I’m in a pub. It’s a chain pub with a main bar that takes dinner orders, but I’m in a function room with its own bar and own server, who just happens to be someone that I used to work with. It’s quite a nice bar, there’s an ornate wooden sideboard hosting the spirits, a black marble worktop and some handpumps although none of them seem to be labelled. I’m just about to ask what cask ales are available when I notice a small chalkboard that reads ‘no real ale’. The pubs have only just re-opened since the lockdown and obviously they haven’t managed to source any yet. So rather than asking, I just decide to order a cider instead. The bartender opens a small fridge and plonks a plastic bottle in front of me. ‘£7.75 please’. I understand that we’ve only just come out of lockdown but this looks more like a bottle of pop. Rather than embarrass her and complain about the price, I change my mind and order a pint of lager instead. This is served in a glass no smaller than a child’s sippy cup, and I’m charged £4.40 for the privilege. I secretly pay up and vow never to come here again.
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