99% of my pub visits, i.e. 594 a year, are enjoyable affairs.
The odd one, a Conservative Club in Berkshire or a Buckinghamshire gastro with high tables for drinkers for instance, will disappoint.
Very rarely do I leave a pub upset, unless they’ve been showing a City CAR decision or have Coldplay on repeat.
The next one upset me, in the way Paul Mudge was upset in Spoons recently by being accused of shouting. Paul is the gentlest bloke I know.
I’m keeping this anonymous, as I don’t want a fight with the pub, concerned, and there’s always fault on both sides (Paul really shouldn’t have asked for a taster of the Doom Bar).
Mildly busy estate pub, Sunday afternoon, loud music, locals standing along the bar blocking the pumps, me the only non local.
I squash in next to what is known in Only Fools and Horses parlance as the bar flap (don’t overthink this) and do my fat middle aged bloke politely waiting for service thing.
I can see the pumps dispensing Adnams Bitter, Ghost Ship and Old. Hurrah!
The barmaid spots me while she’s pouring a Bitter and shouts,
“What you having?”
“Another pint of the Bitter please” I say, pointing at the pump.
“I’m serving someone else!” she barks.
I’m taken aback, and assume I misheard her shouting “Be with you in a minute“.
So I profusely apologise when she asks what I want a minute later.
“A pint of that Bitter please”
A minute or two later a John Smiths glass arrives.
“Sorry. I asked for the Bitter”
“Bitter means John Smiths Smooth. If you’d wanted a real ale you should have asked for it”
“I’m not arguing with you”
She was, and the bar knew it. I felt like the bloke taking a pint back in Deal that time.
She changed it, with maximum bad grace.
Anyway. I felt like dirt.
And the worst thing?
That pint of Bitter was nectar. NBSS 4 at least.