‘Be not solitary; be not idle,’ wrote Robert Burton in The Anatomy of Melancholy. Now, 400 years later, one bar is taking his instruction to heart and banning solo drinkers. An Altrincham venue which goes by the gloriously 1990s nightclub name of Alibi will only allow groups in after 9 p.m. Owner Carl Peters said he introduced the policy after certain individuals had been ‘mithering other groups’ – ‘mithering’ being a northern word meaning to pester or make a fuss.
Alibi also has a strict dress code: ‘No sportswear/trackies, no Stone Island, no ripped/frayed jeans, no baseball caps, no roadman vibes.’ I should point out to Spectator readers that a roadman isn’t someone employed by the council to fix potholes, it’s a young man with gangster pretensions. As with much in modern Britain, I have a funny feeling there is more to this story than meets the eye. Who exactly are these lonely souls that are causing all the trouble? You’d expect large groups to be worse.
For many of us, a solitary drink is one of life’s little pleasures. The bard of the barroom Adrian Tierney-Jones, author of A Pub For All Seasons, describes the solo drinker as a ‘heroic loner standing against the tide of time, the passing of the ages, the dullness of tomorrow’. Anyone who has ever stood happily alone in a noisy bar will know what he means.
In my youth I craved company, but I now appreciate moments of aloneness in a way that I never did before. Perhaps it’s something to do with fatherhood. If I’m in London I’ll often stop at a favourite pub, such as The Harp in Covent Garden, and have a solitary pint of Harvey’s Best. Or if I’ve been sent out to collect a takeaway, I’ll leave plenty of time so I can have a drink at the local micropub on the way. The lure of the stolen pint makes inconveniences such as delayed trains bearable, as long as there’s a pub nearby. Thanks to the unreliability of Southeastern trains I have become very familiar with Wetherspoons at Victoria station. During the lockdown era the solitary pint assumed a talismanic importance. When you think something could be taken away from you at any time, it makes sense to grab the chance while you can. Carpe diem!
And where would the pub be without the customer who arrives alone? Cheers wouldn’t be quite so funny if Norm brought his wife along and they sat at the table discussing curtain fabrics. The plots work because the regulars are, on the whole, both solitary and idle. The whole essence of having a local is to be simultaneously alone and in company. Furthermore, as Tierney-Jones explains: ‘The right kind of pubs can be a home from home; getting gently intoxicated and watching people coming and going is therapeutic and soulful.’
It’s not just in pubs – I enjoy drinking on my own at home, too. My wife increasingly doesn’t drink wine, so what am I going to do? Pass up the opportunity to enjoy a glass of port with a good book and a roaring fire? But this sort of thing is frowned upon in the wine world, where everyone claims to drink only with meals and other people. In his largely pro-alcohol book Drunk: How We Sipped, Danced and Stumbled Our Way To Civilisation, Edward Slingerland argues that we need structure and company to consume alcohol safely, especially spirits. My rules around drinking on my own aren’t complicated: nothing after 9 p.m. and no strong cocktails. Those, along with the fear of being hungover around our hyper-talkative five-year-old, are usually enough to stop the wheels falling off. Though not always, as my wife will attest.
I hope that the policy of Alibi doesn’t become the new normal. Drinking alone, within reason, makes you slow down, meditate, enjoy your own company and observe those around you. It’s particularly helpful as a writer; I usually have my best ideas two pints in when I’m on my own. The trick is to stop there and come home before you start mithering the other customers.
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