'You're barred, you bastards..............!'

An amusing piece in the DT about rude landlords being one of the pleasures of the English pub made me reflect that they are now an endangered species.

The doyen was Norman Balon of the ‘Coach & Horses’ in Soho, home of the Private Eye lunches, which to my eternal regret I never visited, although I have done most Soho pubs over the years.

The title of this piece is also the title of his autobiography which, amazingly, is still in print. Norman retired in 2006 after 53 years in the pub. His clientele included Peter O’Toole, Jeffrey Barnard, John Hurt, and of course, the Eye mob. None was immune from being barred by the fame and fortune. He would tell you to ‘Fack orf’ if he didn’t like the look of you.

I have known many publicans in my misspent career, some unforgettable characters amongst them.

One such was old Dick Weston at the ‘Stock Bear’.

Dick had been a soldier in the Royal Horse Artillery, or, as he used to call it , the Royal Arse Hortillery. His call for time went ‘Time , gennelmen, purleez. Kindly pick up your monkeys and parrots and fall in facing the boat. Kindly disport yourselves in the stable yard. See you all in Church tomorrow morning. I shall be reading the first lesson’. (Fat chance).

This came from his service in India when the tour was 7 years. During the years  the squaddies had often acquired an array of exotic pets which they had with them when embarking on the troopship for home. Hence the command.

God help you if you rapped on the bar for service – ‘This ain’t no knocking shop’ would be the riposte.

When he left school at 12 or 13 he became a carter. One of his weekly tasks was to take an old lady’s urine sample to the doctor’s surgery. One icy day, the horse slipped and the bottle fell over and emptied. Dick said ‘So I whistled up the hoss and got him to pee in the bottle. Next week I passed the old lady’s cottage, and she called out ‘Don’t need you no more, Dick. I’m cured!’

I never saw Dick pull a pint. He left that to his ancient barman while he regaled his customers with such tales.

My old friend Tom Davis kept pubs in Suffolk.

He had a fine disregard for licensing hours. The custom was for the last man in at closing time to lock the front door. One night we were still carousing at 3 a.m. when a police Sergeant marched into the bar. There was a silence, especially as one of the party was Alderman Poole of the Police Committee. Then the copper said ‘Mr Davis, do you know your front door’s unlocked?’ and left.

He was the complete opposite of Norman. He had the manner of a retired Brigadier with a military moustache, and was always impeccably polite – his rudeness was of the subtle variety. If a customer came in whom he didn’t like the look of he would say ‘I think, sir, that you would be better suited in the Woolpack opposite’, a rough boozer. In fact, he was the son of an East End Jewish fishmonger, and far from being a Brigadier he had seen out the war as a constable in the Met. He reckoned he had a good war as there were few men on his beat, so amorous dalliances on nightshift were a regular occurrence.

The wife of one customer  was a frustrated stripper. She needed little excuse. Her old farmer husband had merely to say ‘Make me larf, gal’, and she would gyrate around the saloon bar completely starkers.

Tom was unique; he always bought his round. He would serve himself a double scotch by going up to the optic behind his head while continuing his conversation. His catch-phrase was ‘I’ll just have another; it could be my last’.

Alas, one day it was.