I like pubs.
Mostly.
That’s not a hard club to get into really, pubs I like.
My favourite type is probably the older, more
individual establishment rather than one owned by a large chain, but I’m not overly fussed
if I’m forced to frequent a wine and ponce bar instead. It’s like voting for your favourite Jolie boob
or which is better, sausages with brown sauce or sausages with red onion
marmalade.
So although I prefer something a bit old-fashioned, a little personal, with
heavy black oak beams, straw carpets and ceilings you can concuss yourself on should alcohol
not be doing the trick, the real appeal is . . .
Actually, that’s harder to pinpoint than I first thought.
The booze?
Well yes, because I, and I can’t stress this enough, like
it.
A lot.
But I enjoy going to the pub even if I’m driving and thus forced to drink Orange Henrys and something I think is called Cloaca Cola, a brown
fizzy concoction that doesn’t cause much cancer anymore after they took out the
stuff that makes it taste nice. Tobacco, or benzene maybe.
So it’s not just the alcohol.
The atmosphere?
Also, part of the charm, but I’ve been known to have a good
time in a plastic shell with lino on the floor, Chris Tarrant's voice asking questions from quiz machines and 60 inch flat screen TVs
blaring out Formula 1 noises and Beyonce noises just metres from my aural
canals.
The people?
You can’t beat meeting up with friends or colleagues for a
relaxing bitch about people who haven’t turned up, but there’s something
enjoyable about having a pint on your own with nothing to do except peruse the paper, read a book or throw some birds at
green pigs on your phone.
The food?
Very few pubs can survive without offering food as standard these
days, but for generations my ancestors have been perfectly happy with a bag of
pork scratchings and a pickled egg.
Mmm, pork scratchings. Like pig toenails deep fried by a fat, greasy
angel . . .
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| That's it my pretty, scratch away. |
Excuse me, just went into a little reverie there.
So, none of the above really. Or, more accurately, all of
the above, in different permutations
depending on mood and opportunity. Sort of like social synergism.
On reflection, the biggest attraction for me is something personal,
although probably common to many people in my position, and it’s the rarity of occurrence.
A visit to a pub, any sort of pub, is so bloody unusual these days
that, for me, even the crappest establishment has the advantage of novelty.
And seeing as, when I went to the pub for a rare treat just eight
weeks ago (and I can’t believe the last time I went to a pub was two months ago),
I was surprised to find I hadn’t got enough cash on me for more than a couple of pints, so it seems
the pub visit will become, like a dodgy French burger, even rarer.
In addition, the government is considering establishing a
minimum price per unit of alcohol in the UK, which they assure us will instantly
reduce binge drinking and encourage a sense of responsibility around alcohol
through enforced temperance, and absolutely definitely completely will not
result in low socio-economic status alcoholics committing crimes to fund their
suddenly expensive habit.
For my part, as an utterly sensible and extremely productive member of society, I’m starting to think seriously about a still.
 |
| Still. Drunk. |
Mine’s a pint of Old Blinder please, Shedkeep.
