Wait until next year

Monday, a day off and finally some sunshine, so I spent the day working in the garden, doing some good honest manual labour for once. By late afternoon my body was creaking and it was clear I needed a long, cold drink. I headed for the Duke.

The Duke is a funny old place. You have to ring a buzzer and wait to see if they will let you in. There’s a big screen behind the bar where staff can check whether you’re OK or look like you might start trouble, and then choose to ignore you, speak through the intercom, or buzz you in. I guess this kind of thing could give off a cool speakeasy vibe, of being allowed into a secret den, but in reality it all just feels a bit awkward – furtively waiting outside a pub for their judgement on whether you are a suitable patron or not.

I’ve heard this is related to past trouble, or their licensing conditions, or a combination of the two. I don’t know for sure. But I guess if it means a pub has stayed open I can’t be too critical, even if it does spoil things a little. It’s nice to walk into a pub without fanfare.

So, you press the buzzer, then you hear a second buzz – the judgement has been made and you’re allowed in! However, it is at this point that you realise that the door is really stiff. Or maybe the mechanism hasn’t unlocked yet. One last push and, yes, as you are propelled into the bar it turns out the door just is really stiff after all. It is not the most dignified entrance.

But things pick up. The TV is showing an 80s music channel. “Cuddly Toy” by Roachford has just started playing. I get a warm welcome from the barmaid. It is a pleasantly cluttered place, lots of pictures on the walls, various vases and knick-knacks about, bottles of spirits three-deep behind the bar, but all tastefully done. Somewhere that feels cozy without feeling like you are somebody’s nan’s house. The place was done up a few years ago and with the decor and a really nice green tiled bar it is far, far better than the hovel it used to be. This used to be a pub everyone swerved. Now when I walk by on a Friday night it is packed, generally with an older, fairly affluent crowd, by the looks of things.

I take my drink and then face my next challenge. Where to sit? It’s not that it’s busy, far from it, but every table is adorned with a little reserved label. I mill about a bit. The barmaid realises my predicament and reassures me they are just for Bingo Night later on and I’m free to sit where I like. Crisis averted. But with this and the door shenanigans I feel like a real novice.

The place starts to fill up, slowly. A tradesman with a pint and a paper. A man who sits at the bar, gets out his tablet and controller and starts playing computer games with his pint – certainly not what you see in every pub, but seems as good an activity as any. Some women enter and seem to have brought along some Tarot cards. The gentle hub-bub of regulars begins.

A beer rep decked out in company gear comes in after having similar trouble with the whole buzzer/stiff door set-up. It is good to know I’m not alone. I suspect being a beer rep is not the most fun job. Nobody wants to watch a salesman in a pub. He isn’t too pushy, seems more focused on being helpful, and is soon on his way.

I finish my pint and pop across the road for a Chinese takeaway. I don’t want to get caught up in the rush when the bingo starts.