Worst day at work EVER

I work in a pub. It's nice. I quite like it. As with any job it has its ups and downs.

Last week wednesday however, secured itself as the worst day at work EVER. In fact so many things went wrong, it stopped being awful, and all I could do was laugh.

My pub is called The Albany. It is opposite Great Portland Street tube. Which is on the Metropolitan line. As is Wembley.

And last wednesday (the day of doom) happened to be the date of the England v Croatia Euro cup qualifier.

So, for those who have not yet worked it out, my pub was well and truly in the firing line.

But that's ok. I'm good when its busy.

So I get to work. And it's just me, the Polish guy Kasper, who is lovely, and Greg. He is in charge.

No one else turns up. So we are understaffed. By two people. Problem number one.

I notice that we are a little low on glasses. And all the tables, and the bar, in fact all available space is inundated by dirty glasses.

I go round, at great personal risk, as angry, thristy England fans do not like bar staff who are not making them drinks, and collect glasses.

The dishwasher is broken. We have no way to wash glasses.

There is a dishwasher (albeit from the 19th century) downstairs.

The lift is broken.

So, to clarify, we are missing two staff members, we have no clean glases, the dishwasher is broken, and the only way of getting them clean is literally to carry them, glass by glass, down two flights of stairs, and we are so busy, people are queuing to get into the pub.

After about an hour of constant abuse (wearing a football shirt seems to remove any concept of common decency, turning even the most respectable gentleman into nothing short of a yob) the crowd starts to die down.

The queue for the bar is still about 8 deep, but we can see light at the end of the tunnel.

I then hear a very strange noise, followed by screaming.

Water is POURING out of the ceiling. in the middle of the pub. In sheets. Within minutes, the surrounding customers are ankle deep in water.

Greg's solution is to put newspaper down. This swiftly turns the water into a swamp.

By the end of the night, after many people saying, "er, your floor's really wet" and "why have you got papier mache instead of carpet", aching arms, and more smashed glasses than whole ones, and it is time to clear up.

I am just about to leave. To go home to a clean(ish) house and sleep, when my Wiganer calls me. To inform me she has just been sick. A lot. Joy. Home will be nearly as good as work.