Last February the Yerkess family of Lancashire – successful businessman Vernon, wife Theresa and their two sons – decided to drop by Brady’s Bar, in Whalley, for a nightcap. When the younger boy, 18, was asked for ID, he made the unfortunate decision to racially abuse the Asian-looking doorman. After he was subsequently barred from entry, his brother hurled more racial abuse. A messy street brawl commenced, and the police were called. Yerkess Sr began shouting, and his wife hit an officer round the head with one of her shoes. They were subsequently arrested.
It wasn’t the best night out for the Yerkess family, and they weren’t afraid to say so. The very next day Theresa Yerkess posted a bad review of Brady’s Bar on TripAdvisor – a scathing single star out of five. “We had been out for a meal with family,” she wrote, “and decided to call on the way home for one drink here. Both my sons were beaten, as was my husband and myself for trying to protect them. When the police arrived they arrested both my husband and myself and we spent the night in the cells.”
A masterpiece of concision, this version of events is all the more powerful for the details it leaves out. But no one who read it could be in any doubt that the Yerkesses give the place a big thumbs-down. “We won’t be visiting again,” she wrote.
It’s not the only bad review of Brady’s on TripAdvisor (the house wine isn’t up to much, apparently; the Yerkesses were spared that, at least), but this downbeat assessment based on a single visit is out of step with the many glowing testimonials posted (“Amazing food, service and atmosphere!!!!”). This week Mr Yerkess and his sons admitted affray. Mrs Yerkess accepted a police caution.
This may seem satisfactory, but the Yerkess review is still on TripAdvisor. Brady’s Bar has enough on its plate – it’s still trying to live down someone’s “disgusting mojito” from August 2015.
Fair-weather fan
For two weekends running I’ve had occasion to visit the north of England – first Saltaire, then York. On each occasion I arrived to warm temperatures, blue skies and blazing sunshine, in contrast to the dull London mornings I’d left behind. I knew enough not to look surprised.
When I brought up the subject of the glorious weather I expected to be told off for my southern preconceptions, but in Saltaire everyone kept saying it had been threatening rain all day, more or less until the moment I turned up. In York a hotel clerk shrugged noncommittally, as if I were trying to secure some guarantee of similar conditions for my next visit.
I wrestled with two possible conclusions: that the people of the north wish to keep their rather-better-than-widely-believed weather a secret; or, that things change so frequently and with so little warning that to speak of “weather” as a fixed set of conditions capable of characterising a whole afternoon marks one out as hopelessly naive. As I left the hotel in York rain began to fall from the clear blue sky. Up the street ahead of me, pedestrians in shorts and T-shirts produced umbrellas from nowhere.
Sleep or Trump?
Having lived outside the US for nearly 30 years, I haven’t stayed awake for a Super Bowl or World Series game in decades. Faced with the choice between a renewed sense of connection to my homeland and a good night’s sleep, I opt for the latter.
But I made an exception for the first presidential debate. If something was going to go horribly right for Donald Trump I felt duty bound to be there when it happened. It didn’t, and I can say that watching Trump flounder live is much more satisfying than a brief radio summary the instant your alarm goes off. But still not better than a night’s sleep. I’ll skip the next one. No spoilers, please.
