This is a piece of creative writing reflecting the takeover of our local by Mitchell & Butler (with a hint of sarcasm)
By Carol
Signs of the Times
They chose a time when the pub would normally be very quiet, but it backfired.
The two red-faced representatives looked small in front of the hundred-strong crowd. With not one of the audience on their side, their upbeat presentation quickly flopped. Deflated, they jostled their way to the door under a barrage of angry insults. Tempers had been frayed since the village’s residents heard rumours of a takeover. The fourteenth century pub had belonged to the locals since the year dot and they were feeling seriously under threat by the proposed refurbishment, and prepared for a fight.
The pub to date had been a tapestry of local characters. Regular congregating over a beer seemed, for many, essential to one’s sanity, providing an anchor in difficult times. Bert, Jim and George had been regular customers for over fifty years. Jim and Bert would frequently reminisce over their days in the Royal Air Force, recalling the night they bombed Berlin. George was a desert rat and had several bouts of malaria. Each of them had their own personal tragedy and their ‘local’ offered them a degree of comfort.
No wonder the intermediaries were greeted with hostility as they paraded their samples of synthetic furnishings; a small carrot to dangle, in exchange for ripping the heart out of a local community.
Many locals worked tirelessly to find any shred of evidence suggesting that Mitchell & Butler should withdraw their application for planning permission. Then, at last the goose laid the golden egg. Tireless research uncovered that parts of the building were protected under English Heritage. The locals were about to lock horns with the opposition once again. The discovery led to the fat cats having to return to the drawing board, withdrawing their application.
The pub was bulging at the seams with revellers high on victory. The atmosphere was one of elation instead of defeat. No longer held down under the giant paw of capitalism, they drank to the people, to each other and ghosts past. Lovers sat in the inglenook finding privacy to share their deepest thoughts. Loners quietly rejoiced behind the daily tabloids. Staff scurried up and down behind the bar to keep pace with the celebrations. The headline on the front of the local paper read ‘Cheers! We’ve saved our pub’.
It was not over yet. The next lot of plans reared their ugly heads. The intermediaries knew now that they would have to negotiate and compromise with the customers. Now there were two-way discussions, with the hope of a win-win situation.
Piped music, with pop classics is force-fed in every bar, regardless of demand. ‘House’ and ‘Garage’ blast out in the Inglenook. Frank Sinatra plays where the bar is full of kids who have shown ‘ID’, ‘Trance’ in the original bar where even the youngest person took the eleven plus. The D.J. is sitting in an office three hundred miles away and piping the same music all around the South of England. The consensus being, he should be shot. However, the pub already harbours the shame of having been watering hole to one murderer (that’s a different story) so instead, one by one, the wires are surreptitiously pulled from the speakers. The refurbishment for some obscure reason seems to bring with it drugs and violence. A new sign appears ‘The wearing of hats is forbidden, any one wearing a hat will have it confiscated’.
Seventy two year old, Bert is sitting in the old bar with drinking pals, Jim and George, when a barmaid, barely sixteen, wearing her ‘in training’ badge says,
‘Sorry but you can’t wear that hat in ’ere’.
‘I beg your pardon; do you know how long I have been coming in this pub?’
‘He was in the RAF you know’ piped up George.
‘You’re not allowed, it’s the rules. You ’ave to take it off’, she said with a mouth full of braces.
No surprise then, that one of my female friends, in her forties had to remove her matching houndtooth cap. I mean, she looked every bit a crackhead.
As if Bert, Jim and George hadn’t had enough after being asked to remove their hats, they were also forced to sit in a draught. It was late October and there was a chill in the air, hence the hats, but another sign read ‘Do not shut the door’. With the clientele’s comfort at the forefront of their minds Mitchell & Butler’s policy was that the door should remain open at all times to attract customers. So you were either blasted out with ‘Trance’ or frozen out by the draught. Was this ever going to be a ‘win-win’ situation?
On the positive side ashtrays had to be cleared after one use and glasses had to be collected every few minutes, but for how long? Home cooking was now strictly forbidden in this beautiful fourteenth century public house. Instead the food might have been piped in much like the music, all pre-packed and frozen. Jim bit the bullet and ordered haddock, chips and peas, only to find that the haddock was still frozen in the middle. Considering all the policies in place to protect the consumer from food poisoning, dishing up frozen fish did not seem a good plan. Moving on to sign number three then; ‘Do not move any of the furniture.’ Moving furniture we learned was grounds for being barred. By this time we had decided that Mitchell & Butler were the new Gestapo. There was nothing left to do apart from revolt. Drinking at the local became a game of cat and mouse. They opened the door, we closed it. They turned the music up, we pulled it out the wall. We shook our heads from left to right and tutted at anyone that even looked at a menu; we were doing them a favour. Eventually the staff lost the will to live. Who wouldn’t be demoralised on five pounds an hour and constant abuse from disgruntled customers. Gradually the locals began to win back their territory. The speakers remain off of the wall. Furniture is moved around to suit. The drug problem seems to be dormant for the time being, following police raids. Bert wears his hat and the original bar has been retained. The new bar however, is a hideous contrast. Orange, paintwashed walls are home to meaningless cheaply framed prints. Hollow ornaments and artificial plants break up Ikea style shelving. Spot lit ashtrays sit full to the brim with dog ends. Teenage boys, dressed uniformly in baseball caps, huddle around the all singing and all dancing fruit machine. Bert has to drink his ‘Jamesons’ out of a tumbler. He misses the days when his drink would appear on the bar as he walked through the heavy oak door. Warm greetings had been traded in for teenage ‘whatever’ attitudes with staff not knowing a whisky from a brandy. They wear branded t-shirts by night and school blazer and tie by day.
The locals did succeed in influencing the brewery and kept the original bar area. The brewery failed to make the new area in-keeping with the old but everyone did get a bit of what they wanted. In the words of one of the locals
‘I feel what I did made a difference’
However, one can’t help feel a sense of loss.
