The Peace of Pulling a Pint

A lot of the things I’ve been writing recently have been pretty heavy and I wanted to go with something more light-hearted. I was inspired to write this while working at multiple festivals over the summer.

The voices, the bodies, the angry faces, the pounding bass all closing in around me. Squeezing me, suffocating me, feels like it’s crushing my skull. Everyone wants your attention, I’m trying to answer everyone. Drinks are being spilt while the heavy frames of my fellow front-liners crash into me. Then I catch the eye of a punter and he asks, so sweetly ‘could I get eight pints, please?.’
Oh yes sir, you most certainly can!
I turn smiling to the leaning tower of plastic pint glasses, swipe eight off the top and then it begins; I hold the glass at an angle under the nozzle, got to avoid too much of a head, pull the tap gently towards me and watch the golden brown, frothy liquid slowly flow into the glass.
It’s in this moment that all falls silent, everything slips into slow motion and I can finally breathe. The contorted faces of, both angry and happy festival goers fade into the background; their shouts become futile and mean nothing to me, because I’m eight pints busy! No one can rush you when you’re pulling a pint; if you rush it, you ruin it; everybody knows that. Nobody wants a badly pulled pint. So for these eight pints I am protected from the damp, muddy, techno carnage that surrounds me. For those eight pints I am at peace.

 

 

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