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.
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