Descriptions of the regulars from the pub I worked at from 2003-2007
Part 1: Bill Fitch, Duncan Fitch
Bill Fitch:
Bill drank double Bacardi, splash of Coke, three ice cubes, no lemon or lime.
He was in his late 50s or early 80s. He wore a leather jacket and dark sunglasses, smoked unfiltered Camels.
Bill Fitch was one of the few to be trusted with a regulars tab, in which we’d tally selected regulars’ spending in a lined exercise book, then bill then monthly-ish.
If he was ever charged with a crime, the Albert's regular book would have been seized as evidence.
We'd tally the many beers and sparkling whites his companions would add on — but overwhelmingly, the tallied biro dashes were the result of Bill alone. Dozens per session, hundreds per month.
One year, on Melbourne Cup Day, Bill's drink tally for the day reached eight neat bundles: 40 standard drinks. 20 double Bacardis. It was enough Coca-Cola to kill a man, let alone the alcohol.
Bill was still standing, though. Drink in hand, Camel on lip. Free hand groping the arse of his secretary, Tracey, who was doing her best to hold him upright.
Holding Bill up from the other side was his 21-year-old son, Duncan.
Duncan Fitch:
Duncan Fitch, 21, spoke with the nasal, condescending explainer voice of a man two generations older.
He wore a leather blazer, even in the summer. A child beyond his years. A child with an old, weird Dad.
Duncan worked for Bill and they would often be in the public bar, running up Bill’s tab. When father and son drank together, Duncan ordered the same as his Dad.
Occasionally though, Duncan would come in with different and equally troubling drinking partners: a ratty-looking guy in motorbike leathers who’d spit in the ashtray, an extremely thin woman in her 40s who’d chain Vogues and grab at Duncan’s crotch under the table.
In these instances, Duncan would change his drink to whatever his companion was drinking (Corona with lemon, Cosmopolitan etc.).
The downside to living in your father’s shadow is not having the space or perspective to form your own identity.
The upside, I suppose, is putting all your drinks on their tab.