In 2030 I will turn 30. I hope to be in the pub, but maybe a little less often than I am now. Judging by the way things are going, that might be easier than we’d like to admit. And not just because we lost 383 pubs between the start of the year and the end of June.
I’ll set the scene: it’s seven years from now. Off I go, to one of the last four pubs in London, and park my e-bike next to three thousand others. I walk through the entrance, the etched Victorian glass door replaced by government-mandated energy-efficient double glazing, and there they are: eight 0 per cent beers on draught.
Human beings like pork scratchings and a fag and a pint, and will do forever
‘Do you have anything alcoholic?’
‘What?’
‘Sorry, I feel a bit ashamed. But do you have a lager with some alcohol in it? A crisp Corona? I’ll take a Carling? Please?’
‘Sorry mate, you’ll have to go to a specialist bar for that.
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