‘slow and steady’ path that I set out from the outset seems to be gaining some confidence that I am indeed in this for the long haul. The Plough is slowly emerging from her patchy past and reminding people what a warm and friendly old girl she can be. I remain really impressed by the praise which the pub receives and the warmth and affection that people have for her. It remains a challenge, and a tough one at that, but I am still positive that the old girl can do what she needs to do.

As to full-time pub life, well it is strange but mostly in a good way. I leave the pub at least three times a week for banking and to purchase milk but other than that I am here all of the time. I don’t think people always appreciate just what that means and how quickly it removes any boundaries between work and home life. That said, for me, this is a perk of the job and I love that I pop to the bar at 3 am to get a cold bottle of water, the lack of boundaries is great because it means I live in a huge house but I invite a lot of people around. When you move house you rarely see people who have inhabited your new home before you yet the opposite is true for a pub where everybody has a story to tell and memories of your home, both downstairs and upstairs barely a day goes by without somebody recalling something about the old girl or her ‘character’.

Another oddity is that you engage with so many people yet you know so few. As most of you know I have no support network as such on the island, I have no friends or family to call on and remain a one man operation. The pub means that I meet so many people but the context is always that of a publican meeting public, they are all great people and it is a quick way to get to know people but it is not the same as a traditional support network. Buying a local pub is an easy way to fully immerse yourself in a community, there is no place to hide and you are on ‘display’ from day one but the pressure of that must be similar to the pressure of celebrity. There is never a moment of the day when you are not the publican and as such you are always conscious of what you say and how you are perceived.

To answer the questions that I am always asked. Do I still enjoy it? Hell how could I not?? I spend all day in the pub, it is amazing and not a minute of it is ever hard work. Did I make the right decision? Yes most definitely. I miss the world of heavy engineering a lot, how could I not? I miss the challenges and the friends of course I do but I live in my business and sink or swim this is all on my shoulders. Is it fun? Well yes in a lot of ways it is but the stress is huge and there remain many nights that you can find me sat on the chair in the back bar wondering how in the hell I will make this all work. The sheer volume of work can be overwhelming at times (quite a lot of the time actually) but I am comforted that the pub has been here for 220 + years so I probably don’t need to rush. Am I looking to convert part or all of the building? Hell no, I am nothing if not a sucker for an old pub and this one well and truly has my heart all I will ever do is rebuild and rejuvenate.

For those who are interested it is now 01:15 on Sunday morning which has been the next chance that I got to finish the post!