At one of the pubs I worked at years ago, line cleaning was a serious business. Midweek we would close hard at 11pm, turn off the lights and sit by the bar. The place would smell of damp wood and cigarettes and whatever food was leftover. Bowls of chips covered in more vinegar than is good for you, saggy “cod” goujons and chilli nachos. Then we’d pump through the remaining beer before switching to cleaning solution and changing kegs. Boring stuff but it meant we got about four free pints each, give or take. And it was as much about camaraderie as hygiene.
We’d fight over who got what. If the Irish rugby lad was on shift, he’d take Guinness; I’d almost always have Kronenbourg; one of the beautiful actresses would have Carlsberg; but it was mostly a free-for-all other than the Grolsch, generally the preserve of whatever duty manager was in.
