An anarchic duopoly of voices and movement dominates the pub’s space. Hello and how are you and there are hugs and hands are being shook and have you met each other and how the hell are you and how is the new job and what’s yours? A gulp of golden rain, the crispness of the beer breaking on the tongue with a gentle but fierce presence, quenching the thirst I didn’t know I had, the dryness in the finish an elaborate rhythm in tandem with the crispness. Here we go again, another swig, another swoop on the glass. Same again?
In this pub, the voices row backwards and forwards, all around me, language as a collection of galley slaves under the lash in the great boats of the Ottomans. Words spilt with the extravagance of sailors on the spree. Is Ken or Paul coming down, did you see the football, Kylie or River do behave, I can’t see my way home again, familiar tales told amongst the lost and those who would drink with the passion of the passed over. Reform, it’s great isn’t it, no it isn’t, you’re racist you are, I’m not I believe in justice, I didn’t vote.
A middle aged man with weatherbeaten features, a face glossed over with the paint of alcoholism, passes, a pork pie hat on his head, a denim jacket and boots and a kilt. I know him from a previous life and am keen to be avoided so I keep my head down. He passes by and I don’t catch his eye. A swig of beer, the rhythm of the voices around me are a serenade almost, and trip-tease me into another pint, a pint, a quaint measure, a just enough measure that is just enough to satisfy. I have a beautiful beer, one that I adore, and I begin to feel at home even though the people around me couldn’t care less about what I think as much as I do about what they think.
The bawl of a baby, the child home from school with the crayons, the man in his 80s out for his once a week, the builders and painters, combat trousers marked with the symbols of their trade, tattooed forearms and calves, Dickies boots, battered and splattered, plastered and take them off before you come in, a card game between young son and father on a high table, a coiffured gent with lips like giblets and a glass of white wine, the daily regulars by the front window, day shift perhaps, well-pissed and starting to hang over, the friendly staff, the man in a medical boot who says hiya Paula to a passing ma, the endless cups of coffee, the app-ordering meal times, the man observing all and trying not to judge, the gulp of a beer that is finished too soon and the trek up the stairs to the toilet where mirrors impress and hand-driers drone. This is pubs, beer, communality and the convergence of people. This is England. This is nowhere.
Shameless plug: my latest book A Pub For All Seasons has had some great reviews in the press and is available from all good bookshops and online (Headline).
I love reading these, can’t wait to pick up your book next