I’ve told this story before, exactly two years ago as it happens, so if you read it back then, feel free to skip this.
When I lived in Cardiff, for several years my local pub was The Tut’n’Shive on City Road. I got to know the bar staff in there to the point where some of them became friends, and we would hang out socially.
Tuesday night in the Tut was quiz night, hosted by a chap called Nigel, who didn’t look anything like the sort of person one normally associates with the name; he rocked the surfer dude rather than the former Chancellor of the Exchequer look.
The final round of the quiz was always a music round, where Nigel would play ten records and you had to correctly name the song and artist. Having gained a bit of a reputation as a music buff, I found myself in demand, and ended up joining the bar staff’s team.
Anyway, one Friday night I was on a works do, in a joint called Bar Med, which was supposed to be a ‘Mediterranean-style cafe bar’, which it wasn’t, unless you count having tables and chairs outside during the daytime as being Mediterranean, which I don’t.
There was a DJ playing on that particular Friday night, playing some truly awful chart records to a largely indifferent crowd. I realised it was Nigel, so I went over for a chat. Nigel wasn’t happy, as he had been instructed to only play ‘cheesy’ records by the bar’s management. I attempted to reassure him by pointing out that it was fairly early, and I was pretty sure that once people had got a few more drinks inside them, they would probably loosen up a bit and venture onto the dancefloor.
“Are you taking requests?” I asked.
“As long as it’s a cheesy one, yes,” replied Nigel.
I suggested today’s tune.
Nigel stared at me.
“Not that cheesy, I draw the line there.”
Well, this is my pub and my rules, and as you all know, I have no ruck with things like standards, so here it is: