Observations in the pub

Bruno looked up from his glass and said, ‘What do you get for the man who has everything?’

‘Go on, tell me.’

‘Penicillin.’

It was worthy of a guffaw, I thought, and obliged.

Some commentators might like to contend that a pub is a microcosm of society. If that’s true of my pub, then God help society. It is a Wetherspoon’s outlet, of course, and would hardly bear comparison with the Woolpack. As a source for scriptwriters it might have its uses, though.

Eddie comes in regularly and has a natural humour that might at first be misunderstood. One day he lumbered in and slapped a friend on the back.

‘You were ******* drunk last night, you old ******.’

‘I wasn’t in last night.’

‘Oh, it must have been me then.’

There is plenty to laugh at if you feel superior to the follies and foibles of the human race. Ah, drink. It puzzles me that the government plans to ban smoking from pubs, but will continue to allow them to sell alcohol. Not to mention allowing them to open windows and doors wide on summer days so that customers can breathe in clouds of carbon monoxide

Not so long ago I watched a man sitting with a tin can in front of him. As I recall, it contained sausages and baked beans. He picked it up, held it to his lips and tried to drink from it. He tipped his head back as if draining the last drops of some precious liquid and replaced it on the table with a disappointed look on his face. He repeated this procedure several times until he leaned back so far he fell off his chair. Rather belatedly, but much to the disappointment of the spectators, he was asked to leave.

I remember a similar incident when someone’s sixth whiskey led him to believe that a pencil was a cigarette. Not surprisingly it proved somewhat difficult to light, but the man had to be admired for his perseverance. Mediaeval scholars often kept a skull on their desk, as a memento mori. That pencil is my memento ebriorum. (I’m not sure whether I’ve got that right, it being a long time since my lessons in Latin, although what I’ve just written has the smack of an ablative absolute.) I’ve got it - memento crapulae.

It’s not always funny of course. There are the helpless and hopeless cases that have to be supported to the door and poured onto the pavement; the irritating men bellowing with laughter and the hysterically shrieking women; the middle-aged men weeping with grief and calling for their lover to return – and can anyone lend them the price of another pint? The opinionated, the aggressive, the maudlin, the clumsy, the argumentative, the downright boring.

And then there’s me.

Curry and toffees

Sitting in Wetherspoon’s yesterday afternoon I was surprised to see members of the evening shift arrive wearing cowboy hats and check shirts. The sight of one displaying a more than usual amount of cleavage induced jokes of a sort which proved that while my companions may have bad taste they certainly have good memories.

‘What’s it all in aid of?’ I asked one of the cowgirls.

‘Curry night.’

‘Curry night?’

‘Yes, the Indians provide the curry. We are the cowboys.’

I’m not making that up.

* * * * *

The murder of four more soldiers in Iraq came on the day when the 15 sailors and Marines were flown back to Britain by the Iranians.

The press, true to form, cannot see a crisis without trivialising it. The past fortnight has seen them concentrate on the one female ‘hostage’, interviewing her family, feeding them clichés and trying to capture tears on camera. Now, after talk of ‘dreams come true, answers to prayer, emotional reunions,’ etc they are about to turn and ask ‘serious’ questions.

Was the Royal Navy at fault? Was their release a victory for Britain or a propaganda triumph for Iran? What do the sailors think of their new suits?

Much as I despise the British press, I would like to hear them ask this question: should the Iran 15 be court-martialled and dishonourably discharged? I know it’s easy for me, sitting safely in front of a cosy computer, to ask that. But when Royal Marines are dying daily and every completed patrol is a dream come true and emotional reunions are months away, I feel sick when I see their comrades parroting Iranian lies in exchange for cigarettes and bags of sweets.

Words are cheap, I know, and discretion may be the better part of valour, but a little pride, a little resistance and some sheer bloody-mindedness would not have gone amiss. As for the officers, I don’t necessarily expect a performance like that of Colonel Nicholson in Bridge Over the River Kwai but to surrender first and then apologise is a poor example of leadership.

The Ritz, Lincoln

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.