A while ago I posted on how one of my local pubs had been taken over by Islington luvvie media types and how I expected there to be a rapid erosion of the traditional country pub atmosphere.
Well, as much as it pains me to say it, it would appear that my predictions are coming to pass as the landlord of that pub is refusing to serve our local Sunday League football team their post match victuals - a privilege the club has been enjoying for 90 odd years - a move that outraged me enough to get the local press involved:
Mells and Vobster footballers fall out with pub over food | This is Somerset
As part time coach of the side, I've been taking my lads there every Sunday for the last 30 years or so and the various landlords that have run the place over the years have always given us a tray of roast potatoes that were surplus to the requirements of that day's Sunday roast on the understanding that we'd all get sloshed and spend our hard earned lucre at the bar.
It looks like we're just not welcome any more.
However, while it would appear that me and my lads aren't good enough for their metropolitan vibe, I notice that he doesn't mind pulling out all the stops for his wife's zumba group. In fact, just the other night, I spotted a whole bevvy of them enjoying an "on the house" nosh up of mung beans and quinoa.
And it doesn't stop there (and I lay the blame squarely at the feet of his wife who appears to be waging a personal vendetta against tradition male pub pursuits). Gone, now, are the pool table and fruitees and in their place a de facto wimmins' zone where local Mumsnetters can gather and crochet their uncomfortable undergarments from fairtrade Bolivian hemp. To add insult to injury, a considerable amount of square footage of the gents' lavatory was given over to meet this end while the ladies' conveniences, I might add, remain intact.
It's like walking in to a broom cupboard every time you need to take a leak. As a case in point, take a look at these space saving sinks that they've had to install to allow a sufficient thoroughfare for an individual to pass through while another chap is already stood at the trough:
Contrast this with the set up in the ladies:
Not only are the sinks generously proportioned but they come equipped with brushed stainless steel fittings and, judging from the sound of rushing air coming from within, I reckon they've got Dyson Airblades in there too while us blokes have to make do with a tatty old towel on a wooden roller.
Well, regardless of us not getting our free nosh, next time we're playing the boys from Banjo Island, I'm going to take them all up there and hope there is a repeat of the last match we played against them. An on-pitch scuffle will spill over into a full blown fracas in the pub and that'll have them all getting their pashminas in a right old twist....
Well, as much as it pains me to say it, it would appear that my predictions are coming to pass as the landlord of that pub is refusing to serve our local Sunday League football team their post match victuals - a privilege the club has been enjoying for 90 odd years - a move that outraged me enough to get the local press involved:
Mells and Vobster footballers fall out with pub over food | This is Somerset
As part time coach of the side, I've been taking my lads there every Sunday for the last 30 years or so and the various landlords that have run the place over the years have always given us a tray of roast potatoes that were surplus to the requirements of that day's Sunday roast on the understanding that we'd all get sloshed and spend our hard earned lucre at the bar.
It looks like we're just not welcome any more.
However, while it would appear that me and my lads aren't good enough for their metropolitan vibe, I notice that he doesn't mind pulling out all the stops for his wife's zumba group. In fact, just the other night, I spotted a whole bevvy of them enjoying an "on the house" nosh up of mung beans and quinoa.
And it doesn't stop there (and I lay the blame squarely at the feet of his wife who appears to be waging a personal vendetta against tradition male pub pursuits). Gone, now, are the pool table and fruitees and in their place a de facto wimmins' zone where local Mumsnetters can gather and crochet their uncomfortable undergarments from fairtrade Bolivian hemp. To add insult to injury, a considerable amount of square footage of the gents' lavatory was given over to meet this end while the ladies' conveniences, I might add, remain intact.
It's like walking in to a broom cupboard every time you need to take a leak. As a case in point, take a look at these space saving sinks that they've had to install to allow a sufficient thoroughfare for an individual to pass through while another chap is already stood at the trough:
Contrast this with the set up in the ladies:
Not only are the sinks generously proportioned but they come equipped with brushed stainless steel fittings and, judging from the sound of rushing air coming from within, I reckon they've got Dyson Airblades in there too while us blokes have to make do with a tatty old towel on a wooden roller.
Well, regardless of us not getting our free nosh, next time we're playing the boys from Banjo Island, I'm going to take them all up there and hope there is a repeat of the last match we played against them. An on-pitch scuffle will spill over into a full blown fracas in the pub and that'll have them all getting their pashminas in a right old twist....
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