I am nervous as I walk into my local Wetherspoon. At best, I expect to
see women with tattoos pulling out one another’s hair while their
track-suited boyfriends puke for England. At worst, I expect to be stabbed.
If you were to watch Sky One’s Street Wars (and I do – I just can’t help
myself), you would believe that pedestrian precincts were battle zones: yobs
throwing punches at police; police throwing punches at yobs; slags in
gutters; hysteria; running mascara; foul mouths; vomiting, fighting and
copulating, all at the same time.
And Wetherspoon, in my overactive imagination, is the binge drinker’s church.
It is the pub chain that bucks the post-smoking-ban slump. While other
landlords are pulling their last pints and handing their keys to the
developers, Wetherspoon is in the black. It is the credit-crunched boozer’s
last refuge, offering discounts to fuel our descent into boozy chaos.
Hmmm. Here I am at the bar, and it’s not that bad. Mind you, it’s a quiet
Wednesday in a well-to-do commuter town. I imagine the Wetherspoon in
Nottingham or Newcastle on a Friday night might be more edgy. All we have
here are some 17-year-olds pretending to be 18 and a man with a long grey
beard, long grey hair and just enough change in his pocket to get quietly,
swayingly smashed next to the fruit machine.
Which is what I’m hoping I can achieve with a £20 note. To find out what is
exercising the government so much, I am binge-drinking with my friend
Martin. How binge-drunk can one get on a £20 note?
Pint of Abbot, please – £1.79. The government wants to stop all this drinking.
A report last week, Changing Our Drinking Culture, reported a steep rise in
alcohol-related hospital admissions. It blamed the industry for not doing
enough and it moved us closer to a mandatory code. Pubs and clubs will be
banned from serving wine in big glasses. Happy hours will be illegal.
Discount drinks will be out. “The evidence from the review and hospital
admissions data clearly makes this the right time to consult on a far
tougher approach to the alcohol industry,” says Dawn Primarolo, the public
health minister – a hectoring woman who really, really doesn’t like us
getting drunk.
Another Abbot, please – £1.79. Before you write in to say it’s not clever,
this binge-drinking lark, I hear you. I know it’s not the kindest way to
treat one’s liver, but this is a free society. Sort of. We should be allowed
to drink, to drink heavily, even into an early grave.
Pint of Barn Owl, boss – £1.79. The offers at Wetherspoon are irresistible.
Two meals for £7.69 is a cheap date in any country. Martin and I are taking
full advantage of the Wednesday real-ale club (£1.79 a pint! I’m used to
paying closer to £3). And the spirits, my goodness: £1.35 for a Bell’s with
a free mixer. And it’s £1 more to double up. Just a pound. And they always
ask if you want to double up.
Blimey, though, what’s an After Shock? Some sort of pink drink, like at the
dentist’s. Sounds like fun.
One After Shock, your honour – £1.70. I look around and decide I don’t like
the puke-coloured carpets. I know why they’re that colour.
“Let’s go halves on a cocktail pitcher to wash away the taste of the After
Shock,” I suggest, in an attempt to break through our loss of enthusiasm.
Martin looks nervous. We have to choose between a Woo Woo, a Blue Lagoon and
a Cheeky V (Wetherspoon appears to be adhering to a previous government
report that asked for a ban on aggressive names such as Killer, Flick Knife
and What You Looking At?).
Jug of Cheeky V, my good man – £2.30 each.
This consists of two WKDs (turquoise alcopops) and a 50ml shot of port. Yes,
port. It doesn’t quite wash the taste of the After Shock away.
According to the latest report from the Department for No More Fun, there are
811,000 alcohol-related hospital admissions a year, compared with 200,000
previously. And this figure is supposed to be increasing by 80,000 a year. I
need a drink.
Double Smirnoff and Red Bull, my faithful, long-serving bartender – £3.69.
At £13.06 I’m not ready to throw bricks through windows or stop respecting the
boys in blue (I love you, boys in blue) but I am drunk. More worryingly, I
have consumed the majority of my weekly govern-ment-recommended alcohol
intake. In a moment of clarity, we skip the tempting raspberry sambuca
spritzer offer (£1.70), the Pimm’s (£2.15 . . . oh posh), the mojitos, the
super-strength world beers and the wines (from £7.39 a bottle).
No, we need food. It’s too early/late for breakfast (£2.59 for a fry-up, every
day until noon, free wi-fi available). I’m too old for the children’s menu
(£3.49, with fruit bag and activity pack). Martin doesn’t fancy anything on
the £7.69-for-two menu, so we go for the burger-and-chips option. It costs
£4.59, which is a lot for a deeply depressing burger but – hang on a second
– includes one of, and I quote, “14 quality drinks”.
The burger deal, please. With a pint of Coors Light, since it’s included,
squire.
“I don’t think I can spend the whole £20,” Martin says.
“We should, though. A challenge is a challenge,” I reply.
What I don’t get, if we’re all supposed to be drinking 60% more than we were
in 1970 (but, incidentally, only 17% more than in 1976), is why all the pubs
are going out of business. Wetherspoon is doing all right. You could say
it’s the reason so many other, less mass-market, more atmospheric, better
pubs are being converted into luxury flats.
And in the same week as we were told we were in trouble for enjoying happy
hours, Enterprise Inns – which owns 7,800 pubs – said its profits were under
pressure from sharply declining beer volumes and the need to provide support
to its tenant landlords. About 600 have applied for assistance under its
business recovery scheme.
It’s confusing. And all I know right now, at 10.55pm on a miserable Wednesday
in this depressing Wetherspoon, is that I have £2.35 left.
One shot of Laphroaig. Splash of water. And no, sverykind really, but I won’t.
I just won’t double up. £2.05.
Martin doesn’t either. We zigzag back to our wives, 30p in our pockets,
apologies and excuses at the ready. The teenagers zigzag home too, but more
noisily. Annoyingly, even. Yobbishly. They’ll learn, Dawn; they’ll learn.
