Mark Daniels: You couldn't make it up...

The argument started as most arguments do: with an insult.

It was getting towards the end of the evening shift and, with ten minutes to go before I closed the door, a chap who was becoming a bit regular strolled in with a rather attractive female friend. Blonde and with more than a passing resemblance to Abi Titmuss to her features, she was looking more sober than she would rather be and more fed up than she clearly should have been with her male counterpart.

He, on the other hand, was in fine form. An Irish chap who I'd shared several entertaining conversations with over the past few weeks - for the sake of anonymity and stereotyping let's call him Paddy - he ordered up drinks for those of my customers left at the bar and started a rather entertaining tall story about his day.

The Abi Titmuss lookalike, seeing that Paddy had found himself in appropriate company, took the opportunity to scarper, seemingly not bothered about whether he could find his own way home, or the fact that he seemed to have lost interest in going home with her.

As I closed up for the evening (my license is until the early hours of the morning but I always lock the front door at eleven to prevent people taking the mickey), Paddy ordered another round and continued his raucous story-telling until, eventually, somebody mentioned as a connection to his tale the fact that I have just come back off holiday.

Paddy's mood suddenly darkened. "You Publicans always complain that you ain't making any money," he started, "yet look at you. You're always on bleedin' holiday!"

I bristled, noticing that the atmosphere had changed. "Paddy," I said calmly, "this isn't the time to get in to this conversation but, for the record, that's the first holiday I've had in over a year."

"Aye," he said, with a scowl, "but I haven't had a holiday in five years!"

I'll admit that, as the conversation continued, I bit. Why is it that if I take seven whole days off, people assume I'm raking it in? Yet they forget that, for the other three hundred and fifty eight days, I've been diligently standing behind the bar, making sure they get the same happy treatment day in and day out. I tried, calmly and rationally and - thankfully - with the help of one or two other regulars, to point out to him that he'd just had four days off work, during which he'd spent most of it either relaxing in my pub or watching DVDs at home. Holidays, and individual days off, are a luxury few publicans have the opportunity to enjoy and my recent break was only made possible by the generosity of my family rather than some undeclared stunning performance by my pub.

Telling him this, however, just seemed to infuriate him further and so I made the decision to tell him it was late, he'd had enough to drink, and it was time to go.

It took a little coercing and pleasant talk, but eventually a couple of us guided him out of the front door, bade him goodnight and told him we looked forward to seeing him the next day.

As I returned to the quiet little gang at the bar, a pleasant small talk began until somebody heard the sound of running water outside. Sticking my head out the front door, there was Paddy giving my flower troughs an unscheduled watering.

"Paddy," I said, "please don't do that. Wait until you get home."

"Ach, how are we, Mark?" The Irishman cried, clearly pleased to see me. "Any chance of a wee drink before ye close?"

"Paddy," I said calmly, "we're already closed. I've told you it's time to go home."

The conversation went back and forth for a moment or two and then he played his trump card: "are ye barring me, Mark?"

Laughing, I told him that I wasn't barring him, but that it was time for him to go home. "Well why can't I have a drink then, if you're not barring me?"

"Because it's late, Paddy," I explained patiently, "and I'm just letting these guys finish their drinks and then they're going home and I'm going to bed."

"So why can't I have a drink while they finish theirs?" Once again I repeated that he'd had enough. "So you're barring me then?"

Laughing, I closed the door, but not before I'd told him I'd see him the next day.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Unsurprisingly it was Paddy, who had clearly forgotten that a) he'd already been in the pub and been sent home and, more amusingly, that b) only three minutes ago I'd had a conversation with him where I'd told him to go home.

"Good evening, Mark!" he cried, in his lilting brogue. "Any chance of a quick drink?"

"No, Paddy," I said, firmly and with a hint of anger to my tone this time. "I've already told you it's time to go home."

"Am I barred, Mark?"

Laughing once again, I explained to Paddy that he wasn't at all barred but, if he continued to try and get a late drink, especially when he's not in a fit state to consume one, then he could very well find himself barred.

"Well I tell you, Mark, I've really got to tell you," and he leant up close to me so that I could hear him perfectly. "Woe betide you if you bar me, Mark, because, and I mean it, if ye bar me," and there was a snarl of anger to his voice as he said the words, "if ye bar me, I shall never set foot in this pub again! Never!"

And with that he stormed off, leaving me to chuckle at the irony of his words.