June 2024. Oxted. Surrey.
Last leg of “Operation get the in-laws back to Kent“, and a minor detour off the M25 into deep, dark, Surrey,
where I was surprised to find they remembered a 2021 visit with me, but then I suppose they visit fewer pubs (it is “fewer”, innit ?) than me.
“I remember this !” says Michael, which is A Good Thing, even if he couldn’t name it as Oxted’s Haycutter.
“Have we booked ?”
Gentlefolk love booking, don’t they. Actually, there seems a lot less booking (it is “less” innit ?) at Brunning and Pricey than you’d expect, given their genteel reputation.
As we approach the bar, I noted with disappointment the lack of Harvey’s that Michael wants on his birthday and sat, loudly, “It’s Shere Drop you want“.
A minute later, a nice lady pops over to take drinks orders.
Turning to Margaret and Mrs RM, she starts,
“Ladies, would you like to see the wine list ?”.
Well, red rag to a bull, there.
“Actually we’d like to know what real ales you have” starts Mrs RM, ignoring my earlier instructions
“Have the Shere Drop“. I hiss.
The wine lady (there’s a posh word) scuttled off, never to be seen again.
Interestingly, a similar example of casual sexism happened here in 2021 when the server plonked two pints of Harvey’s in front of the two blokes without asking.
I know cask is dead and all, but this was great, and much better than the Harvey’s of 3 years ago. It’s a lottery I seem to win a lot these days.
In fairness to Brunning & Price, the food (fish and chips and linguine) was better than last time here, too, and the young staff were their usual cheery selves.
On the downside, the bile beans adverts have been replaced with etiquette advice,
and a photo showing what the Haycutter looked like in 1970.
Those old boys wouldn’t recognise the place now.
retiredmartin 
I suspect like most blokes of that era, they would have adapted through time. Jumping into another time would be disastrous for any of us (people bathing once a week?!).
My father was a drinker around Salford and Eccles in the early 70s. Four pints of Holt’s at lunch then drive back to the smoke-filled office.
He’s clearly more at home in Stockton’s Sun Inn on visits, but didn’t mind a few halves of marshmallow stout craft at Play Brew…
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I’m afraid we are out of babycham, but I have a lovely bottle of Blue Nun on ice.
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Next it’ll be “Ladies, would you be interested in the meat raffle ?” as they’ll be the ones cooking the Sunday lunch !!
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Nice bit of casual class distinction on the cricket poster.
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Announcement at Lord’s in the 50s: “We regret there is an error in today’s scorecard: F J Titmus should read Titmus F J.”
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That’s exactly what I thought of when I saw the poster. I suppose young people wouldn’t understand.
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Took me a while to work out what you meant ! Are the players without initials the ones without Sky TV ?
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I’ve read old cricket books with scorecards where the amateurs are listed as Mr P B H May, Mr M C Cowdrey etc and the professionals as Trueman, Statham etc
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From what we heard this week it’s the other way round.
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Oxted is the home town of the man most likely to be the next Prime Minister, and where his father was an oily handed toolmaker on a factory shop floor, or owned a small engineering works depending on who you believe.
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I’m never sure what to make of Oxted, although the town’s station acted as a useful staging post, when I was walking the North Downs Way a couple of years ago.
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