The pub was one of Edinburgh's gems. The Victorian decor was glorious. The beer was OK (why is it that the beer in real ale pubs is always just that wee bit off the pace?). There was no Muzak, and the place was heaving, as it always is. We had a good time because the conversation flowed, prompting the Burd to observe: "That's the third 'one for the road' you're on."
I CANNOT believe pubs are going down the Swannee. Don't bother me with the evidence. I didn't get where I am today by paying attention to that kind of cack. Watch my lipingtons: the pubs are all packed. It's the same story with garages and shops: any
where you see a massive crowd of customers is bound to be followed by a report that it's closing down for lack of custom. What are they on about? The pubs are mobbed. Though one reason people stop going to pubs is that you can't get a seat.
And it's true, some things are missing. This column reports exclusively every week about the lack of old people in our pubs, streets and massage parlours. They sit at home swilling sherry and stout, watching the television programme of their choice without the hollering of drunk youngsters in shorts. Also, in these days of weak bladders, they can waddle willy-nilly to their own lavatorial suite without having to stand in a row beside 7ft tall divinity students micturating like horses.
But enough of the elderly. They have given up on society and so society must turn its back on them. No, it's the young and middle-aged – particularly the latter – we look to when it comes to filling the boozers. You do see young people in pubs, but the men are always drinking from wee half-pint bottles. What jessies. Beer has to be swilled from a pint glass, as this allows the mooth to open sufficiently wide for gluttonous intake. The bottle brigade don't drink beer, they sook it.
Mind you, in terms of custom, maybe it's only the city or toon centre pubs that are mobbed. No-one meets up in suburban or localised pubs now, because as Hilda Thatcher correctly pointed out, there's no such thing as community, and everyone meeting their mates from a' teh airts and pairts chooses a central pub. And most of these are crap.
Three of us spent four hours in one on Saturday night, and the service was diabolical. It wasn't slow. It was surly. The staff couldn't have been grimmer – and they weren't even Scottish! They were the usual mixture of eastern Europeans and antipodeans but, clearly, they'd adopted Scottish mores.
But you wouldn't want to go back for the leery-eyed welcome, the lack of thanks, and the sheer inhumanity of the folk whose wages you were paying. Sure, I know it's the 20th century. Everybody's "cool" and unpleasant. You don't want to be caught smiling in case folk think you're a dweeb. But we go to the pub to have a good time and to get sloshed in an atmosphere of comfort and safety. Who wants to be scowled at by the folk supposedly serving you? At home, you can sit drinking in your pants with a sombrero on your heid and nobody bats an eyelid – because there's nobody there with an eyelid to bat.
I'm just getting a message on my earpiece. Apparently, it's the 21st century. Well, that would explain it, right enough.
How long before C4 gets a Brazilian?IT'S a long time since this column turned its forensic attention to Brazil. The controversial Latin American country has been prospering since the fall of the Berlin Wall, and has now become so westernised that its citizens are addicted to soap operas. As reported in this very newspaper yesterday, one of these soaps is Chamas da Vida ('Avenue of Moustaches'), right, which top critics describe as "steamy".
You can imagine the sort of thing: sweaty men in vests sitting on brick walls eating corned beef straight from the tin; sultry temptresses discarding their outer garments in the wilting heat; fat, middle-aged wifies wielding brooms in histrionic displays of outrage at slum landlords.
Although I have never seen the show, it is clearly awful. So it can only be a matter of time before it is snapped up by Channel 4.
The full article contains 748 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
