Subversion! At The New Inn
Lose the pub, lose important conversations.
Tom and I play cards and drink pints in our local pub about two or three times a week. We go because it’s a comfortable place to be, and because it’s nice to feel remembered and familiar somewhere—and also at the moment because the lure of a proper fire is irresistible. We also go to The New Inn because often, the conversations you get drawn into take you by surprise.
Now, our local has something of a reputation for having certain regulars who repeat jingoistic balls from certain newspapers verbatim, but walk away and you’ll find people worth speaking to. Like the man in khaki and combat boots, with his shiny antifash badges from the 1970s, always rolling a tab, ready for the class war when it comes. Or the fella with Bedlington terriers and a fantastic selection of metal tees—we got chatting when it turned out that, yes, he was actually wearing a Sólstafir shirt. There’s the guys who teach us how to play dominoes, and the guy who drinks red wine and likes to talk about films. These are some of the people I know in passing at the pub. Pubmates.
But today’s newsletter isn’t about them. It’s about Tom—another Tom—and Phil, two men I’ve seen in the pub for more than a decade, but never chatted to before.
The pub was quiet, except for one man, revving himself up about immigration and benefits. He had many opinions, loud ones, formed from facts he’d only half-remembered. My Tom could tell I was about to get involved and gently nipped my arm. It means—it’s not worth it. It means—this man is not worth ruining your pint over. Across the bar, a man in his 70s bides his time while his pint settles. The politician asks nobody in particular whether they think a well-known local businessman ever had any handouts. When nobody in particular answers, he agrees with himself that this is because he set up his business through sheer hard work, adding that he never took any handouts. The man across the bar clears his throat.
“Have you asked him about that?” he asks.
“Asked who?”
“[businessman’s name]. Have you asked ‘im? Whether he had any help setting up?”
Without waiting for an answer he took his pint back to the lounge, and we followed him. I wanted to know what he knew about this businessman.
Our quiet afternoon pint became an hour-long discussion about the distance between people’s understanding of what working class means, and what it is. We spoke about benefits—”I’ve been on ‘em. He ‘as (pointing at other Tom, who tells us he’s in his 80s.) There’s no shame in it. It’s what they’re there fuh.” We spoke about the retirement age and the state pension—issues close to their lives, but they were incredibly sympathetic to our generation too, who probably won’t even get to retire. Then we talked about the strikes. We talked about how frustrating it is to hear people wilfully misunderstand the point of strike action and unionisation. To hear people side with the Tories against the rights of their friends, neighbours, fellow workers—themselves.
Tom and Phil left for their teas, and we made a move too. On the way home I waved my arms like the two-pint revolutionary I am, telling my Tom how important it is to have common spaces for people to freely share ideas, to congregate—and the more that these places, like pubs, are restricted, taken away, closed down; the more the hospitality industry is left to wheeze on without support, the more suspicious I get.
Use your local pub. Drink there, enjoy it. But also, if it so moves you, use it for action too. Even if that action is only sewing the seeds of an idea. Even if it’s just showing somebody else that they are not alone in their thoughts. Pubs are powerful. What’s more—they are ours.
Other Stuff
Steph Shuttleworth on pubs and brass bands. Yeaahhh, the north!
Manchester’s entangled beer and wine scene, studied by Rachel Hendry.
The TT Races have made a miniseries called Between the Hedges and I am loving it so far. Even if you don’t care about racing, the excitement of some of the riders still is just… It’s really sweet.
MORE Rachel Hendry, in the form of her newsletter J’adore Le Plonk. This week: Bacchus. Sexy? She thinks so.
A very good interview about poetry with poet Kevin P. Gilday.
”…poetry is so obsessed with keeping that door shut…it likes to be this insular little community where everyone feels very special about what they’re doing.”RIP Tom Verlaine. Patti Smith remembers him in a beautiful obituary.
Nine ways of looking at a pint of Guinness, by Ana Kinsella.
Funnily enough, Diageo announced this week that Guinness is the UK’s biggest selling beer (h/t Roger Protz.) If the figures can be independently verified, I wouldn’t be surprised—they’ve got the marketing, the consistency and the weight behind them to squash competition. What did surprise me, however, was the weirdly common response (on Twitter) to this news of “but I never see anyone drinking it!”
Lies. Saying you’ve never seen anyone buy a Guinness at the pub is like saying you’ve never seen a Labrador. Have you never been to a wake? The social club with your granda? A bog-standard pub? Out drinking with me?
Evelyn Dunbar — A Land Girl And The Bail Bull, 1945