Once upon a time I was a newspaper journalist, living and
working in Cardiff. Sometimes, after finishing work for the day, I would call
in at one of the city centre pubs for a quick drink. Rather a lot of my
colleagues were of the same disposition, so we went out together fairly
frequently. And every now and then, generally just before a weekend, we would get
a gang together, hit the town, and drink a LOT.
We had an established late-night routine which suited such long,
boozy sessions well. It would always begin
with an animated trawl around the city centre pubs. More than just a few ports
of call, naturally. Pints would be sunk, shop would be talked, jokes would be
cracked and, like bitches, we would sometimes tear apart the characters of absent
colleagues.
Come the dreaded bell (always at 11pm sharp in those days) a
call would come from within the party to adjourn to a bar we knew called Kiwi’s.
This would be roundly hailed as a BRILLIANT IDEA, if not an especially progressive
one. Kiwi’s was our de facto post-pub destination. A no-brainer. And so our small
pack of pisshead hacks would rise as one and stagger across St Mary’s Street to
extend the night’s revelry.
Kiwi’s harboured many attractive features. Crucially it
remained open until very, very late. It was also very handy for hooking us journos
up with more of our kith and kin. As various late editions of our daily newspaper
were painstakingly put to bed back at our offices, Thompson House, so the tired
and thirsty subs and print-room boys would knock off, grab their coats and make
for Kiwi’s. A chilled first pint of the night would reward their short, sober
walk. And we hacks, already on our tenth or eleventh jars, would be waiting for
them with beery grins and a cluster of tables and barstools which we had commandeered
for the benefit of all.
Our relationship with Kiwi’s was strong. They wanted our
money: we wanted their booze. So we flashed our press cards a bit, jumped the odd
queue, swerved the weekend door tax and generally lorded it about a bit in
there. This narrow bar, wedged inauspiciously between rinky dinky jewellery
stores and fashion boutiques in what was by day a well-to-do shopping arcade,
was our press bar of choice - and we made full use of it. We Western Mail-ers
were on permanent nodding terms with the doormen, bar staff and guv’nor.
Meanwhile
an actual press bar, called ‘Press Bar’ and sited directly opposite the front doors of our
place of work, remained entirely unpatronised.
Nobody ever left Kiwi’s early. Or so it seemed. Perhaps we
collectively considered it ungracious, in some way, to consider jogging on
before the staff decided among themselves that it was high time we were booted
out. So we stayed on course, drinking and chattering through most of the wee hours.
Every now and then, one or two of us might have ventured up the narrow wooden staircase
to the small dancefloor upstairs. But this was rare. The music was generally awful.
And there was no bar up there.
Closing time was always late – but it still came, every
night, nonetheless. When it did, we would allow ourselves to be ushered out quietly
and quickly. We knew and accepted Kiwi’s rules. Then, still sheltered under the
arcade’s glass and iron canopy, honourable drunken goodbyes would be said to
those parties heeding distant calls from warm beds. Off they would trot, gradually,
to their suburban Cardiff digs… more than likely picking up a bag of greasy
chips or a kebab on their way to the cab rank.
But, let’s back up. Consider our friends from the nightshift.
They started late: they have drunk less booze. They are more than likely gagging
for yet more pints. But can this desire of theirs be accommodated? Thankfully,
yes. It can.
Only a few minutes’ walk from Kiwi’s, in Charles Street, the
super-late drinker’s salvation lurks underground. Very few passers-by suspect
any late-night/early morning activity beyond the dozen or so wrought iron gates
which punctuate this road. But the
experienced eye of the Western Mail nightshifter
knows which one to swing quietly open, which concrete basement steps to quickly
trot down, and which of Charles Street’s anonymous front doors to gently rap
on. Behind that door is a secret
all-night bistro.
There’s food, gentle Spanish music and, most importantly of
all, a fully-stocked bar.
Just like Kiwi’s, this joint knows its newspaper clientele
very well. A barmaid serves drinks, with no sign of ever planning to stop, while
the sun outside slowly gains height. And it’s here that the nightshifter will stay,
until he himself decides it’s about time to re-emerge, blinking through the
cruel daylight and barging past confused city centre shoppers, to head for his home
and a few hours sleep behind thick curtains.
And it surely doesn’t need saying? Any dayshift journos who
find themselves still up and at it, happy to keep their nocturnal colleagues
company through this final stage… well?
They will of course, by this time, be very, very pissed
indeed.
Bard
