A warm community of regulars: British pub cliches that have never been true

JEREMY Clarkson’s new ‘100 per cent British’ pub has dared play American music, but the British love of the pub has always been based on myths:

The myth of the good jukebox

A quid a song? It was always streaming at iTunes prices, and you’d miss half your song because you hadn’t noticed the bloke before’s Def Leppard had finished. The shit musical taste of others is a perpetual problem, especially in the 70s when kids given money to go away would spend their 10p on Showaddywaddy as revenge.

The myth of national identity

Brits like alcohol and talking, but beyond this how are pubs an intrinsic part of a shared culture? You’re not drinking there as a big fan of George IV. Are the blue blocks in the urinals part of our national identity? Have we irrevocably lost our culture now you don’t uncover a topless woman by buying peanuts?

The myth of funny regulars

Those who drink at the bar, anaesthetising themselves against the disappointments of life? They’re not getting a lot of other offers. Their banter certainly isn’t up to Cheers standards. They stand one step from the alcoholic anonymity of Wetherspoons and they know it.

The myth of a rite of passage

Better than getting shitfaced in the park, but a major milestone? More of an event in the 1950s when accounts suggest you were given a pint of bitter then ignored by your elders as you tried manfully to get the bastard down.

The myth of warm community

Unless you live on the Mull of Kintyre, the social composition of your local pub is: 90 per cent strangers; five per cent vague acquaintances; the local Rotary Club; a twat from the year below at school. Basically it’s only a community hub if you live in EastEnders. Is that a community you want to be part of?

The myth of the flirtatious barmaid

She won’t be the landlady. She’ll be a student on the cusp of reactive depression due to the repetitive innuendo, mindless conversations about crisps and ignorant shit spouted as fact. Why would she flirt? This isn’t Coyote Ugly. It’s The Flintlock public house in Hinckley, Leicestershire.

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The cost of Rachel Reeves's spending spree based on how much you hate her

THE chancellor yesterday outlined a government spending spree of either £113bn, £300bn, or £4 trillion, depending on the strength of your loathing for her. Which are you? 

Simpering do-gooder lefty scum: £113 billion

Not nearly enough. Why, at these pathetic levels public sector workers may face pay pressure in three years, and it doesn’t reverse any of those terrible cuts hurting the less fortunate who only vote Reform because they feel neglected and put-upon.

Rachel Reeves hate-o-meter: Contempt certainly, unease at the suspicion she’s better than you at maths because you work in the arts, and strong feelings a better haircut would help. 2/10

Salt-of-the-earth working bastard: £300 billion

Women spend what they haven’t bloody got, and this one’s no exception. It’s far too much and it’s going to mean more taxes, which means you doing more cash-in-hand for dodgy twats. Also, why wasn’t 100 per cent of GDP committed to stopping the asylums and another 150 per cent for defence? It’s what Boris Johnson wants and didn’t do.

Rachel Reeves hate-o-meter: Fierce, shouting-‘daft bint’-at-the-telly disgust. She can’t add up! She only said she could on her CV. The truth is she reminds you of when you get called in by HR. 6/10

Delusional online ultra-right Farage/Trump/Putin acolyte: £4 trillion

Dire forecasts of the entire US national debt post-Trump’s Booty Bill are $4 trillion. Rachel Reeves is spending even more. £57,971 per head, none of which will improve British lives in any material way and all of which will be taken from your pay, your bank, your home. You await the trigger for revolution: a crime committed which could possibly be by a non-white person.

Rachel Reeves hate-o-meter: You sleep fists clenched, teeth grinding, her primary-school-headteacher face floating before you. Each morning you wake hoping Good Morning Britain will be reassuringly be presented by a post-coup military junta. Even the crows on the branches croak ‘Reeeves’, mockingly. 22/10