4 hours ago
5
There was a time when I never left a pub before last orders. Whether or not I was enjoying myself – and on reflection I often wasn’t – I’d be in there until the bitter end. I think this is because, having spent most of my teenage years desperately seeking pubs prepared to serve me, once I was in there, even after I’d turned 18, I was going to make the most of it.
A while ago, an old friend was back in the area. We met at our teenage haunt – the Station Inn, West Hagley, since you ask. It was great to see him. But come 9.30pm there was a general feeling it was time to call it a night, and off we went. And I realised I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stayed out late enough to hear last orders called.
I took this to be a sad, if not unhealthy, sign of my advancing years. But I’m starting to wonder if it’s not just me. Once upon a time a pub wasn’t really a pub if it didn’t stay open until 11pm. These days, many a pub calls it a night an hour or two earlier if trade is quiet. Last Thursday, to mark VE Day, pubs were allowed to stay open until 1am. Announcing the move last month, our prime minister said, “Keeping our pubs open for longer will give people the opportunity to join in celebrations and raise a glass to all of the men and women who served their country, both overseas and at home.”
Back in the day, I’d have been bang up for this. As it was, not only did I know I’d not be taking part, neither could I imagine many pubs or their patrons doing so either. Yes, I know lots of people don’t go in to work on Fridays, making Thursday the new Friday etc, but I still couldn’t see it. Something has changed. It was almost as if the PM had made a nice-sounding announcement that, in practice, would have little or no impact.
I asked around the pubs near me and was met with shrugs and shakes of heads. I didn’t find one that opened late last week. In my local they didn’t even know it had been an option. I cast around for a landlord elsewhere and remembered a lost Saturday afternoon in a pub in Brighton, back in the deep midwinter of January. The Station Hotel – another “Station”; weird that – is next to Preston Park station. It’s worth a visit if you’re in the area because a) it’s a really nice place and b) for added interest Steve the landlord also works as a professional John Terry lookalike, which is exactly the kind of randomly intriguing stuff you come across having random conversations in random pubs. It’s what pubs are for.
I called him up and asked him if he’d stayed open late on Thursday. He hadn’t. Had he even considered it? He hadn’t. He said there would have been no point – no demand for it any more. I asked him what had changed. “Covid, mate,” said Steve. “Everything changed during Covid.” His view is that many pub-goers stopped going to pubs, and younger people don’t drink like they used to. And then there’s his rising overheads, employment costs, the NI increase and so on. He’ll be fine, I’m sure. He’s tackling these challenges with the determination of, well, John Terry at his best.
I called up my old haunt, the Station Inn, West Hagley. Did they open late last Thursday? “Nah, mate.” Did anyone else round there? “Don’t think so.” No bad thing, I suppose, as long it’s not a sign, a portent of doom, that pubs’ days are numbered.
To do my bit, I’m going back there soon, determined to make it all the way to closing time. As long as I get a nap in first, I think I’ll be fine. There’s life in the old dog yet.
