Boozing in England
When I was nine years old, my family went to New Zealand for a few weeks. This was back before Lord of the Rings and Flight of the Conchords put New Zealand on the map as the central repository for [Subject] of the [Object] – at the time, it was just a tiny country known primarily for its export of sheep.
Yes, the sheep industry in New Zealand was so big that while the country boasted a human population of roughly three million, the sheep population was something like 50 million. This was pretty exciting for a suburban nine year old who hadn’t seen a lot of sheep before.
On our way from the airport to the hotel I excitedly snapped pictures of every sheep I saw. They were white, fluffy, and cute, and I had it in my head that they were so unique that I ought to record every one I saw on film in order to remember the experience better.
By my second day in New Zealand, I had seen so many sheep that I scarcely even noticed them any more, and to this day am decidedly unimpressed by the entire species.
I had a similar experience with pubs when I first came to London. In my initial travels around the city on my first day in town, I excitedly snapped a picture of every rustic, quintessentially English pub I saw, as they were totally new to me and I figured that they were entirely unique.
Now, just like sheep, I’ve become utterly desensitized to the presence of charming pubs on every corner. However, unlike sheep, I’m willing to go inside pubs and look for something to drink.
What I understand now is that my being impressed by the traditional, English appearance of pubs is about the same as an Englishman going to the United States and eagerly snapping pictures of an Applebee’s. “Cor blimey! They’ve got sports jerseys and old timey pictures of firemen hung on the walls! So quintessentially American! What a unique find!” As it turns out, all pubs have been following the same design standards (ornate mirrors, polished bars, thick carpet, ornamental taps) since pretty much forever. Just like you wouldn’t see an Applebee’s with a reserved, minimalist design, you won’t see a pub that doesn’t adhere to the same design standard every other pub has used for the past billion years.
And for the record, that’s a good thing.
Pubs are to England what The Force is to Star Wars - they’re everywhere, they hold the country together, and they’re awesome. In many ways, England is like a bigger, classier version of college, in that it’s a commonly accepted practice that everyone goes out and drinks pretty much every night. The pubs are where this happens. Everybody comes in, has a few beers, eats some food, and gets jolly with people from the community. It’s like Taco Tuesday, only it’s every night. And there’s usually no tacos, because nobody over here knows what the fuck Mexican food is.
A lot of people told me that I was going to have to start liking beer if I wanted to make it in England, because I would probably get beat up by soccer hooligans if they heard me ordering a bitch drink like a White Russian. And this is undoubtedly true, as I’ve met my fair share of Britons (my host father* among them) who are very quick to point out the things about America that are feminine or inferior, probably as some sort of belated resentment for having their asses handed to them in two separate wars a couple centuries ago.
*On our first night here, my housemate, Tom, mentioned over dinner that he was sad to be missing out on the end of the Portland Trailblazers’ season. My host father looked up. “That’s basketball, yeah?” He said. Tom nodded. “Hm.” My host father grunted. “It’s a women’s game, innit?”
Rather than start drinking beer, though, I’ve moved to cider, which is sort of like Diet Beer – fitting, as I am a Diet Coke man through and through. Also, cider has a higher alcohol content, high enough that our program director saw fit to warn us about it at orientation, lest we throw back several pints of cider without knowing what we were getting into.
There’s definitely something to be said for being able to walk into a pub, order a pint of cider and a reasonably priced meal, and then get a solid buzz on while watching a sporting event you don’t understand on TV between two teams you’ve never heard of* with a bunch of English strangers who, by virtue of being in a pub, are now your best friends.
*Which, admittedly, is the case for me with virtually every sport in the United States, as well.
These are people who don’t smile at you on the street or speak in the subway – it’s as though they save up the pleasantries until they’re in a dimly lit room full of booze and fried food, at which point they let loose.
Truman Capps enjoyed a pint of cider before a trip to the theater the other night, which made the play about Enron FAR more exciting.
Yes, the sheep industry in New Zealand was so big that while the country boasted a human population of roughly three million, the sheep population was something like 50 million. This was pretty exciting for a suburban nine year old who hadn’t seen a lot of sheep before.
On our way from the airport to the hotel I excitedly snapped pictures of every sheep I saw. They were white, fluffy, and cute, and I had it in my head that they were so unique that I ought to record every one I saw on film in order to remember the experience better.
By my second day in New Zealand, I had seen so many sheep that I scarcely even noticed them any more, and to this day am decidedly unimpressed by the entire species.
I had a similar experience with pubs when I first came to London. In my initial travels around the city on my first day in town, I excitedly snapped a picture of every rustic, quintessentially English pub I saw, as they were totally new to me and I figured that they were entirely unique.
Now, just like sheep, I’ve become utterly desensitized to the presence of charming pubs on every corner. However, unlike sheep, I’m willing to go inside pubs and look for something to drink.
What I understand now is that my being impressed by the traditional, English appearance of pubs is about the same as an Englishman going to the United States and eagerly snapping pictures of an Applebee’s. “Cor blimey! They’ve got sports jerseys and old timey pictures of firemen hung on the walls! So quintessentially American! What a unique find!” As it turns out, all pubs have been following the same design standards (ornate mirrors, polished bars, thick carpet, ornamental taps) since pretty much forever. Just like you wouldn’t see an Applebee’s with a reserved, minimalist design, you won’t see a pub that doesn’t adhere to the same design standard every other pub has used for the past billion years.
And for the record, that’s a good thing.
Pubs are to England what The Force is to Star Wars - they’re everywhere, they hold the country together, and they’re awesome. In many ways, England is like a bigger, classier version of college, in that it’s a commonly accepted practice that everyone goes out and drinks pretty much every night. The pubs are where this happens. Everybody comes in, has a few beers, eats some food, and gets jolly with people from the community. It’s like Taco Tuesday, only it’s every night. And there’s usually no tacos, because nobody over here knows what the fuck Mexican food is.
A lot of people told me that I was going to have to start liking beer if I wanted to make it in England, because I would probably get beat up by soccer hooligans if they heard me ordering a bitch drink like a White Russian. And this is undoubtedly true, as I’ve met my fair share of Britons (my host father* among them) who are very quick to point out the things about America that are feminine or inferior, probably as some sort of belated resentment for having their asses handed to them in two separate wars a couple centuries ago.
*On our first night here, my housemate, Tom, mentioned over dinner that he was sad to be missing out on the end of the Portland Trailblazers’ season. My host father looked up. “That’s basketball, yeah?” He said. Tom nodded. “Hm.” My host father grunted. “It’s a women’s game, innit?”
Rather than start drinking beer, though, I’ve moved to cider, which is sort of like Diet Beer – fitting, as I am a Diet Coke man through and through. Also, cider has a higher alcohol content, high enough that our program director saw fit to warn us about it at orientation, lest we throw back several pints of cider without knowing what we were getting into.
There’s definitely something to be said for being able to walk into a pub, order a pint of cider and a reasonably priced meal, and then get a solid buzz on while watching a sporting event you don’t understand on TV between two teams you’ve never heard of* with a bunch of English strangers who, by virtue of being in a pub, are now your best friends.
*Which, admittedly, is the case for me with virtually every sport in the United States, as well.
These are people who don’t smile at you on the street or speak in the subway – it’s as though they save up the pleasantries until they’re in a dimly lit room full of booze and fried food, at which point they let loose.
Truman Capps enjoyed a pint of cider before a trip to the theater the other night, which made the play about Enron FAR more exciting.