Toilet Fish

A true story about shit jobs, a baked fish and seeing behind the curtain.

Hi, just a quick note here to say that this is the first post in a special essay series that I’m working on, and I’m excited to finally share it. More details at the end!

Back in my early twenties I worked in a pub in North Yorkshire. Working there was a bit like how I imagine it might have been to work at Fawlty Towers - the fictional British hotel from the 1970s sitcom - except darker, and instead of a laugh track, everyone is sobbing quietly in the dark.

Which is to say, somewhat grim.

The pub was situated on a long stretch of country road and looked fairly modest and inoffensive from a distance. It was only when you had parked and started crunching your way along the gravel that you’d begin to notice small signs of decay: the faded signage, tired outdoor furniture - and perhaps also an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

The owners and operators of the pub, and most likely the cause behind that uneasy feeling, was a husband and wife team who despised each other. And, much like Basil and Sybil Fawlty, could barely tolerate being in the same room together. This was a problem due to the fact that they both lived and worked in the pub, and as a result, very often ended up in the same room, despite desperately trying not to be.

As you can imagine, two people running a business together who hate each other doesn't exactly make for an inspiring or successful leadership team. Surviving as a worker at such a place required a similar approach to driving in a demolition derby; you simply endured as best you could. Trying your best to stay out of the way, sustain as little damage as possible, and hopefully not catch fire.

The working environment was one you might label as toxic in today’s language, but back then it was just a shit job, and it was tough luck if you found yourself in one.

Most of my early jobs had an element of ‘shit job’ about them. They weren't all entirely shit, but certainly shit adjacent. Many were hospitality jobs and they typically ended the same way, which is that I was quite happy never to return. Certainly not as a customer. I'd seen behind the curtain, and once that happens, you can never unsee it.

The customer typically remains unaware of all this. They are, of course, the audience waiting patiently for the curtain to come up and it's up to you, the production, to put on a show. And whatever happens, the show must always go on.

Back then, however, long before I'd constructed any curtain analogies to help make sense of my experience, I could never understand why people came to our pub. To me, it was quite clearly an absolute shitshow. It was Shit Pub The Musical. Phantom of the Shit. Hamilshit, if you will. And yet despite all this, the pub had people in it. All the time. And I can only assume this was due to the fact that it met the minimum requirements of being the only option in the area that was an enclosed space and had a license to serve alcohol.

On some occasions, inexplicably, someone would book out the special room upstairs for a function. The special function room was a room very similar to the rest of the pub, almost identical in fact, except that it was upstairs, slightly larger and never used, and that gave it special status. Not too dissimilar in theory to the special room commonly found in a lot of older houses, which generally had the nice furniture in it, and the fancy plates and cutlery, sometimes only distinguished from the regular plates and cutlery by the fact that they all came from the one set. The function room in the pub wasn't like this though. It felt worn and faded and seemed to sag in the middle, as if out of breath. Always looking like it needed a good dusting, even if you'd just dusted it.

On one specific occasion, we had a booking come in for a work function. I can only imagine the search criteria used by the soon-to-be-fired staff member must have been fairly broad. Narrowed down using filters such as 'must have roof', and 'floor must not be made of hay or house any livestock'.

I was rostered on to work the function along with a few others. There weren't many of us and so it tended to be an ‘all hands on deck’ kind of situation when this happened. And on the menu for the function, was baked fish. Not just any baked fish, but several very large baked fish. Absolute whoppers, with sliced lemons. The full package.

Things got off to a smooth start on the day of the event. Guests were seated and served drinks. They chatted and laughed amongst themselves. And for a very brief and wonderful moment in time, it seemed like any other respectable establishment. A beautiful harmony between audience and production. Similar to the opening moments of any episode of Fawlty Towers. Before any terse exchanges, or clenched fist shaken at an unsuspecting guest. Long before any abuse growled through gritted teeth.

It became clear early on, however, that the chef had never served anything like a giant baked fish before today because, as it turned out, there were no serving plates on the premises big enough for a fish of this size. And the day of a function is obviously a good time to find this out.

After a meeting of the minds between the owners - who were already incredibly angry because they were in the same room, and the head chef - who had checked out mentally some time ago - it was agreed somewhere along the way that the best method in which to serve up two giant baked fish to guests at a special work function, would be to remove the only two mirrors from the ladies toilets, and serve the fish up on those.

I imagine most other pubs and restaurants not only have large serving platters capable of supporting and presenting a giant baked fish, but also probably have a load of annoying policies and restrictions that dictate what might be deemed suitable to be used as a serving dish. Boring things like health codes, which are always stifling and forever getting in the way of creativity. Or, maybe they don't have any rules or policies around this. Maybe there are no restrictions in place because no one would ever think to remove a mirror from the toilets and use it to serve up a fish.

This wasn't any normal pub or restaurant though, this was Fawlty Towers. The grim version.

As the plan began to take shape, amidst slightly less shouting than usual, perhaps the maddest thing about all this was that myself and the staff took it in our stride. This kind of utter madness was a normal day. Because this is what happens when you live and work in a chaotic environment run by lunatics; it starts to change your brain. Perhaps it’s lessened somewhat if you opt for disassociation as your preferred coping mechanism, as I suspect some of the other staff had chosen, but it’s not long before terrible decisions start to become normalised in an insidious way.

It may start as a seemingly innocent decision to serve up a questionable-looking yorkshire pudding - the key questions being: is this edible and have you tried to hide its defectiveness under a pea and gravy camouflage - and the next minute you find yourself watching someone lay out a baked fish onto a toilet mirror and arrange garnish around it, and you think nothing of it. I suppose that makes sense, you think to yourself. Why wouldn't you use a toilet mirror? Seems silly not to.

Any initial hopes that I wouldn't be culpable for the crime were soon dashed. I wasn't tasked with the mirror removal, or hatching the plan, but I did carry out one fish platter and place it down amongst a whole crowd of witnesses. Providing a glut of options later on when the police would inevitably be gathering statements.

And so giant baked fish a la toilet went out, and I hurried backstage and watched with the others from behind the curtain.

Like any good performers, we very quickly committed to the bit. There was a show to put on after all and so we cautiously emerged from backstage. We walked around serving drinks and played normal, just like any actor in a play where something has gone terribly wrong and the audience never knows because it becomes part of the performance.

It didn't take long to realise that, miraculously, the event was going forward without incident. There were no comments from anyone. Nor were there any complaints from any of the women in attendance about the lack of mirrors in the bathrooms. 'Sorry about that ma'am. Have you thought about going over to the giant fish, moving a fin to one side and reapplying your lipstick that way?'

No one suspected a thing, because as it turns out, when a mirror has a giant fish sitting on it, it looks very much like it is meant to be that way. And perhaps that was the genius of it all; why it was the perfect crime. After all, who wants to be the one to throw around the conspiracy theory that the serving platters are actually the mirrors from the ladies bathroom? Sounds like someone can't handle their booze.

People seemed to be enjoying the fish too. I walked around the function room looking out for a guest to catch my eye and wave me over. Anything to suggest the jig might be up.

'Excuse me? Hi, yes, everything is fine thank you, except for the fish which is a little bit too toilet-y for our liking'.

But everything was fine. The guests laughed and had fun. They drank and got merry. And they ate toilet fish.

I'm not sure what would have happened had we been caught. Perhaps a quick-thinking head chef would have leaned into it. Told people they were part of an experimental dining experience, and then amidst the confusion and hushed whispers, go and quickly remove all the toilet seats from the bathrooms and serve them up with a selection of cheeses arranged on top. And then rounding it out with urinal cakes for dessert, and a hand soap drizzle.

Imagine the reviews. Heston Blumenthal would have been proud.

The day after the function, the mirrors went back as if nothing had happened. And we, the actors, returned to our starting positions. The slate wiped as clean as the mirrors. But I doubt any of that mattered. I'm sure the locals knew enough by that point.

One particular day a few months earlier, one of the owners had asked me why I was here. Why I was working at this job, at this pub of all places. Sort of like how in a movie when a prisoner is being tortured and the torturer puts down their tools and asks with a pitied look why they don't just give up the information. Shocked at the punishment the prisoner is putting themselves through. I can't remember exactly what I said, but it wasn't convincing. I was starting to wonder myself.

Why didn't the tortured pair of Polly or Manuel leave Fawlty Towers? Maybe they wanted to but couldn't. They felt stuck. And where would they go? Manuel back to Barcelona obviously. Polly could have definitely found a better job that wasn't so toxic. They both could have. A job where they weren't getting yelled at by a man doubled over with rage.

Maybe they loved the chaos. The exhilarating madness of it all. And they chased that same high every night. After the curtain had come down, buzzing. Wanting out but not able to pull the trigger. Hooked like an addict.

Or maybe they wondered if they could even return to the real world. Fawlty Towers had seeped into their bones, was part of their identity. Who would welcome them in? Perhaps it was easier to stay. Better the devil you know.

And then again, hypothetically, perhaps it was just that they needed to save a little more money to go traveling again because they were meeting a friend in Berlin.

If we're lucky, shit jobs come to an end and become life experiences we can look back on fondly with other members of the shit job production team. Sometimes you can even sense in the moment that you are living a story. That this will become a memory, if only you can survive it first. Because each day is a new performance to get through. Never again, you say. But then you front up again the next morning. The show must go on.

Until eventually, it doesn't.

Months later, I left the pub. I'd had enough and planned my escape with a friend and coworker. Both of us doing a runner. Two fingers up as we did so. Manuel and Polly fleeing Fawlty Towers. Giddy and free.

For years afterwards, I had fantasies of going back one day. Just turning up, ordering a meal and a drink and pretending I was a guest. Seeing if anyone would spot me and recognise who I was.

But I knew too much. I'd seen behind the curtain, and I could never unsee it.

The menu had likely changed, but I'd been out of the game too long, and maybe I'd accidentally order whatever the new toilet fish was as the staff watched on from behind the curtain. Canned laughter at the ready. Laughing to stop themselves from crying.

And it wasn't worth the risk. Not unless I could get a peek inside the bathrooms first.

Hi! Thanks for going on that little adventure with me. This was the first of, what I hope will be, a number of special essays that I put out over the next 12 months or so. Ever since I started this newsletter, I’ve wanted to share this story, alongside a whole host of others, so it’s been really satisfying to finally get to write it and send it out. And to able to take my time and do something a bit different with it as well.

Let me know what you thought and if it brought up any memories about working in shit jobs, especially shit pubs. And as always, if you enjoyed it, I would love it if you could share it or give it a like.

Take care of yourelf and I hope you have a real *chef’s kiss* of a week.