Saturday January 13 - Enter The Pub

My name's Will and I'm a social alcoholic. It's been 12 days, 16 hours and 17 minutes since my last drink.

Thank Christ for that - I've finally been to the pub.

It was getting slightly embarrassing. All that boasting about how my social circle revolves around pubs, and according to this blog I apparently never ventured into one.
I was beginning to think I must be one of those shameful part-time drinkers who clog up bars over the Christmas period, all novelty ties and tinsel deely boppers. A couple of egg nogs and they think they are Oliver Reed.

Fortunately, the natural drinking cycle began to regain its rhythm this week and I found myself in the boozer on both Thursday and Friday night.

On Thursday I went to meet Gary, Cardy and Sarah at the inappropriately named Coffee House, in Wavertree. This is one of those pubs that looks like it used to be "locals only" but has been given some kind of EU grant to accept a pre-agreed quota of "students", in order to improve social integration. They are allowed two tables and 15% of bar space, it would seem.

Now, when I say "students", I actually mean non-Scousers. My own drinking group is made up of gainfully employed tax-payers who have all held down proper jobs for at least five years. However, because we come mainly from outside Liverpool, and occasionally wear t-shirts with hilarious slogans on, I get the distinct impression that staff and locals still look at us and think: "Students."
I understand this phenomenon should last for only another 10 or 15 years, after which time we are officially naturalised as Liverpudlians in a ceremony which involves repeating the lyrics to Poor Scouser Tommy and claiming that we went to school with one of the Beatles. (Ringo Starr claims only accepted in conjunction with any one other lesser celeb, eg Gerry Marsden, Stan Boardman, Yosser Hughes.)

It was a low-key but pleasant enough night, with only one drawback. We were sat in the snug, underneath a television presumably set at the correct volume for one of the establishment's deaf customers. More precisely, it was set for a deaf customer who was still inside his own house, several miles away, with the radio on. Wearing ear-muffs.
And what were they playing to justify this ear-shattering volume? A crucial football match, perhaps? The Prime Minister declaring war on Germany? No, it was chuffing Judge John Deed. (For those who are interested, it appears that Judge Deed is no longer working some generic northern circuit, but now sits on a European tribunal. He remains, however, as rugged as ever and the closest thing to televisual H.R.T for ladies d'un certain age.)

The drinks looked very tempting indeed, and I nearly wept when Cardy casually left a half-finished pint of Guinness, but I stayed firm and drank soda and blackcurrant, which cost a reasonable 40p for a large glass.

I only mention that price because Friday night involved a trip to Fogherty's - a little Irish bar just off Smithdown Road, where you can still see live music and semi-live customers.
It may look like a social club but the cost of a pint of soda and black was....one whole pound. Yes, that's one quid for a dash of cordial and some carbonated water.
For that sort of money, I'd expect my soda and black served in a diamond-studded goblet, on a silver platter, by a Kate Moss lookalike. Instead I got a pint pot, on a sticky table, served by a Stirling Moss lookalike.

As for my fellow drinkers, let's just say that one well-refreshed woman manage to pick approximately four fights in the space of an hour, and her equally charming husband had to be helped from the premises by paramedics (this is true, I promise) after "slipping" in the toilets and banging his head. Or possibly being justifiably chinned. And to think I was gutted at missing Shameless on Tuesday night.

After that, I thought, you can keep your diamond-studded goblets and Kate Moss lookalikes.

Entertainment of that calibre is worth a pound of anyone's money.