Unless you have access to inexhaustible funds or are fortunate enough to have parents who bankroll your overseas adventures, there comes a time when the ardent backpacker needs to do some work in order to finance their travels. After having cleaned toilets, washed dishes, painted houses, picked gooseberries and scraped ice off windows while dangling three storeys high with one hand frozen to a metal pole, I decided the best option was bar work.The British pub is an institution, like a home away from home, and to some people, a preferable option. It has such a vast array of regular customers, from all walks of life, that one is sometimes left wondering if travel is even necessary - all the entertainment is right in front of you.story_article_left1From a work point of view, I couldn't really ask for more. Although the remuneration didn't compare with other jobs out there, it covered the basic essentials.Accommodation was one, no need to travel to work was another; there was pretty much unlimited access to food and, of course, access to the beverages for which pubs primarily exist.The first pub I worked at was The Bear, in Esher, London, and I really was thrown in the deep end.Esher is well known for its horse racing and, after a hard day betting at the races, the next point of call is, of course, the pub, to either mourn your losses or celebrate your wins.Going from an empty pub to one 10-deep at the counter really is a shock to the system. Having never worked in a bar before and being used to the standard fare offered by South African pubs - lager, that is -- I was ill-prepared for some of the orders.My first customer asked for a Stella Artois. Fair enough, I thought. I can do that. "With a top," he said."Peculiar," I thought.So I poured him his Stella and gently rested it upon the bar counter."Where's the top?" he asked, rather abruptly."We don't have tops; you have to drink it here in the pub," I replied."I want a top!" he stabbed with his raised voice.I explained very patiently that we were not a fast-food outlet and that if he wanted a top he should go further down the road to Burger King, where I was sure they'd help him out.story_article_right2His face suddenly resembled a bursting beetroot. "I want an effing top!"Slowly, word for word, I began repeating what I'd just told him, when a colleague whispered that he wanted a dash of lemonade in his drink. A top. What an introduction.That done, my next customer asked for black rot and soda. He did actually look like a pirate."I can help you with the soda, but we're out of black rot, I'm afraid."I didn't know it at the time, but he was from up north where they only speak Norfish. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but his gesticulations were another matter. Blackcurrant cordial.It got easier after that. It had to. With their titanium livers, the English could drink any South African under the table and you really had to be on your toes for their quirky humour.On my days off I would cycle along the Thames and all over London, secure in the knowledge that very few South African drivers were on the road.Once I almost cycled into Puddle. That's what they called him at the pub. I asked why they called him that if his name was Max?"It's 'cause he's so shallow, mate."• Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels ? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za..