I’ve been considering what makes the perfect pub. This is in preparation for an appearance on a forthcoming podcast by the comedian John Robins, called The Moon Under Water. The title is a reference to something George Orwell wrote in 1946 about his idea of a perfect pub – which, sadly, he had to admit didn’t exist. This might be the perfect time to think about your perfect pub. With all of them closed, you can take a step back and give this weighty question the attention it deserves.
To simply say you like pubs generally is like saying you like books, or food. What kind of books? What kind of food? Judging by Orwell’s interest, even in 1946 all pubs weren’t the same; now they come in all shapes and sizes. What, I wonder, would George have made of Wetherspoons or your average gastropub?
In my teens I was no aficionado; all I cared about was getting served. When I was 20 I travelled across the US by Greyhound bus with a couple of mates. Being underage there, it was only about getting a bartender to believe I was 21. But the night I got back I went to my then local, an unlovely place called the Gloucester, and I realised what I’d been taking for granted. A British pub can be a beautiful thing, with a ripple of chat, a suggestion of music and the clink of glasses. I’d come across nothing close in any bar I’d been allowed into between Los Angeles and New York.
I suppose what you want from a pub depends on how old you are. Once upon a time I craved somewhere busy, with noise and craic leaking out of its bursting seams. Now I want something between absolutely packed and completely dead, erring towards the latter. Somewhere to sit is nice/essential. And I definitely want to hear myself think and be able to converse. If I’m on my own someone to chat to is great, but not as great as someone who can judge whether I’m up for talking or not. As for the food offering, ironically what I’d prefer not to be available are substantial meals. Not what pubs are about, in my view. Salty snacks are important, though, and I may allow a bowl of chips with or without a small pie or sandwich.
I wish I hadn’t started writing this – it’s made me sad. I want to be in my Moon Under Water. Please can this plague ebb away soon?
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
