To all you Clerkenwell pubbers...

What the fuck is up with your 5p?
Is there some sort of magical aura to that measly coin that makes you wait for it so damn patiently at the bar?
You order your 10000 drinks, wait about 15 minutes for me to serve all your goddam pints (while spilling a shitload of Kirin all over my priceless DMs), after having waited 20 minutes to get served in the first place... And as you pay, you are still able to wait another half-hour to get your precious 5p change back!
I see you fiddling around nervously with your drinks as I cash in the £20 of your £19.95 order. I see you zip up your wallet, scan your drinks, re-open your wallet, wipe your brow, and pretend that you can't hold three pints in your hands. I see you stall in your place, pretending that you've actually forgotten about the change I 'owe' you. But deep down, the wanting of that 5p sweats out of you like a kid who will absolutely burst for some strawberry roll-ups.
I take my time, and you still fiddle around the bar, zipping your wallet up and out and over. So I return with the magical coin in my hand, as you look down the piss-yellow beer in your pint glass, aloof and idiotic. "Here you go, enjoy your drinks," I say, holding up the sticky coin, and you glance up with a semi-surprised look, "oh, yeah... thanks!" I swear, the grin on your face makes you look as if I were the one tipping you. And suddenly, leaving the bar with 15 glasses in hand, and the 5p safely in your pocket never seemed so easy for you...

At the end of the day, I don't really care about a 5p tip... they usually get lost beneath the tills. But it always amazes me how much a Clerkenwell advertising executive, lugging around a laptop and gorging on 10 pints and 2 JD&dietcokes s a night will be entranced by his 5p change. Really, how many 5p coins does it take to make a man?