Naturally, after meeting my targets yesterday I felt like a bit of a celebration but since we gave up alcohol 18 months ago the pub felt a bit weird until we discovered one or two really good zero alcohol beers. It was probably a bad idea. Storm Claudia was still overhead and it had been absolutely pissing down all day but needs must, we thought, and we put on raincoats and walked through the rain to the closest pub. The traffic on the Bristol road was continuous and noisy; punctuated by the urgencies of passing ambulances containing people who – today at least – were not going for a celebratory drink. As we arrived I peeped through the window and I could see an abundance of empty tables which, on extremely sober reflection, should have been enough to turn us around and go home for a cup of tea. But we pushed on through the door. The barman was in conversation with someone and in no mood to break it off. I stood patiently, casting a glance around the empty bar in case there were any banjos or shotguns in evidence.
“Have you got any zero alcohol beers?” I asked as I scanned the empty shelves. He looked a bit mournful. “We’re waiting for a delivery” he said. I could have said “that was the excuse you used last time”, but it seemed churlish to challenge a barman who was probably on minimum wages and was employed by an owner who wasn’t paying his bills. Eventually he found a single bottle of pale ale in the fridge (?) and said there was nothing else. I reluctantly accepted the offer and poured it into its own bespoke glass. Madame had to settle for a glass of apple juice from a box which could have been open for some time. There were however crisps available and they were even in date.
Then, eventually, other customers started to shuffle past in a ghostly, half visible display of sad captains; mostly elderly solitary men who used to be, or do something. One of them came over to us, alarming me considerably, but he just wanted to drop a couple of beer mats off. The atmosphere resembled a funeral director’s waiting room. I drank my pint quickly but Madame was struggling with the apple juice and told me off when I put my hat on. “I haven’t finished yet!” she said. Our son rang and asked what on earth were we doing in the pub on such a filthy night? I couldn’t think of an answer and so we talked about the weather in Birmingham. As we spoke most of the tables, set with four chairs, had been occupied by solitary men. The fire in the lounge bar was not lit, and looked as if it never had been.
We retreated as quickly as possible and walked home. Later we read the reviews but they all looked as if they were written by the landlord’s wife in a last ditch attempt to stop their savings (and probably their marriage) going down the plughole. The flat was warm and welcoming. We should have stayed at home!
