I’ve seen a lot of crazy things while out and about broadening my beer knowledge, but I think last night just about topped it in terms of just plain daftness.
Last night I was refused entry into a pub for wearing shorts.
Not some swanky London craft beer emporium, nor a swish glitzy city wine bar, it was J D Wetherspoons in Newcastle Under Lyme.
Now I know we had our official three days of British Summertime about two weeks ago, but I’m a dedicated shorts wearer generally for the duration of the summer/rainy-season regardless of the inclement conditions. I’m not talking Bjorn Borg style ball huggers here by the way, just plain old comfy cargo type attire.
We’d gone into Newcastle as a last resort yesterday and were in search of a few decent beery pubs. Generally I don’t tend to frequent any of the local Spoons pubs because they a bit grotty, plus are normally either full of shumbling alchy’s or the nightclub crowd in there to get tanked up on cheap booze so they don’t have to spend money when they get into the cattle market. As we were passing though we decided to give it a go.
As I strolled up to the door the two burly black Gestapo-esque doormen both barred my path and said those immortal words “sorry mate, you can’t come in here”, you’ve got shorts on!
Now I’m sorry, I’m picking no argument with the door staff, they are there to do their job and are generally a welcome sight when the drunken dick-heads start inevitably kicking off, but shorts for christ’s sake, in Wetherspoons.
Perhaps the Wetherspoons management were trying to save me from being swamped by the hordes of scantily clad ladies within?
I can picture the scene as I walk in and stroll up to the bar. Freshly oiled, tanned naked leg flesh on show, shorts blowing softly in the breeze as I go. Every muscle and sinew is rippling in perfect harmony, my greek godlike presence filling the room with a testosterone fuelled aura of pure masculinity. In the background I can hear the sound of chairs scraping, the little squeals of excited women and a clip-clop of footsteps as they come tottering after me on six inch heels like rats following the pied piper, skirts barely hiding their thong covered bum cracks..
Fifty Shades of Grey eat your heart out…(maybe)
Joking aside though, what kind of message are they trying to send to customers, you are welcome sometimes, when we need you, but not when the place is heaving with folks that wouldn’t know a decent beer if you drowned them in it.
I’m assuming they’d like to be associated with good beer and not alcopops and Fosters, that’s why CAMRA send me those money of vouchers every year right?
Perhaps they’d do better employing doormen at ten o clock in the morning, they could get them to have a word with red nosed all-dayer brigade, all threadbare grubby suits and cheap trainers, stinking of urine and stale smoke?
Perhaps then I’d go in more often and actually get to use my vouchers, maybe then have something good to say..