On Monday morning customers entered ‘The Forum’, a Wetherspoon’s pub in Lincoln, to find that smoking had been outlawed from the place. Obviously, they left and sought refreshment elsewhere. I understand it was quiet all day.
A rumour circulated around the city that the manager had woken up that morning and panicked on half-hearing about the smoking ban in Wales, believing that it applied to England. Nothing would surprise me about managers of Wetherspoon’s pubs.
Apparently not. It’s official policy. I should have known, because Wetherspoon’s employees are not encouraged to show initiative.
But ‘The Ritz’ still allows us lepers in, although I have heard that we are to be concentrated more tightly in the coming weeks. It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze because the smoking area is already crowded. If you like the solitary life, give up the fags.
With a name like ‘The Ritz’ it‘s probably easy to guess that this pub used to be a cinema. It still has the gaudy pink and blue neon lights outside. In days gone by I used to visit it, although offhand I can only remember a live show I once saw there. Boxcar Willie was performing and I recall feeling out of place because I wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat. But Boxcar wasn’t a ‘cowboy’ singer, was he? Why was no-one wearing battered trilbys and overalls?
The old circle or balcony is not used by the pub except as storeroom and today I had the opportunity to go up there. I was helping to remove some unwanted wood and suchlike – all quite official.
It was a pretty sad experience. I remember it as red and plush, gaudy and comfortable. Now it’s derelict, the seats and carpets all ripped out, the stairs covered with leaves, the toilets – well, never mind them.
If only I had half a million pounds. I’d rent it and show my kind of film. Members only, doors locked no staff, bring your own beer, smoke to your lungs’ content and watch a Humphrey Bogart double-bill. Forget the rubbish at the local multiplex and the arty stuff at the film society. Saturday night, the complete works of Budd Boetticher. The stuff that dreams are made on.
I met an old library colleague on the bus home, who confirmed my worst fears. You wouldn’t think it of Lincolnshire, but our library service is in the vanguard of the workers’ revolution. The library manager is on record as viewing his own service as a repressive middle class organisation and longs to see a Castro bring his revolution to this country. He also thinks that Pol Pot is much misunderstood.
You heard it here first.
A rumour circulated around the city that the manager had woken up that morning and panicked on half-hearing about the smoking ban in Wales, believing that it applied to England. Nothing would surprise me about managers of Wetherspoon’s pubs.
Apparently not. It’s official policy. I should have known, because Wetherspoon’s employees are not encouraged to show initiative.
But ‘The Ritz’ still allows us lepers in, although I have heard that we are to be concentrated more tightly in the coming weeks. It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze because the smoking area is already crowded. If you like the solitary life, give up the fags.
With a name like ‘The Ritz’ it‘s probably easy to guess that this pub used to be a cinema. It still has the gaudy pink and blue neon lights outside. In days gone by I used to visit it, although offhand I can only remember a live show I once saw there. Boxcar Willie was performing and I recall feeling out of place because I wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat. But Boxcar wasn’t a ‘cowboy’ singer, was he? Why was no-one wearing battered trilbys and overalls?
The old circle or balcony is not used by the pub except as storeroom and today I had the opportunity to go up there. I was helping to remove some unwanted wood and suchlike – all quite official.
It was a pretty sad experience. I remember it as red and plush, gaudy and comfortable. Now it’s derelict, the seats and carpets all ripped out, the stairs covered with leaves, the toilets – well, never mind them.
If only I had half a million pounds. I’d rent it and show my kind of film. Members only, doors locked no staff, bring your own beer, smoke to your lungs’ content and watch a Humphrey Bogart double-bill. Forget the rubbish at the local multiplex and the arty stuff at the film society. Saturday night, the complete works of Budd Boetticher. The stuff that dreams are made on.
I met an old library colleague on the bus home, who confirmed my worst fears. You wouldn’t think it of Lincolnshire, but our library service is in the vanguard of the workers’ revolution. The library manager is on record as viewing his own service as a repressive middle class organisation and longs to see a Castro bring his revolution to this country. He also thinks that Pol Pot is much misunderstood.
You heard it here first.
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