Call time on barstaff dabbling in telepathy

As a kid, I always dreamed of being telepathic. I was sure extra-sensory perception would kick in with puberty.

But with the raging mental winds of adolescence now a distant and heavily-repressed memory, I’m reluctantly coming to the conclusion that I don’t have a single psychic brain cell in my head.

How do I know?

Because around 11ish, time after time, when I approach a vacant-looking barperson and ask for a pint, they snap back into the room, stare at me with utter incredulity and say: “But… we’re closed!”

Given that no-one has said a single word out loud to this effect, or rung a bell, or given any other indication detectable by the main five senses, I can only assume that this information was being communicated telepathically.

That would also explain the looks on the staff’s faces: they weren’t bored, they were concentrating as they sent messages through the ether.

It’s the only explanation, not only for the lack of audible communication, but also for the absolute incredulity I’m met with when I reveal I’m not aware of last orders and time having been and gone.

Without fail, “We’re closed!” is delivered with a facial expression and tone of voice that adds, “And how could you not know that? Are you stupid?”

The reason this is now a problem is that different pubs shut at different times on the same day of the week, and the same pubs shut at different times on different days of the week.

In the bad old days of uniform 11pm closing, the calling of last orders and time was merely one of those rituals that reminded you of the unique character of the pub as British — practically irrelevant but culturally adored as the monarchy.

But now, at the very time we actually need to be made aware of what time the pub stops serving, many pubs aren’t telling us. (Perhaps Uri Geller and Derren Brown can hear you perfectly. But I rarely see them round London pubs.)
Guys, I’m afraid the telepathy isn’t working for me. I know this is a pain, but would it be OK if we went back to the old-fashioned method of calling “last orders, please” and then, five minutes later, “time at the bar”?

If you’re too shy to address your customers directly, nervous about public speaking, or worried that well-oiled drinkers might laugh at your squeaky voice or funny accent, how about the faithful old bell, rung twice? Too old-fashioned for your urban cool nightspot?

Then how about a buzzer or klaxon? Or we could even introduce some kind of musical sting over the PA. We could ask Francisco Tárrega, composer of the Nokia ringtone, to do us one in return for a few pints. Oh hang on, no we couldn’t — he died in 1909.

I know that, if you run a pub like this, you obviously think you’ve told us. Because if you didn’t think you’d clearly communicated last orders and time a while ago, you wouldn’t then turn the lights up full, start putting chairs up on tables, open the door to the winter wind and stare pointedly at it with your arms folded, tapping your feet impatiently, while we’re still trying to enjoy our drinks and conversation.

Because that would be offensive to paying customers who have been giving you money all night in return not just for beer, which we can buy far cheaper elsewhere, but also for courteous service and a pleasant atmosphere. Whereas, obviously, if you’ve called last orders and time ages ago, then, with our continued presence, it is we customers who are being rude.
You can see how, among non-psychics, misunderstandings can occur.

And these misunderstandings can be costly. Because not only are you losing the revenue of a final drink from maybe two-thirds of the people in your bar at closing time, you’re also running the risk of your pub being seen as one that thinks it’s OK to be rude and hostile to its customers.

I have a couple of words in my head for pubs like that. Even if you’re not psychic, I bet you can guess what they are.