“If you can make it down to the pub, the pub will make it up to you.”
Benny Bellamacina
Taken from the March edition of The Trumpit out now.
With a month of economic desolation behind, The Scruffy just about staved off bankruptcy with the return of Fat Lad to his rightful throne in Nob Ed Korna. Dry January it had been, but any possibility of a size or two down in the waistline was soon put to bed through a loving reunion with Lady Stella of Artois.
Big Al had also selflessly rejected medical opinion and continued to hop on his remaining good leg across the road minus a parrot; preparations were being considered for a light railway should the other leg fail too and a new career in panto.
It had not been such a good month for Our Jackie who’d been sulking over her lack of mentions in The Trumpit, so much so she’d been considering a free transfer to the newly refurbished Alexander, now trading by its posh name and seeking a Maître D. “I don’t know what one is but as long as I get to keep me kit on!”
A chorus of “hear, hear” was heard from the front benches. “If I’m not in that rag o’ yours next month I’m sacking me agent and off!” Consoling herself with the endless chocolate treats on the bar she stomped to the other end in a huff.
February is the traditional start of the Six Nations rugby, as good an excuse as any to extend your stay at your local and add the occasional Sunday afternoon. None of us have the remotest clue what is going on above us on the big screen, save for that it enlightens still allowable jingoism.
It remains okay to refer here to the opposition as Eyeties, Frogs, Jocks, Paddies and Sheep Shaggers; I’ve yet to meet a sensitive rugby player with a subscription to Liberty nor the Philip Schofield Fan Club.
Adding to the difficulty of comprehending what is going on, there is a bar on the television volume for nothing shall disturb the exchanges in Nob Ed Korna.
As young pretenders, we must abide by the rules, perhaps a forerunner to future days in the care home? “Eyes down and shut the **** up!”
Pubs as we all know are wonderful meeting places and nothing to do with a much-misunderstood by-product of getting plastered. So it was that I met my fellow junior cricket coach, Jimmy the Joiner, for a pre-season tactical summit of sorts.
The master craftsman was fascinated by the sight of a full pub, well before 6pm. He was even more taken aback as Tropical Tim made his way to the Gents in customary shorts and flip-flops. “I hope he cleans his toes as well as his hands” mused Jimmy.
Although Storm Ciara was forecast for the coming weekend, Tropical was unfazed whilst Jimmy and I were contemplating another season trying to get kids detached from all manner of technology to try old-fashioned fresh air.
We were musing over a multitude of complex coaching drills, teaching which would be as hopeful as getting Our Jackie’s nose out of the latest box of chocolates doing the rounds. Cricket has all but vanished from state schools as have the basic skills we mostly took for granted back in another age.
Around us the pub continued to bustle but, strangely, there was no sight of Gentleman John, the village barber since WW2. A personal pleasure of mine is sitting in his company for the mandatory two pints – I wish I had his discipline – each Friday. Fortunately, he made his usual seat the following night and all was well with the world again. There is comfort in the commonplace.
The average age of the bar staff had taken a move in the wrong direction by now. Replacing Our Jackie “off the bench” – an impact substitution – was Smouldering Sue fresh from Tantastic down the road and glowing like a traffic light.
Worryingly she was being very pleasant – had Heineken introduced some customer care prize I wondered – as my usual hour of departure came and went…as did Jimmy’s tea, notified in a rather curt text by the wife.
He later attempted to remedy this by buying a bottle of Pinot Scruffy but was in danger of ruining it all again – even if the wine could hardly be considered a cure – as he headed off home in the opposite direction.
I often wonder why pubs are now so busy at a time, many years ago, when most of us were just starting to get ready to go out? Were teatimes as popular back in the 1980s? Maybe they were, certainly we had more “working men” then than we do now, thirsty for a pint after a hard day of grind.
Back then a typical night would have been out at eight but, now we are just coming home. I’ve heard it said that the older generations are the ones with the money and younger people do not see the pub in the same light as we did.
But, the core charm of any pub remains the same in the simple search of kindred spirits and company you will find nowhere else. A breadth and depth of characters few sit-coms could ever match, a chance to rant at the world and, for a few brief moments, be listened too.
The pub industry has been hammered like no other in recent decades, since the break-up of the old brewery-controlled estates circa 1998. It has been a soft target for Governments, a piggy bank to raid. Indeed, the price of a pint increased by almost 2000 percent between 1973-2013, more than any other commodity other than gold for a variety of reasons.
Of course you can still enjoy a drink in the comfort of your own home, cheaper than ever in my lifetime, enabled by weak governments fearful of challenging the power of the big supermarkets, whatever the cost to the NHS of millions of secret drinkers hidden away at home.
Long live the pub!
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