Rats, parrots and social engineers: the death of the English pub

Back when I was misspending my youth, there was a minibus which would take me into
town from school each Sunday and would have me seated in the Rat & Parrot before the
clock struck two. There I would meet ‘Fuzzy’; a friend and day-bug who owned the relevant
ID.

The R&P was typical of the old style of English pub in that the booths were upholstered in
real leather from the backs of polyester cows, the tables were sticky and the lights were
dim. We would sit in the same booth, drink our usual and then as the afternoon began to fade
I would make my way clumsily back across town to the return bus. That routine is one of
my fondest memories from that time and the death of the pub the year after can do nothing
to take the rosy tint away from that particular best-of-times album.

In July 2007 the mandates of Mr. Blair’s ‘Health Act’ kicked in. The legislature had decided
that your health was its business and as far as the public house was concerned the cigarette
was no longer welcome. Despite being a member of the non-smoking classes I am
not opposed to allowing those who do inhale to get on with the necessary business of
putting torch to tobacco. Those brothers and sisters on the cancer queue gave the pub its
atmosphere. Literally. They provided the indoor-mist that obscured the shabby interiors
and lent the pub its disreputable air.

With the cover of smoke dissipated the bar-staff could spot the young interlopers such as
myself whose presence defied the new edict of Her Majesty’s mothering service which
demanded that if one looked under 21 then proof of age would be required. Unable
to forge the necessary papers I found myself driven from my usual spot to the J. D.
Family pub established in a mall-like monstrosity nearby. Here in a wasteland of clean
carpets and dining patrons I had found my new regular; it was the quiet place the pub had
crawled to die.

Once I had come by a maturity that no longer required my hiding in corners from the age
police, I returned to these old haunts to find them gone. Where the great watering holes
had once stood versions of the family-pub had dug in. Lengths had been taken to clean
up their glasses, their floors and their act. Beer everywhere had begun to taste of the
high pressure metal drum it was delivered in and the pint, once pumped, now slithered
from the tap at a single tug. The Rat & Parrot itself was no more; its battered front now
painted a clean modern grey, its sign now reading ‘The Winchester’.

This is the world that the latest batch of freshman have inherited. No wonder the tasteless beverage in the tasteless franchise is binged upon. Respect is earned and in ceasing to be a dive the modern watering hole can no longer command it. Learning to drink properly is not a trivial task; our social structure is predicated on the idea that no conditions facilitate otherwise tedious getting-to-know-you’s than both parties sinking into inebriation at comparable rates. Discussion is always livelier on loosened tongues.

And that’s really the point. Walk into the Dirty Duck on campus and you find as with
everywhere else of its ilk that conversation, the raison d’etre of the pub, has been cast out by the electronic juke box: a machine is designed to irritate those who dislike the chosen music, distract those who do and drown out any civil words either might have to share.
With all talk obliterated it does little to surprise me that the freshest of the university
population find themselves asserting their new found freedoms in the noise-halls of the
Copper Rooms and the Kasbah. Nightclubs, where all meaningful interaction is replaced by arhythmic contortions and where an unhealthily large dose from bacchanal cup is needed to confound your inhibitions in joining the mass humiliation.

That is not to say one shouldn’t drink to excess. One should and starting out while young
enough to be tolerable to your peers when you do is recommended. Once one has a
handle on the deep end of the shot glass ones composure comes easier in the shallows of
the bier stein, and the signs that one is drifting further than intended are easier to spot.

When it comes down to it, the problem is that our dens of inebriation are constantly being
molded by two groups. The first is the state, with its puritanical mantra of “healthy minds in healthy citizens”. The second force is the free market: pushing barkeeps towards a world
of scrubbed toilets, gastro-pubs and the homogeny of the franchise. Loud music and clean
tables are ushered in and quirks and flaws that give a place much needed ‘character’ are
ushered out. Real pubs are all but gone outside the world of the local but those places, of
dubious reputation and full of grumpy bar props, are off-limits to the stranger.

Perhaps I am simply cursed by a sense of false nostalgia and maybe the new generation will talk of the homogenous kiddy-pubs with similar affection and write essays on the death of
Wetherspoon’s. But even if that proves true, there is still no replacement for my beloved
Rat & Parrot.