In Competition No. 2456 you were invited to supply a poem lamenting the degeneration of the traditional English pub.
The ideal pub in literature is surely the Potwell Inn, that Kentish riverside paradise where H.G. Wells’s Mr Polly found contentment at last with his pint and his punt and his plump landlady. I used to like some pubs; now I loathe them all, and I got the impression that you share my disillusionment. If you want no music, no game machines and no mobiles allowed, there’s only one pub I know in central London to go to — but you’ll have to pay through the nose for your drink. My advice is, drink at home, where you can hear yourself think. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the bonus fiver goes to Watson Weeks.
I shan’t go down to the pub again, to the dear old Rose and Crown
(It’s known as the Funky Ferret now, thought up by a witless clown),
For all I’ll get is pricy beer, and the barman not caring,
And teeny-boppers with alcopops, and the piped music blaring.
I won’t go down to the pub again, for the brewery’s architect
Said, ‘Trust me,’ and an ancient inn was comprehensively wrecked;
So what I’ll get is fake beams and vinyl on flagstone flooring,
And imitation coaching lamps, and the bar bill soaring.
I’m damned if I’ll go to the pub again, to the karaoke fest,
For the talentless participants would leave me quite depressed;
And all I’d get is fruit machines, a prospect unappealing,
And punch-ups every closing-time, and the lager louts reeling.
Watson Weeks
When you’ve dodged the hanging baskets by the door,
And you’ve crossed the imitation parquet floor,
The draught’s just gas on tap
With a jaundice-coloured sap
That looks as if it’s been drunk once before.
There’s a bandit in the corner flashing cash,
And the speakers round the ceiling pound down trash;
The mobiles don’t stop ringing,
And there’s karaoke singing
From six St Trinian’s ladettes on the lash.
The decor’s from the school of kitsch’n’sink
With bric-à-brac and books of wasted ink.
You can flick through Sixties sci-fi
Or play poker via wi-fi,
But you can’t enjoy a contemplative drink.
W.J. Webster
So sorry, pop, new rules — no dogs in here.
A what? A pint of Old Peculier beer?
Don’t stock that — have to keep up with the times,
Mango and cranberry coolers, vodka limes,
Garlic baguettes, oysters, cuisine nouvelle.
Sorry, we only stock the things that sell.
We’ve given up on pints: it’s litres here.
No, I can’t sell you fags. Smoking! No fear!
The beery smoky smell? These days no way!
Hygiene’s the rule: the floor’s washed every day.
We’re open dawn to dusk and have wide screens
To watch the matches, music, games machines.
What’s that? You miss the smell of warm sheepdogs
Curled up and drowsing by the blazing logs?
No! Darts are dangerous, pop! You must move on.
I’m sorry, pop, the pub you loved has gone!’
Shirley Curran
Long gone, alas, the days of yore
When, at the hamlet’s hub
With sawdust sprinkled on the floor,
There stood the local pub.
Old ales, old mates, no frills, no fuss,
Where one phrase, loud and clear,
‘The Neath pleath dithmitheth us’,
Would earn another beer!
Shove-halfpenny, table skittles, darts,
Pickled eggs, pork pies,
A barmaid to win men’s hearts
And brighten bleary eyes.
The dying inn — replaced, it seems,
With yuppies plying gin
In theme bars underneath false beams,
Best fit for dying in!
Alan Millard
Let us review the focal point, the hub
Of homeliness, the modern English pub:
Real ale’s a no-no, kids want eurofizz;
Tuesdays forget, that night’s the bloody quiz!
Muscle-top morons, brains like cotton wool,
Snog top-heavy boozy floozies on the pull;
Grandmothers flaunting crinkle-boob tattoos,
Baby facilities in both the loos;
Obligatory sport infests wall-wide TVs,
Riff-raff attempt to flog porn DVDs;
Effers and blinders purify the air:
Moan to the management, what do they care?
At closing time, no ‘Thank you, lads and lasses,’
It’s ‘That’s yer lot, let’s have yer (plastic) glasses.’
A sorry state: how did it all go wrong?
Simple: our pubs stay open far too long.
Mike Morrison
Before the breweries bought them out and started selling grub,
The jolly English landlord ruled the jolly English pub.
Then there’d be beer and skittles, with sawdust on the floor,
And none of us, in those days, could ever wish for more.
You cross the threshold now in hope, but soon depart in rage
At finding they’ve imported all the horrors of the age,
Piped music’s always playing, no matter where you are,
The television’s mumbling from its shelf behind the bar.
You find they’ll sell you the brewery’s own beers,
The menu’s made of plastic, and hasn’t changed in years,
The fruit machines are winking in a manner quite obscene,
For the famous King of Prussia’s become the Slug and Bean.
Still, if you’re very lucky, you can find a proper inn,
That’s kept its independence and is fit for drinking in,
Where the menu’s on a blackboard, and changes every day,
But that’s a local secret one shouldn’t give away.
Tim Raikes
No. 2459: Grotesque incident
‘At the Gargoyle Hotel, Aberglidden,
A guest went suddenly mad.’ You are invited to supply a poem beginning with these two lines, but have the freedom to provide your preferred place name in place of Aberglidden. Maximum 16 lines. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2459’ by 31 August.
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