Robert Sayles: The day the Adams family came to town

Friday the 18th of September 2009 was a day which began like any other.

I opened the doors at 11.00 am and walked out onto the pavement, taking in the morning sunshine. Shoppers were going about their business and prospects looked good for a decent day's trading.

There was no inkling at this stage of what was to transpire. Little did I know that this was a day that would long live in the memory … for all the wrong reasons.

During the course of the day a number of the regulars popped in for a drink and a bit of light hearted banter. Ralph was, as usual, holding court at the bar. Ralph is the sort of character you could meet in any pub. He's basically a great guy, his problem is that he loves to talk, not just talk I mean REALLY talk, you know what I'm saying?

He always selects his moment with great care. When he judges that the time is right he makes his move; "Ahhh …" he will invariably proclaim in a loud voice, a carefully crafted strategy designed to publicise the fact that he has something to say.

Once satisfied he has everyone's full attention he will begin to recite a tale from what appears a seemingly endless repertoire, the majority of which we have all heard countless times before, it must be said.

In his absence he's referred to as "lock on", due to his tendency to engage in serious eye contact with those around him. Many an unsuspecting punter has made the mistake of meeting Ralph's steely gaze only to find themselves held by some seemingly invisible 'tractor beam' from which escape is all but impossible.

Once a victim has been 'neutralised' Ralph's head will then rotate in an effort to seek out further unsuspecting prey. Occasionally his gaze will return to his hapless quarry as if to emphasise that all attempts at escape are futile.

All manner of counter-strategies have been tried to thwart the magnetic qualities of the tractor beam, none of which have yet proved successful. On this particular occasion at least three of my regulars were held within its vice like grip whilst three others were desperately seeking to avoid making eye contact with Ralph.

Dave appeared to be studying a floor tile; Ron was hiding behind his newspaper, whilst Geoff was showing a remarkable degree of interest in a discarded Pork Scratching packet.

Ralph is nothing if not patient; well versed in the art of the waiting game. He continued his recitation unperturbed, secure in the knowledge that eventually one of them would succumb and unwittingly catch his eye.

Meanwhile, down at the other end of the bar, Pete was, as always, querying the price of his pint. "How much is that?" he asked as I handed over his third pint of Carling. "The same price it was ten minutes ago", I replied, "two pounds eighty."

This verbal exchange initiated the beginning of a well established ceremony that necessitated Pete removing all the loose change from his pocket, depositing it on the bar and counting it meticulously, in the hope that he was not required to part with a note.

Having witnessed this ritual on countless occasions, I have long since concluded that the best thing to do is leave him to it. It appears to take him a good five minutes to complete this chore, time I can put to good use serving other customers.

I had just returned from such a task and noted the neatly piled stack of coins on the bar. "So how are we getting on Pete?" I asked hopefully.

His furrowed brow suggested that his wallet would be required on this particular occasion and I was just about to offer him some verbal encouragement to move things along when the door opened … and in they walked.

I didn't pay much attention to them at first as I was momentarily distracted by Pete busily rechecking his pockets in the fervent hope of finding the few additional coins required.

Eventually I looked up and was confronted by an individual who was a dead ringer for Lurch. Standing next to him were a couple of associates who bore an uncanny resemblance to Uncle Fester and Gomez.

Behind them stood a number of equally weird individuals who were clearly a product of the same gene pool. It seemed as though the Adams family had indeed come to town!

Lurch ordered the drinks and the group proceeded to sit at a table at the far end of the room. I recall thinking that, even taking into account their strange appearance, something was not quite as it should be; I just couldn't put my finger on what it was.

Within ten minutes my worst fears were confirmed as the two females in the group got into it big time. Drinks were spilled and blows were exchanged. I went over to have a word and began my usually well-honed routine; "Excuse me madam …"

I got no further as one of them threw a punch which caught me on the side of the head. "Hit me!" she screamed in my face, "Hit me!". In truth, I can honestly say I have never ever seen anybody quite so out of control as this lady. "Why don't you just calm down?" I suggested. I might as well have been talking to the wall; nothing I said appeared to have any effect. Then for a brief second our eyes met and I knew why.

This lady was drugged up to the eyeballs, a 'space cadet' engaging in some serious planetary exploration; in fact she was about as far into orbit as one could possibly go. Looking around, it was clear that her friends were travelling on the same spaceship.

I now knew I had a major problem on my hands. Just as I was thinking through my options her friend grabbed her and whisked her outside, presumably in an effort to 'talk her down'.

By this time Fester had concluded that sitting on the floor was a good idea. I went over to have a word but as his head slowly turned to look at me I could see that negotiation was futile. He had a manic grin etched across his face and eyes the size of saucers; they also appeared to be rotating in opposite directions.

I grabbed his ankles and proceeded to drag him across the bar floor, eventually depositing him on the high street pavement where he sat, seemingly oblivious to his new surroundings.

By this time Lurch and Gomez were engaged in a competition to see who could head butt my front door the hardest. During a 'time out' I managed to get the front door closed and locked; the Adams family were now all outside.

After several unsuccessful attempts to get back in they eventually appeared to lose interest. Presumably they got back into their spaceship and flew off to another destination. (At this stage I notified the police who began tracking them on CCTV as they wandered around the town centre).

I rarely partake whilst 'on duty' but on this occasion the urge for a quick half was overwhelming. As I began to pour a drink for myself I noticed that Pete had not moved from the bar.

He was holding a two pence piece in his hand and beaming from ear to ear. "I've found it!" he proudly proclaimed as he put it next to the rest of the coins on the bar. "That's two pounds eighty exactly!"

"I tell you what Pete. Have this one on me" I replied. As he gratefully accepted my offer and put all his carefully counted coins back into his pocket I reflected that I had just condemned myself to a re-run of the 'ritual'; it was, after all, inevitable that he would return for another pint. But given what I had just gone through, it didn't seem to matter.

I took my drink and went to sit with the lads at the far end of the bar. No sooner had I perched myself on a bar stool and taken a well earned sip of my drink than I heard a familiar voice from behind. "Ahhh ... Now then … Where were we?"

Needless to say, my eyes remained firmly fixed to the half pint glass in front of me. In truth it was an exercise in futility, it was after all only a matter of time before I succumbed. Ralph knew it, and deep down so did I!

"Did I tell you the time I went to...."

The above is based on a real incident which took place in my wife's pub last year.​

The rationale for sharing this experience with you is to highlight the dangers publicans