Chris Woods

My posts are generally driven by things which have happened the evening before I write, however last night it seemed as though the exact opposite were true and my evening was driven by the preceding post regarding Satan and football.

Last night I was sitting in the regulars’ corner (my preferred mid week place at the hatch having been usurped) with Daryl and Peter, doing the crossword and watching Arsenal v. Newcastle United in the Carling Cup 5^th Round.

And as often happens while watching a fairly uninspiring game, the conversation turned to more general football discussion.

Those football discussions which are entirely pointless, grossly subjective and hugely enjoyable. Greatest player of all time, best centre back ever seen, whether Glen Hoddle should have won more caps, favourite Arsenal player and so on and so forth.

You know, classic pub stuff.

And it struck me that the encyclopaedic knowledge which so many blokes (and quite a few women) have of football is really quite astounding. I mean, football is something which blokes (and many women) have been studying and thinking about their entire lives, such that  the average bloke is probably as expert in the history and nuances of football as David Starky is about the Regency Period.

Your average bloke will be able to spend an hour eloquently discussing whether, relatively speaking, Tostoa was better than Bergkamp, or whether Rivelino was better than Garrincha.  Equally, he/she could trot out Brazil’s entire starting line up in the 1970 World Cup final without missing a step, name  the England assistant manager in ’66, and, in reverse order, list the five highest scorers in World Cup history.

In themselves, these are obscure pieces of knowledge. I guarantee that you don’t know that much about anything else.

[Quickly – off the top of your head: Who did Chris Woods spend most of his career playing for?

Exactly. Rangers.

Why do you know that? Really, think about it, why have you retained that piece of completely pointless knowledge about a sometime England number 2?]

That’s no less an obscure a piece of knowledge than knowing the code names for the two parted  planned Allied invasion of Japan in 1946 or knowing the start to end dates of Belisarius’ Visigoth campaign.  It’s just that so many people share the same knowledge that we take it for granted.

[Which team was Kevin Keegan playing for when he was twice named European Player of the Year?

Zing. Hamburg

See what I mean?]

Anyway, this is all beside the point (actually, come to think of it, did I even have one?), my point is (yep, there it is), is that talking about football in the pub – and more specifically those conversations which start, ‘alright then, name your all time World IX’ or ‘who would you say is the greatest batsmen of all time’ or fly half, or spin bowler, or F1 driver or whatever, are a vital part of the very essence of what makes pubs great.

There doesn't have to be a resolution - and there doesn't even have to be a point. It can just be a few hours spent at the bar thinking and talking about greatness in days gone by.

Sky Sports

This is just one more example of why Rupert Murdoch is pure evil.

Now, I know I keep banging on about how the pub is a community and all that – and no doubt you’re all getting a bit fed up of it, but it’s something which I fundamentally and passionately believe. The pub is, and always absolutely has been, a community (complete with its own village idiot in our case).

And this kind of thing is just destroying that sense of community. I mean, pubs are synonymous with football. Talking about it, dissecting it, complaining about it…watching it.

It’s always been the case that if you couldn’t get to the game then your local was the next best alternative. In fact for many people it’s always been the only alternative.

Watching football is a communal activity – and that bastard Murdoch is deliberately destroying it. He’s deliberately trying to make people stay home and watch it as individuals based on a neo conservative abhorrence of communities and society. It’s Thatcher’s vision of a societyless fragmented Britain writ large.

Murdoch and his ilk are people who don’t want people to come together, who don’t even see the point of it, who don’t understand it and therefore don’t like it, who just couldn’t care less about sending thousands of pubs out of business, and condemning people to live pod like solitary existences.

If I didn’t already hate him (and I did), this would certainly do it.

Christmas

As I alluded to in an earlier post, Christmas is my favourite time of the year in the Taps. As it happens I’m not a huge fan of Christmas in general, beyond Christmas dinner at my Aunt’s house (which is my desert Island food and totally fricking awesome by the way) that is, but I do love Christmas in the Taps.

I love everything about it. I love the Pogues, and the whisky. I love the decorations and the lights. I love coming in from the winter cold to a warm pub and a friendly welcome. I love the Christmas atmosphere and bonhomie. I love people stopping in for a quick drink while they’re doing their shopping and then heading back out again fortified and warmed. I love all of it (except amateur drinkers).

I think that there’s something slightly Dickensian about good pubs and Christmas. Something that’s redolent of a by gone era, when public houses were alive to the sounds of the crystal clink of glasses; and men in coats and tails would drink port and whiskey and brandy around an open fire safe from Jack the Ripper and the freezing fog and driving snow outside.

A time when people would stand outside in the snow, their faces pressed up against frosted glass windows, peering in at the golden glow of a warm fire lit bar and wonder whether they had time for a quick couple of pints before they made their way home.

It actually reminds me a little of the feel of Counterparts, my favourite James Joyce story from the Dubliners (which is about an alcoholic clerk on a night of drinking in Dublin). He just captures the joy of pubs in a way that only people who know them can understand:

"Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins! Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give his version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist in Farrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, "And here was my nabs, as cool as you please," while Farrington looked at the company out of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.

When that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had money but neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would take a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions of what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too; but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. O'Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round, Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls."

Christmas to me seems to have that old fashioned feel to it. Of large rounds being stood, spirits being drunk. Toasts being made. Civilized laughter and honest goodwill.

You know, perhaps it’s something just as simple as that people are just nicer and happier. They’re more patient. More generous and less weary at Christmas.

And what is the Taps afterall but a social club. A home away from home. And at Christmas, then, a place of even greater safety and joy.

Doppleganger

Now hang on just one danged second. Who the hell are these people?

Although I must say that they do look as though they have a rather nice pub. Really, take the tour, it certainly seems like a lovely building.

But how odd? I mean, another pub of the same name. It’s like finding out you’ve got a long lost sister. Only it’s a prettier, more successful sister who lives in a 5900 sq ft Park Lane loft apartment and works in the media.

I mean get a load of this:

“Every year, The Taps holds a 30 (or 15) mile bike ride, raising money for Rosemere Cancer Foundation, and other local charities, this year, we raised a huge £8000.”

What have we got? A little red fire engine on the bar?

Or this:

“World Famous Taps Party Nights, are held every bank holiday sunday, the only nights of the year when you'll hear music in The Taps (other than improptu sing-a-longs with Fylde RUFC!) with dancing on the tables a common, and entertaining sight.”

According to Jade we’re not even allowed to wear party hats at Christmas!

Or how about this:

“The Taps is Cask Marque accredited and members of SIBA.
Winners of Blackpool and Fyldes 'Best Bar None' initiative for pubs and most recently, CAMRA Pub Of The Year 2010 for the Blackpool & all of Fylde Coast.”

 

Well, we’re a ‘Safe Pub’ and….well….well, anyway, that’s besides the point.

Do you think we should contact them?

And if we do, what shall we say?

The Kings Head Cometh

Well the big day is getting closer and closer. Brodie’s back this week. The invitations for the Grand Opening have been received and rumours of dinghies being attached to the ceiling have been discussed with bemused incredulity.

The Kings Head is almost open and we stand on the cusp of history. Like Cortes in the new world or Caesar at the Rubicon, we are at the brink of the future.

New (or kind of new/revamped) pubs in Enfield are a rare thing in this day and age. There was Bar Form – which was great for a time and served a purpose before it went completely mental , disappeared up its own arse, and decided to only open when it felt like it, until everyone eventually forgot that it was even there.

Then there’s the Stag which was gastrofied and trendified a couple of years ago, which I haven’t been to – although the reports I’ve heard haven’t been overwhelmingly positive.

And of course the Taps – which continues in all its glory to this day.

But what of the Kings Head?

The Kings Head was, in its day, certainly a fine old pub that had a good group of committed regulars, and although I rarely used it by the time of its final demise I still have fond memories of the place.

It’s a lovely building – old fashioned and distinguished (and, being honest by its last days, slightly decrepit and threadbare)  – with a stunning square (apparently listed) bar which goes up a level and which you can fit a lot of bar stools around, lovely frosted glass windows and wooden fittings, and for some reason I always thought of it as a winter pub – and even more specifically – as a Christmas pub. Equally, the Kings Head, like the Old Bell was quite popular with lots of the old Enfield Arms crowd, and as such I could always be guaranteed a friendly welcome from at least a few people in there.

And I must confess that I am looking forward to seeing what the place will be like. (It helps, of course, that Brodie will be in charge as that guarantees a steady hand at the helm). It’s all quite exciting. It’s not just that we’re getting an old pub back – but that it’s going to be a new pub at the same time.

Now, please, don’t get me wrong, I am, and will remain, Taps faithful, but I think that I’ll probably find my way to the King’s Head (or the ‘Head) at least once a week. I like sitting at bars – in fact the only time I’ll sit at a table in a pub is when I really have to – and sometimes it’s nice to be a stranger at a bar. To just sit anonymously, and listen to the random banter between regulars for a few hours. To let your mind wander and get slowly drunk. To look around an unfamiliar pub and wonder what it would be like if it were your local.

Because, to subvert the old trope, sometimes you want to go where nobody knows your name.

There’s also another benefit to the ‘Head opening, and that’s that the Taps is likely to be, in the short term, fairly (blissfully) quiet while everyone goes to have a look at the new kid in town.

How nice that will be.

From JD With Love - Getting Served

JD posted the below comment (on the 'You. Yes, you.' post), expanding further on the best way to get served, which I thought deserves a bit more prominence as it's excellent advice written from the staff point of view.

I think that, based on this, we can all agree that we look forward to her posting more in her own right in the future:

Here I would like to add a few little pointers from the bar staff’s point of view.

1) DO NOT wave your money at me.

It will mean that you wait much longer to get served, or (if I was the only person serving) you wouldn't get served at all. Trust me...I've done it, and I tell all the other staff not to serve you.

Its RUDE. And it’s COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE.

2) If you’re waiting to be served, or the member of bar staff is about to serve you, DO NOT explain how long you've been waiting.

The chances are you have been waiting as much, or less, time than everyone else waiting at the bar. By telling the bar staff how long you've been waiting you’re simply making a bad situation worse. Lets face it, no-one wants to wait for a drink....its a pub....you’re not there to hang about without a drink. However, at times it happens so deal with it. If you are waiting it’s likely that the bar staff are not overly happy themselves as no doubt the bar is busy thus they will be running around like headless chickens, so be polite and courtesy and your drink will get to you much quicker and if you’re lucky you may also get a smile.


A little added extra....

What to do if you’re waiting for a drink when in fact the bar isn't busy and the bar staff are chatting. Whether its right or wrong, this happens, we are all human and frankly when you have that many women in that close proximity, its going to happen. So here's what you do:

1)Your best bet is if Gareth is working. It is more than likely that he is not partaking in the girly chat....and he will also be more than happy to tell everyone else to do some bloody work.

2) If it is just girls behind the bar then you still have to be polite (I know it’s our job to serve you but as I'm sure everyone is aware....no-one likes their job all the time).

If you know the name of the bar staff then simply call them (DON'T shout....just call), in this situation they will probably make a joke about the fact that they were busy chatting but they will obviously serve you happily.

If you do not know any of the bar staff's name then simply call out ‘excuse me’, or move to where you are visible. (Again I'm not saying this is right but unfortunately it is the case and I'm simply trying to help you!)


Things that you must NOT do are:

1) Signal that you are dying of thirst (ie. hold an invisible pint glass to your mouth and stick your tongue out) - its annoying, we know you would have most likely finished your drink all of 2 seconds before.

2) Scream at the top of your voice (this is only acceptable if you’re getting completely ignored and you have tried more polite approaches. Don't get me wrong its our job, but we are not slaves)

3) Stand there waving like you’re signalling a rescue boat to you in the middle of the sea....its not that bad....as I said before, I'm sure you won't have gone so long without a drink that you’re going to dehydrate.

Rant Over. 

Isn't She Pretty

I'm not sure I'd want to drink at it, but it certainly is something.

We'll Be Gentle With You

There was a full page article in the Metro this morning about organising Christmas parties (which wasn’t actually an article but more of a full page advertisement for the Connaught Rooms – this annoyed me actually. I mean at least be honest about it. If you’re going to call your laughable rag a newspaper, at least try and maintain some basic standards of journalistic integrity, like for instance, not trying to pass off an advert as an advice piece).

Which is quite depressing really, given that it’s still only mid October.

But anyway, I thought that if this is the kind of thing that people are starting to think about then I’d offer some advice to those of you who have decided to choose the Taps for your Christmas drink up.

[Yes Civic Centre people, I’m looking at you]

1. Go somewhere else.

Oh, alright…

1. Practice. I mean it. Practice. Don’t be that amateur Christmas drinker that we all hate. Don’t just go out once a year, get completely hammered on three pints/half a bottle of wine, act like a knob, throw up on the floor and then fall asleep in the corner.

Practice.

Really, you’re allowed to go out more than once a year. No, honestly, you are. Try it. Go out on Friday in fact. Sit down at a table and have a couple of pints. Try that again the next week. You might enjoy it.

2. Do not all stand in front of the door. You are allowed in. Don’t be afraid. Go and sit at a table. Have a chat. Sing along to the songs. Wear party hats. Play drinking games. Whatever paddles your canoe.

Just don’t all stand in front of the door.

3. Do a whip. Do not individually order your drinks. Entrust your money to one person and let them order. The bar staff will thank you.

4. Don’t sit at the bar stools at the bar. Yes I know they look nice and you’ve seen people do it on Eastenders, but really don’t. Don’t make me hate you more than I already do.

And so help me God if you start using the bar stools just to put your coats and bags on….

5. Don’t throw up. Not in the pub, not in the urinals and not outside. Don’t.

6. Do not get drunk and start a fight (the one and only serious fight I’ve ever seen in the Taps was the last Friday before everyone broke up for Christmas four or five years ago – and every single person involved was a Christmas amateur drinker).

7. Be a decent human being.  Really, that's it. Christmas in the Taps is great. It's absolutely my favourite time to be in the pub. The decorations. The random short buying. The Pogues. The atmosphere. You will enjoy it.

Just be nice. That's all I ask.

Things That Made Me Laugh #1

I was in the Taps on a Monday night a few weeks ago – Gareth was working and it was just myself and Jade at the bar (until Mick and Kevin came over from the George around eleven as they usually do).

It was one of those lovely, charming, quiet weekday nights which are made for the crossword and random conversation.

Until a group of random shitheads came in, looked around and then declared to Gareth, ‘This place is so dead, yo. We’re going.’

To which Gareth shrugged and replied, ‘Good, we’re glad.’

That made me laugh.

Beer In the Evening - The George

This review of The George on 'Beer in the Evening' by some chap/lass named DrewB  is really quite good.

"The George is a bit of a paradoxical pub.

During the daylight hours the average punters are your aged downmarket Darby and Joan types, flat caps, roll ups, and a copy of the Sun for the gentlemen, bubble perms, missing teeth, and lashings of gold jewellery for the ladies. As evening descends, so does the class and age of the punters. Impossibly coloured trainers, hair gel and sports branded clothing for the men, short skirts, large hoop earrings and bright orange fake tan for the ladies, now like some kind of dystopian Logan’s Run distilled, there is no place here for the old and infirm.

Slightly run down décor, not quite enough seating, but with an above average choice of ales available, and cheaper prices to match, plus the food is also of a decent standard. The bar staff are pleasant, mostly made up of very short girls for some unknown reason. Well worth a visit for a pint and pub meal on a budget."

The 'mostly made up of very short girls for some unknown reason' part made me laugh out loud.

We Have Met The Enemy And He Is Us

It struck me the other day that there are two or even three different pubs within the Taps. By which I mean that while there are what I would call the ‘proper regulars/the taps faithful’ there are also a whole bunch of other people who likely don’t even know that we exist, and indeed vice versa, but who are also, in their own way, Taps regulars.

[A bit like the two groups of people living side by side, but invisible to another in Chine Mielville’s The City and The City ]

Or maybe that’s unfair. It's not that they're regulars ‘in their own way’ but in objective terms. I mean after all they’ve paid their dues haven’t they?

They might be the people who come in every Friday and Saturday night without fail and love the pub. Who know the staff and one another. Are friends with the doormen and the DJ, and who quite possibly have their own sense of loyalty to the pub and one another.

To them we’re just a strange bunch of sad sacks who are always sat in the corner when they come in on a Friday or Saturday night. Or worse we’re the terribly rude people sat at the bar on a Thursday night who refuse to move when they come to the bar to order their drinks.

The idea that anyone might be there when they’re not might not even occur to them. I mean after all what kind of person goes to the pub everyday after work and during the day on a weekend?

In other words then, to them they’re not the interlopers. We are.

It’s a strange thought isn’t it?

Why Would You Do That #2

Why would you, as a grown up [presumably] intelligent human being, walk in to a pub, see a bar stool with a full pint of beer, a half finished crossword, several scribbled notes and a pen all in front it, and think it’s reasonable to pick that bar stool up, take it away and sit on it?

Actually, I should probably be more specific. The only people who ever do this are women. Really, I’ve never seen a bloke do it before.

So, honestly, I’m asking, why would you do that?

Bars I am Jealous of #3

Oh baby.

You. Yes, you.

Look, you plonker – you dumb £90 shirt wearing, gell haired muppet, this is how you order a drink.

It’s easy. Honestly. It is. Don’t be scared. Please, just try it.

1. When you go to the bar stop and look at who else is waiting. You will be able to tell who those people are by the fact that they're holding money in their hands and do not have drinks. They will not be the people without money in their hands who have drinks.

By doing this you will now know that untill all of those people who are there before you are served you are not the next person in line.

2. Once you have established that, try and make eye contact with a member of the bar staff. Once you have caught their eye they will likely acknowledge you with a nod. This means that they now know that you are waiting. At this point you may wish to smile at them and nod back. I leave that up to you.

Now I know that this might go against your natural inclination to shout ‘bruv, hey bruv’ but trust me, this is much better.

[Boshv2.0 will be writing about this issue in more detail at some point]

3. Now you wait to be served.

If you are waiting near me, do not talk to me.

4. If it’s busy, and one of the bar staff should accidentally start to serve you out of turn, do not grin like a moron and order your drink. Instead you should say, ‘Oh, I think this fella/lady is first’, that person will then say thank to you, and you should say something like, ‘that’s alright’ or ‘you’re welcome.’

These may be foreign terms to you.

5. In Taps it’s rare that one of the bar staff will ever say ‘who’s next?’ to a crowd at the bar because they know what they’re doing, but if it does happen (say if they’ve had to go down to change a barrel and a crowd has accumulated), because when you arrived at the bar you noted who was before you, you are now fully prepared to answer.

No, don't say ‘me’ and then look around smugly like you've just won a competition for being a shithead. What you should should say is ‘oh, these guys, I think’ indicating the people that you had earlier summised were before you.

6. When you order your drink say please and thank you.

7. When you receive your drink say thank you.

Now, I know this is quite a lot to take in at once, but give it a try.

You might surprise yourself.

Oh, and I mean it, do not talk to me.

Bars I am Jealous of #2

Oh. My. Good. God

That Thing You Do

Here’s why.

Here’s why we prop up the bar near everyday after work.

Yesterday I had a really shit day at work. One of those days that starts badly and just gets worse. Partly my own fault [I missed something in an email that had quite serious implications regarding the quoracy of a meeting which in turn had further implications vis a vis the legality and robustness of an ongoing decision making process] – partly other people’s – and partly just because sometimes that kind of thing happens. You know what I mean, just one of those days where everything that can go wrong, does.

When I left work I was absolutely fuming about a couple of things and by the time I got off the train at Enfield I was wound up, stressed out and just generally pissed off with the world.

Now I know it’s a cliché (and a horrible one at that), but then I’ve always thought that things become clichéd mainly because they’re true and resonate a certain authenticity, but sometimes you do just want to go somewhere where everyone knows your name.

I mean, we all work hard (well most of us anyway) and sometimes you bring your stresses and worries home with you. You don’t necessarily mean to and you almost certainly don’t want to, but sometimes you do all the same. And the pub is the place where you get rid of that stress. The place where you can clear your head, take a step back, have a think and realise that it’s not all that bad. It’s where you can just shut off the machine that’s in/is your head for a couple of hours and do the crossword and talk about fish or books or neo American imperialism or the Spurs back four for a while.

It’s where you check in your worries for a couple of hours and pick them up again when you leave.

So, as I say, I really was wound up last night when I got in, but then I sat down with Gerry and we just chatted about George's Fish Bar  and scallops and restaurants and the random nut nut who Gerry was in a running discussion/argument with. And I started on the crossword (and then Casey and Daryl got involved) and had a few pints and honestly after a while the world just seemed a lot brighter.

So there it is: the pub is basically prozac for the working classes.

Bars I Am Jealous of #1

Check this bad boy out. Holy Moley!

Margin For Error

Yesterday, on my way to work, I had to turn around and go back to get my keys, which meant that I was late getting to the train station (I usually get on the 7.50am), and which in turn meant that I couldn’t get my usual seat (back carriage, far right hand seat next to the long window).

That being the case I decided to wait for the 8.02, which meant that I was able to be the first person on the train and I could have my usual seat.

Now I realise that this sounds both slightly odd and incredibly boring, but I tell you this for a reason.

Those twelve minutes between my usual train and the 8.02 made a huge difference to the entire scope of my journey. The train itself was more crowded, Liverpool Street was far busier than I’m normally used to. There were School children around and far more people on the street walking to work. Which is to say that everything was brighter and more awake.

And all of this just because of a measly difference of 12 minutes. And this (of course) got me thinking about the pub. Because that last pint (or indeed that last half pint) can so often have that kind of disproportionate effect. That last pint can be the difference between waking up with a banging hangover, or getting up late for work. It can be the difference between suffering all day or falling over in the gutter.

Just that last pint.

And as much as you try you almost always come down on the wrong side of the line. Just that one more.

[Of course this goes to my last post about Saturdays. Saturdays have no such line. Saturdays don’t have just one last pint. They have two large Jack Daniels and coke, a desperado and three Jagerbombs for the road.]

Which is why a few pints after work can sometimes be a dangerous thing. It’s a difficult balance to find – and one that everyone has to find for themselves – quite often based on an analysis of what they have to get done the next day measured against what kind of hangover they feel they can tolerate/endure. But also based on more nebulous things like how much of the crossword is left to be done and just, frankly, by how much fun they’re having.

Or if Gareth is going to come back from a gig just as I was deciding whether to have just one last pint or not.

On such fine margins does the regular exist.

Saturday Night's Alright

To me at least, there’s something special about Saturdays in the Taps.

It’s the Holy Grail of drinking days. A day which answers to no one else.  That makes no apologies and suffers no insults. A Saturday is an anarchic, long haired, broken nosed, leather jacket wearing rebel of a drinking day.

Now Thursdays (as I’ve previously noted) are the best nights, and if you’ve managed to swing taking Friday off, it can be wonderful. And Fridays – well a Friday evening after a long week at work is a gift; but a Saturday, oh now a Saturday is something really quite special.

A Saturday doesn’t need to worry about getting up for work the next day or going to Ikea or visiting the in-laws. All a Saturday has to worry about is which DVD boxset to watch while lying on the sofa on Sunday afternoon.

In other words a Saturday is free. Beholden to no one and answerable only to itself.  Drunkenness without consequences and degradation without limits.

And that knowledge is a wonderful thing. On a Saturday you never have to look at your watch.

I usually get in on a Saturday at 2pm (well I say usually, I mean ‘I get in on a Saturday at 2pm). And at 2pm on a Saturday you only ever get four kinds of people. Taps faithful, people taking a break from shopping, people in for a particular football/rugby game and nutters.

(Don’t ask me why but nutters love 2pm on a Saturday).

Now the best days are those when Spurs or Arsenal aren’t playing and its just a few random shoppers, the mandatory nut nut, and the regulars sitting at the bar. Normally some variation on myself, Barry (at the end), Mark, Daryl, Adam, Eugene, Len and Dan (you have to say it like that, ‘Len and Dan’) and Gerry (and sometimes Peter).

[There isn’t really a regular Saturday day time member of staff]

And being regulars everyone is sat the bar (often nursing Friday night hangovers). Now there’s something quite determined and definite about a Saturday drinker. A Saturday drinker doesn’t care that he/she’ll be absolutely hammered by the time that most normal people are only just going out on a Saturday night. In fact a Saturday drinker knows full well that by 10pm on a Saturday night they’ll be involved in heated conversations of deep metaphysical, political and emotional importance which to the outside world will  merely seem like a series of prolonged slurring, overly familiar hugs and superbly executed high fives.

But that’s for later.  All that comes after.

Because a Saturday isn’t about the end, a Saturday is really about the journey. It’s about the ten pence bets and the crosswords. It’s about ridiculous theories [this Saturday in fact a random bloke declared – and I don’t know how this came up in the first place; but that’s how things happen on a Saturday – that he could break a spoons head just by rubbing it. Well naturally Mark couldn’t resist getting involved in this and asked Sarah to get a spoon to challenge this guy’s physic abilities. Everyone gathers around this bloke as he begins to rub…and rub…and fifteen minutes later he’s still rubbing away and….well long story short, he’s no Uri Geller] and stupid jokes. It’s about whimsy and football and saying nothing for minutes on end.

It’s about watching the world go by on a Summers day and listening to the rain hammering down on a Winters afternoon.

Which is to say, it’s about hanging out with your mates.

Equally, there’s something about getting slowly drunk over a day. The way that drunkenness creeps up on you, different stage through different stage. Bonhomie through introspection; honesty through reflection.

It’s something to be savoured.

And all with the added bonus that by the time all of the scum arrive at night you’re too drunk and comfortably and snugly ensconced in the regulars corner to care.

Put Him in the Bed with the Captain’s Daughter

The last post about unexpected evenings reminded me of something that happened a couple of years ago now.

It was a Saturday daytime – quiet as they always are unless there’s a big match on – and the normal crowd of Saturday daytime regulars were in (I should say that Saturday, for me and a few others, is always an all day affair), and for some random reason – as these things do sometimes tend to happen – somebody started to hum the tune to  "What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor"

[I forget who was working now]

And as often happens when you get a tune like that in your head, somebody else began to sing along. Now incidents of spontaneous (though quiet) singing aren’t entirely unknown and will sometimes happen on long afternoons sat at the bar when Dylan or the Beatles are playing and at the point of one of their more famous choruses, but it’s generally subdued, uncoordinated and short lived. Although nice in its own way for all that.

Anyway, so one by one, people start to join in.

Until by now the drunken lot of them take it up; fairly quietly at first but slowly, and verse by verse quickly building up until eventually they're all singing at the top of their voices in a baritone creshendo of noise (we’re talking about the usual crowd of Saturday dayers: Jim, Gerry, Peter, Gus, Mark, V and a few more), and all slapping their thighs, stamping their feet in time and sloshing their pint glasses in the air.

The amount of noise that a good coordinated crowd can make in such circumstances – and given the acoustics of the Taps – is really quiet impressive – but more than that it actually sounded quite good.

No, in fact more than quite good. Pretty damned good.

And for some obscure reason Gus knows the refrain for each of the verses, so as they’d get to the end of the verse….Earlie in the Morning!...they'd all look at Gus expectantly and then he’d sing out the next refrain…..Put him in the bed with the Captain’s Daughter!…and they’d all cheer and aaarrgh!! like pirates, and start singing the next verse.

And so on and so on.

It makes me smile now just thinking about it.

Black Out

When you spend as much time in the pub as we do it’s rare that anything particularly different happens, but last night there was a power cut. Just in the Taps.

And it was great. Well, I say great, but pleasant is probably more accurate.

There was just myself, Adam, Gerry and Peter drinking and Gareth working – which is to say, no normal people, so we were quite happy to sit in the dark by the faint green glow of the emergency lighting and against the backdrop of the constant beep of the burglar alarm which was in need of some reassurance as to what had happened, drinking and talking.

It had something of the air of the blitz about it.

Which is not to say that we were stoically enduring the nightly murderous bombing and vindictive mayhem of the might of the Third Reich, but that we had no lighting or power and….well….

Well, actually that was it.

That and the one brief slightly unsuccessful (though really quite gently moving) rendition of 'We'll Meet Again'

But, as I said, it was pleasant and different and I’ll remember it for some little while at least.

Getting Along

It’s possible that I may have unintentionally given the wrong impression vis a vis the inter relationships and interactions between the regulars in the Taps.

For a variety of reasons, I realise that I undoubtedly idealise the place, so I'm quite worried that I might be appearing to be saying that the Taps is a glittering magical world filled all the day long with harmony, goodwill and whimsical local charm. Which is not to say that that sometimes it’s not contemporaneously all of those things, but that for the most part it’s rarely more than one out of three of those.

And sometimes just a half of one.

The simple fact is that the Taps – like any community – is populated by a mixed bag of characters. Some stupid, some bullies, some conceited, some pretentious, some toxic, some insecure, some…well you get the picture.

And that being the case there are some people who just don’t, won’t and can’t get along. In fact everybody – at any one time – will not be getting along with at least one other person.

Speaking honestly, there are several people who I genuinely don’t like and I’m quite sure that they don’t like me. But here’s the thing: you learn to come to an accommodation. You learn to co-exist and tolerate one another, because that’s what a pub is.  

And I think it’s an important point. Learning to get along with people in a pub environment is a skill set which (seemingly along with the ability to say please and thank you and the ability not to confuse a urinal for the glasses tray) is something you can’t learn by drinking in a Wetherspoons, or the George or (God forbid) Ratlers. It’s something you learn by starting your drinking life in a decent local pub.

  

What Is a Regular?

It’s undoubtedly a tautology but the obvious answer to the question of what is a regular is that a regular is somebody who the other regulars consider to be a regular.

So there you are, now you know. Succinct, logical, simple, obvious and completely unhelpful. In other words just a rephrasing of Potter Stewart’s pithy definition of pornography.

So let’s try and be a little more logical about this then shall we. (And bearing in mind that I intend this to be entirely descriptive rather than prescriptive) a regular is (in some combination of the below) someone who:

1. The bar staff know what they drink.

2. The bar staff know their name.

3. The other regulars (defined as those who have met this llisted criteria) know their name [or at least use a common and consistent name for them. – There used to be a bloke who drank in the Taps who was universally known as SteveDave. This was because when he first started to regularly come to the Taps he wouldn’t really talk to anyone. However, he was there often enough to warrant some sort of description and so somebody decided that he looked vaguely like a Dave. For some reason the name stuck and as he underwent the gradual process of becoming a regular everyone just called him Dave. And for whatever reason (and I’ve never really understood this) he answered to it and would even introduce himself as Dave. After a while – once he became a full blown regular – he let it be known that his name wasn’t actually Dave but was Steve, but since Dave had now stuck he was just always called SteveDave from that time onwards. – The point being that people don’t have to know your actual name for you to be a regular].

4. Comes in at least three times a week (and sits wherever they want).

5. Comes in at least once a week, sits at the bar and talks to people.

6. Comes in once a week (mainly without fail) on a particular midweek day/evening for a year.

7. At one point did some or all or most of the above, but now only occasionally (for whatever reason – other than defecting to another local pub) comes in.

8. Just gets involved with the pub.

And the last is the most important. A regular is somebody who is involved in the day to day life of the pub.

As always, guys, I look forward to your thoughts.

Clique

An old friend of mine came to the pub on Saturday (he’s been in a few times since the World Cup, which was his first visit to the Taps), and spent most of the day there.

Now, my mate’s spent more than enough time in pubs over the years to be a pretty fair judge of them, and he observed (apropos of nothing as it happens) that the Taps was really quite a tightly knit pub (which it is) and that because of that it was actually quite cliquey.

My initial reaction was to dismiss that as rot and balderdash (well it wasn’t actually; in fact I’m not entirely sure what rot and balderdash is – but I was quite offended and taken aback by his comments), but you’ve got to be realistic about these things haven’t you, and on reflection there’s probably some truth to what he said.

Now my friend’s a decent and reasonably clever chap who’s spent many years in all kind of pubs, and he noted that every time he came in there was very much a feeling of conversations stopping and of every eye turning to the door to see who the random unwanted guest was. Which he found to be slightly uncomfortable.

And to be fair there probably is some truth to that.

The Taps – for all that it’s supposed to be a bar – is very much a traditional regulars’ pub (at least during the week and Saturday and Sunday day time). Everybody knows everybody. Everybody knows everyone else’s business, and I like to think that  for the most part everybody cares (to greater and lesser extents) about every one else. And while I like to think that as a group of regulars we are welcoming, let’s be honest, we’re not always. In fact it’s rare that we are.

And even when we are, we’re only welcoming on our own terms.   

We’re just not a hugely tolerant lot are we? I mean, I keep banging on about how the pub is a community and how we need to care about one another, but isn’t what I really mean: we’re a community as long as you fit in and we like you.

I mean don’t dare be a bit odd or boring or stupid because then I know that personally I’m not quite so hospitable at all. In fact I’ll say it: I’m just a hypocrite.

The strength of the pub – that social club/living room feeling, is also its weakness: the fact that it is exclusionary and cliquey. People have to work damned hard to be accepted – unless they’re an exceptionally likeable person (which some people in the last year or so have been). Maybe too hard.

So while we’re not what the Australians would call a Fit In or Fuck Off pub there is an element of ‘be interesting or, although we’ll be polite, we’ll mainly ignore you’, which is possibly just as bad.

I suspect that I haven’t been as clear as I possibly could be here. And that’s mainly because I’m not entirely sure what I mean at this point.

Anyway, as always I look forward to your thoughts.

Why Would You Do That? #1

On Friday I was in the toilets and I saw a bloke bring his drink down with him [this happens more often than you would think, and frankly I find it a bit odd (and nasty), but I suppose that if you’re by yourself you might be worried about somebody nicking it or putting something in it I suppose].

Anyway, this guy puts his drink on top of the trough, starts having a piss and then half way through picks up his drink and finishes it.

So far so pretty disgusting, right? I mean just in itself why would you want to do that?

So this guy finishes his drink, puts his empty glass in the urinal, zips himself up, looks at himself in the mirror and walks out.

In. The. Fucking. Urinal.

Where the hell do these people come from. On what plane of existence have they come from where that’s a reasonable thing to do?

And the worst thing was that he had this stupid shit eating grin on his face, as though he was pleased about what he'd done. Fucking pleased. Like he'd done everyone a favour and that was exactly where you're supposed to put it.

Why would you do that?

Please and Thank You

Thursday – which, as it happens, is karaoke night - has long been held by the regulars to be the best night in the Taps.

The karaoke is mainly incidental, save that people who regularly (and there is quite a regular Thursday crowd) go to karaoke generally seem to be a nice lot. It’s mainly the fact that it’s almost the weekend and that over time a tradition has developed that Thursday is a drinking night (Friday morning work hangover be damned). The karaoke is therefore mainly mostly a distraction for those so inclined.

Basically Thursdays are Fridays without the awesome crowds of scum and villainy that you get on a Friday.

My point being: I like Thursdays. We all like Thursdays. Thursdays are Fridays for the regulars and semi-regulars.

Except of course when it’s pay week or when there’s a Friday Bank Holiday. Then Thursday is a Friday.

[Got it?]

So, yesterday (Thursday, which was a Friday) I was at the bar watching the scum [now I should make clear that obviously not all random people are scum. Most of them are just normal decent people who fancy a mid week drink after getting paid. I like them. They're nice. I approve of their discerning tatste in choosing to drink in such a fine drinking establishment. However, because the Taps is open until 12:30 on a Thursday you also get the George and Ratlers crowd in. Which is another way of saying: massive scum] ordering their drinks, and I was genuinely shocked to see how many of them (and these were all without fail men under 23 or so) just flat out refused to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ when doing so.

Seriously, when did it become ok to not say please or thank you when you’re talking to the bar staff?

Surely the efficiency saving involved in barking ‘two pints of Strongbow’ and then turning away to talk to your mate, is not so great compared to, for example, saying, ‘Hi [or some variation upon], can I have two pints of Strongbow, please?’ And then turning away to talk to your mate, that you would forego such basic courtesy.

How is that there are people on this planet who don't know that when their drink/change comes they're supposed to smile and say thank you.

In fact don’t smile if you don’t want to. Hey, sometimes you don’t want to smile. Who wants to smile all the time anyway. Certainly not me. I don't want to suborn anyone in to feigning emotion. I'm no more comfortable with that than you are. But come on guys, do say thank you. Or cheers or whatever. I’d venture that sometimes just a small sincere smile would even suffice.

Anyway, so I was at the bar talking to my brother and I just couldn’t work how, as a society, we’ve come to this. How we’ve got people – adults – running around the country who don’t know that they’re supposed to say please and thank you. How can they possibly have been raised so badly, so negligently, so sadly, that basic social courtesies are beyond them.

These are people cut off from the basic simple joy of being pleasant to another human being. Of another human being – a stranger – being nice to you.

How did this happen?

Well, as I say, I was talking to my brother and he argued that it was actually deliberate. Which is to say that these people understood that they should say please and thank you, and that indeed these people’s naturally inclination would be to say please and thank you, but that they were actively making the decision not to do so.

Sounds implausible right?

But here’s his reasoning. He reckons that it’s some sort of macho ‘look at how cool I am, I can get served without saying please or thank you’ thing.

No, really, apparently this is the reason. They think it makes them look cool in front of their friends to treat other human beings like crap. Or rather, it does make them look cool in the eyes of their friends to that.

Totally mental right? I mean there are a whole section of people with a completely different set of behavioural norms to our own.

Now, as I say this is my brother’s theory. Personally I think they’ve just been failed by the people who were supposed to be bringing them up, and it’s just that they don’t know how to interact with normal people.

Or that they’re just scum.

Either way though, let’s not stand for it. Let’s just not. If you’re sat at the bar, and you see/hear someone do it, just politely ask them whether they meant to say please and thank you.

Be nice about it.

Be friendly.

Choose your moment and don't get yourself beaten up.

And, if you’re bar staff and it happens to you don’t acknowledge them. Walk away and serve someone else and then come back, and if they do the same thing again well then walk away again.

We can either help these people or we can condemn them to a life of scum and villainy. Let's make a difference.