For The Record

This apparently slowly tapering-off pandemic lockdown is dragging a bit now, isn't it? 15 weeks, right.  I'm not sure, as I lost count over a month ago.  Not going anywhere but home or work will do that to you.  Surely everyone is starting to run out of things to do by now, right?  I've been spending Friday nights making mixtapes to play at work on my 1985 boombox to my (presumably) bemused colleagues.  Bet they've not heard Lieutenant Pigeon or The Pipkins for a while.  Still, all things, good, bad, or indifferent must come to an end.

The Pubs Are Re-Opening On 4th Of July.

Or, at least that's the message that's been hammered into us over the last fortnight.  Truth is, a lot won't be.  Many licencees have questioned the wisdom of opening on a Saturday where even those who haven't been furloughed will away from work and, with a general expectation of carnage, are going for a softer opening later in the week.  Others have unleashed the tape measure and figured out that their pub isn't going to be viable with even 1-metre-plus social distancing.  Some probably haven't even decided yet.  But if so, with 3 days to go, they'd best decide soon.

In Preston, I know at least 3 of my regular haunts are doing the above, so it does make me wonder whether it's worth donning a face mask and paying £4 for the bus just to queue outside the town's two Spoons in, as is quite likely here, crappy weather.  As I result, I'm spending my week off checking social media and the local news for info about who's doing what and how they're going to do it.   Though a lot of places have been very quiet about it, which isn't making it easy.

As for how the day itself will go, well, if you thought the uncertainty of when pubs will reopen again was bad, it's nothing like the predictions of what may happen on 4/7.  I've heard everything from landlords worried they've spent time and effort on enabling social distancing only to be confronted with a deserted pub as everyone has either been put off or scared away, to predictions of complete and utter bacchanalian orgies with unconscious drunks in the street and people pissing all over the town square.  My suspicion is they'll be a few pockets of both, but mostly things will be underwhelming and slightly disappointing.  "We waited 3-and-a-half months for that?"

So will I be going out, if only to say I was there?  At the moment, I'm undecided.  I'd want at least 3 places to go to, so as I don't have to spend hours sitting by myself in a Spoons isolation pod, or on a wet seat in a beer garden in the rain.  I'd probably need an itinerary too, which I don't usually do unless it's Mad Friday.  And if it gets too crowded, I'd need a quick exit plan. So who knows?

Maybe I'll be making more mixtapes this Friday.

In Praise of the Deserted Pub

Busier than the usual Monday afternoon, then?

The Public House.  I'm sure my readers here are well acquainted with the concept.  Some more than others, and some a lot more than they should be.  Theoretically, anybody can walk in and stay there providing they obey the rules both written and unspoken.

It's well known that pubs are likely to be busier at some times than others.  This is what's behind the ever increasing phenomenon of Monday Closing, much bemoaned by regular drinkers and travelling pub bloggers.  Few people go out on a Monday, having blown their disposable cash at the weekend.  So, if you find somewhere (apart from Spoons, obviously) that is actually open at that time, you are likely to be the only customer.

Working an atypical shift pattern (retail), Monday is my day off so I see plenty of this.  Not known for my sociable tendencies, I prefer it this way,  If you're sufficiently bored enough to compare this blog's posting dates with the calendar, you'll see a lot of them are posted on a Monday.  As I find there are too many distractions at home, I go to a pub 20 miles away I know will be deserted and write the blog there where I know I'll get some peace.

I can deal with a certain level of custom, but once I find I can't move easily or my potential escape route is blocked, I get anxious.  One notorious incident of this happened a few weeks back when (stupidly) I decided to go to a Meet The Brewer event at the local.  Apparently, I was last spotted propped up against a wire fence next to the A6, breathing heavily and trying to calm myself down. And sadly, the alcohol wasn't helping.

As a realist, I know that if pubs always had my preferred level of population, the trade as a whole would be completely unviable.  There's no money in catering to the social needs of misanthropes and hermits. Humans (I'm told) are a social species and generally seek each other out, sometimes for networking and mating opportunties, but mostly to fill in the time before death that would otherwise be spent staring at the wall or arguing with family.

I like being alone. Less potential for hassle or grief.  Going to a pub, therefore, maybe considered pecualiar for someone like me.  But as a long-time observer, I can pick my times when I'm going to be comfortable.  And also, you get to see what happens in the pub when the staff know nobody's going to see it, which helps for blog research purposes.

So, if you ever wonder about a pub opening early on a quiet day and think "Bloody hell, what's the point of that, then?" then consider that, maybe, some people prefer it that way,

What is a Pub?

Happy times. Happy times. Yes, happy times

You go to the pub. Why do you go?

A pub is many things. In Law, it's a place licenced to serve alcoholic beverages to those over 18. But if you look around you, you'll see something else.

At the end of the bar is the 63-year-old on disability. He trundles down here on his mobility scooter, even though you've seen him walk to the toilet perfectly ably. He orders three pints, one after the other, but is otherwise silent. When he leaves, the barman says "Oh, thank God he's gone."

In the middle of the bar are two middle-aged men. They each read their paper. One the local rag, one the Daily Mail. Every so often one will say "How about that game on Saturday, then?" and the other will grunt. After a suitable pause of twenty minutes, the other will say "What abous that ISIS, then?", and the original one will grunt in reply.

At the end of the bar is a man drinking pint after pint of Lager. He talks about his wife often, all the more so because he avoids her wherever possible. You get the impression he will only ever be at home and sober with the threat of counselling sessions at Relate. You resolve never to get married

And then there's you. You're here by choice, and you're listening to this.  And you're drinking more than anyone else.

So, why do you go? Well, to meet people, obviously.