THE RISING TIDE LIFTS ALL BOATS BUT MINE
After they had filed in youthful and primand pitched their sell above the lowly din.As they spoke in tongues of barley and of hopand set up HappyAs they sectioned off the luvvies from the toffsand the locals from the tourists, holding their chins aloft like archeologists.As they typed and keyed and sipped and divvied up their gains.As they took apart the pool table but kept its baize.As they marvelled at its rips and stains.As they hung the cues up like hunter’s trophies.As they did away the darts and in their place stuck local artwhich no one there had ever heard of.When the board itself became a serving platethat could pivot pizza a full 180.Then the jukebox, and the fruit machine, the bar top waxed,the kitchen cleaned, the loyalty card, the suggestion box,an outdoor fan, a seating plan, the garden place, the smoking ban,eighty different types of gin.The prices up, the measured cups, the target market clientele.The ringing bell, the hard worn sell, the softening of consonants.When they stuck a hostel in the loft and put a signoutside the front that said Authentic British Pub ™.Then Karaoke Night, the pub quiz, the toilet sign saying where to piss,two bouncers on a Thursday night, the electric ads, the in-house mag,St George’s Day: not a single flag (but plastic glasses).As they started charging extra for a credit card.As they binned Sky Sports and only showedthe ‘special games,’ which they ran like a campaignWhen they stopped the Sunday Roastand started selling burgers that said ‘burger me,’ on branded patty pants.As they focused in and honed their sights.When they called the cops on Psycho Mike.When they did the decor up with faux distressed furniture.When staff was at a two month turnover.When they forbade all slang, the glottal stop.When they barred everyone he knew and loved.When they refrained from selling anything he liked or could afford.Finally, they took an axe and cut him through his middlethen counted out the rings.
