The Pub.

It’s not that I want to suggest that the immediate act upon arriving in England is to head to the pub… but right now, I’m heading to the pub.

The Oxford English Dictionary simply defines the noun “pub” as a public house, or inn; a bar or tavern. “Pub,” as a verb, is to visit or frequent a pub or pubs. You’d think the folks at Oxford might have a word or two more to say on the matter, considering their English roots, but, alas, they don’t.

To keep the record straight, a pub is much more than a bar. Somewhere along the 20^th century, bar culture in America became stigmatized as a breeding-ground for alcoholics, creepers, the promiscuous, and the lazy. And frankly, it’s become a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, in my opinion. But pubs…they make all the difference. Paraphrasing a bit of Shakespeare, it all begins in the name. For some reason, pub names always seem to stem from something nautical, royal, idyllic, or are self-referential. The Deck-Hold, The Crusted Hook, The Fox & The Lamb, Admiral Wallace, London Pub. They say so much without saying anything at all. I suspect that the name of the pub you frequent ends up correlating with your personality. Or at least your intentions.

Looking for a friendly environment to wind-down in after a long day? Head to The Nag's Head.

 

Want to butter-up a few influential co-workers after work? Or stand outside seeming approachable during the day? Check out Marquis Cornwallis:

Ready for more than a couple dozen pints? The Ship Tavern has everything in store:

All pubs essentially offer the same thing, but none of them offer it the same way. Maybe The Viaduct Tavern is more your cup of tea (…no pun intended):

But what about The George? All the great Lords of the Royal Court managed to stumble in here at ungodly hours to satisfy that kick inside:

Curious about the ailing and aged English men who long ago had the best years of their lives? The Jolly Sailor is full with more than just jolly sailors…

 

 

Beyond the name, walking into a pub is like unfurling a large, aged blueprint across a wooden table stained with water rings: once you know how to read it, the structure and function is immediately clear. The slight darkness of the space lets blurred faces blend into walls, into people, and yet, exposes every corner and flaw under the same light. The Game is begging to be played. Somewhere between man’s awareness of the effects of alcohol and the desire to congregate with others, the pub became the essential tool in playing The Game. Yeah, you know The Game. It’s the same game everyone plays with themselves and with others, conscious or not. The black dress, the new tie, the suit, the smile, the wink, the fine art of flattery and high-class craft of conversation. All becomes fair in love and war in the pub, a place where you don’t blink an eye at giggling, wandering schoolchildren and 65-year-old Manchurian men congregating in the same environment. It’s the epic joke that keeps getting told through time, reminding you again and again that no interaction, reaction, or form of “courting” is real. But, you’re probably thinking: Isn’t that the point? That none of it is real? Is there a greater appeal than playing the part, reading the lines, wearing the costume? You’re right. The Game is great because it’s a fantasy. And that’s why we go to the pub.

Oh, and for the beer. Let’s talk about the beer for a second. That precious, gorgeous golden cup of joy, confidence, humor, and love is definitely a crucial element to The Game, but I think it goes beyond that. What is it about that pint of cider, that glass of ale, that elixir of life? More than 27 million pints of beer are sold in United Kingdom every day. There has to be something to it. I mean, pub owners realized God-knows-when that when it comes to nourishment, the alcohol presupposes the food, which is exactly why all pub food is greasy and heavy and meant to compliment the ale, and not the other way around. There’s even the secret in the ordering process. Only the classified elite can comprehend the act of getting the attention of the wandering, mindless moron standing at the tap, pouring drink after drink, never looking up. And for some incomprehensible reason (which actually may simply come down to a matter of accent), the proper way to order a drink is not to enunciate but mumble your way through it. (i.e. Do not say, I’d like a Magners Cider, please, but something more along the lines of GimmeMagnahcidah.) Mumbling will get you a drink. Words will not.

So, what does this come down to? What is the pub all about? Essentially, without waving too much at buzzing flies in an empty room, the pub is life. There’s the constructed space of non-reality, actors moving across the stage, and audience participation through every gulp of that golden-magic-juice. It seems there’s no other alternative to 61,838,154 people trapped on an island, right? Right? Take a drink and think about it.