Our local tavern – one of the three in the village we are lucky enough to have – is choc-full on Christmas Eve of people who obviously don’t ‘go to the pub.’
They are as easily spotted as kids from Peckham at the Royal Opera House, they are nervous and move extremely quickly past the darker portals of the Inn – the toilets and the smoking area are particularly awkward for them to traverse. The locals sitting on ‘their stools’ at the bar fold their arms, cock their heads and watch them with barely disguised contempt. The children of these intruders are also in situ, the landlord is a kind and genial chap who welcomes these youngsters with open arms: as long as they are out by 7pm and don’t go within 6 metres of the bar. There is also a large bowl of water provided for them at the rear entrance.
Two non-pub ladies hog a third of the bar and order two J2O’s (what the fuck is that? ) a half of lager and a cup of tea. It takes – and I had a stopwatch on ‘em – four minutes to complete this laughable request. In Newport we would have been serviced with seven pints of SA, a rack of Jeigermeister bombs, three double Crème de Menthes and fourteen packets of dry roasted in the same time-frame.
The locals grimace, and the non-pub people feel even more under siege, the spirit of Christmas washes warmly over me and I smile and say ‘no hurry’ as they dig into their wallet to find their cheque book.
We leave after six Guinness’ with port depth charges and wander home down our idyllic village lane that is lit with fairy lights as the bells from the church call the faithful to matins. We wonder if the birth of our saviour should be judged on how much top-shelf we can get off our knockers on or on our kindness and compassion to all men.
I shall go to bed confused on this Holy night.
