1611 Hrs


I should leave right now! I should pack my bags and leave the lot of’em! Why won’t they listen to me! I have vision! I am the one with the key to the fecking vault! MADDNESS!

At 3 o’clock Miller, Clint, Dad (Curly was still too traumatized to come downstairs, he feared it would spark more flashbacks) and myself were seated at my round table. I didn’t want to rain on my brother’s idea’s too quickly, so I thought I would let them go first, before I dazzled everyone with my amazing plans.

Miller went first. I don’t know if he was being serious but he looked very impressed with himself. He had two ideas.

Idea No. 1

We should go around all the local AA meetings and all of the homeless shelters and hand out two-for-one vouchers to the winos. They love drink, so why shouldn’t they buy it here. Brilliantly simple he proclaimed.

Worryingly Dad didn’t slam this idea; he just kinda nodded his head and gestured for Miller’s second idea.

Idea No. 2

Let’s hire prostitutes as barmaids.

He didn’t back this up with any reasoning. He thought it was self-explanatory. Fortunately I saw my Dad drop his head into his hands in despair so, no, the lunatics weren’t running the asylum just yet. Next it was Clint’s turn.

He suggested a charity event. He said this would be a great way to build the reputation of the pub and more importantly get us free, positive publicity with the local newspaper and radio station. He said we should take advantage of how popular Karaoke was in the pub and make a big competition out of it. It would appeal not only to locals, but also to karaoke fans across the bay. We would make it known that every Saturday and Sunday night we would be entering the best singers into our major, big prize, karaoke competition, all in aid of a good cause. We’ll tell everyone that we will judge not only on performance but also on public appreciation, which would mean that participants would bring their friends and family along to cheer them on, thinking that it will improve their chances of getting into the final. Each week we’ll put virtually everyone through. The ones we don’t put through, we’ll tell them to come back and try again next week. Eventually we would end up with a massive final, where the pub would be rammed solid! We would have to offer a cash prize of about 200 -500 quid but we’ll make a fortune over the bar. We would pick a local charity, like the hospital or something and we would tell everyone who makes it into the final that they need to get sponsored, and that would be the cash that we donate. To make it extra special, we could make the final a big fancy dress event, like Stars in their Eyes.

Just like Miller, Clint seemed very impressed with himself and he waited to hear what the rest of us thought. Dad was just about to say something but I wanted to spare my little brother the humiliation of being told that his idea was utter crap. Instead I thought I would wade in with my own superior plans. THE MASTERPLAN. I handed everyone at the table the proposal I had prepared.

1. Triple the price of all our drinks.
2. Triple the price of all our food.
3. Change the name of the pub to THE OFFICE
4. Charge £50 entry, or £1,000 annual membership.
5. Do not refer to business as ‘a pub’; it is an ‘establishment’.
6. All staff members must wear a suit.
7. Sack the door staff. They won’t be needed.
8. Sack Miller. He definitely won’t be needed.
9. Sack Bertha. She may rape again.

Dad, Miller and Clint looked at me in amazement. I knew their feeble little minds wouldn’t understand what I was pitching, so I spelt it out very simply for them. We overprice everything. Food, drink, the lot. Hell, maybe even charge an entry fee to the shitter. I am going to make this place classy. By doing all of this the upper classes will know that none of the undesirable common people will be able to tarnish our establishment with their grubby presence. This means the rich won’t have to worry about the underclasses bothering them. I’ll make this a meeting place for people on the council, yacht owners, land owners etc. They all have more money than sense. If we do this now, we will be millionaires this time next year.

I stood before my family and awaited praise. I should have known I wouldn’t get it, or more to the point, they didn’t get it. They gobbed their poisonous venom all over my magnificent MASTERPLAN. They said it was ridiculous, that it was an insane idea, that I was an idiot. I felt like Galileo telling his unenlightened peers that the Earth was not flat. I am too far ahead of my time. I have a greatness that ordinary people like my father and brothers just don’t comprehend. I pleaded with them to understand, and I tried to explain it even simpler. Bring in the rich people, make lots of money, but my father was having none of it. He proclaimed that it was Clint’s idea; the idea that would beg the dregs on society to descend on my beautiful kingdom and kill me slowly with their vulgar songs sung badly, that was the brilliant idea, a plan that might just save us all! HA! The lunatics have taken over the asylum, and I’m trapped in it.

Dad finished the meeting by saying that our game plan has been decided. He would pour the last of his resources into promoting the event. It was a tremendous gamble and it was now our job to make sure the odds are stacked in our favour.

“Make sure we don’t lose our shirts” he warned “because you have no idea what will happen to us all if that happens”

Dad is so melodramatic.

No comments:

Post a Comment