Republics in the rubble

Gordon MacGregor calls last orders for the traditional
Scottish pub

We can all remember the first pub we drank in, some may even remember the last, but many more would shudder to confront the faceless horde sprawling in-between. And as the hangovers grow in severity along with the cost, I wonder if it isn’t time to take stock. I doubt I am alone here. For all too many a Scotsman (and increasingly woman), what began with exhilaration and opportunity can easily tend towards boredom, damage and consolation.
     If the bottle is your enemy of promise then Scotland affords ample opportunity to mess up – it is a truism that the Scots language has as many words for intoxication as the Eskimos have for snow, while the Scots tolerable level of indulgence would be seen as cause for an 'intervention' in many parts of the Western world. But paradoxically, while alcoholism may be at an all-time high, the days of the Scottish 'boozer' – that focus of working-class sociability – are numbered, edged out by po-faced style bars in over-licensed city centres, and by viral English franchises with traditional decor and traditional plasma screens. This new class of pub offers an environment as real and enticing as the tomato-shaped ketchup dispenser in a 'greasy spoon'. But what it lacks in originality, it more than makes up for in pretension. Such conceit used to be a red rag to the Scot, who could always pull rank when it came to inverted snobbery. Not that we should become what for Alasdair Gray was the bane of Scotland – 'those wee, hard men who batter everything down to their own level'. But it's difficult not to feel outgunned – or simply shouldered aside – by thirty-something families ordering overpriced novelty drinks whilst nibbling on canapes.
     Not that it is the fault of the punters. The increasingly prevalent gastro-pub can't make up its mind whether it wants to be a bar or a bistro, replete with bland, generic renderings of international cuisine. The idea that drink and food can be complementary may come as a surprise to some who only saw it – at best – as simply a means to drink more. Literally so. It used to be the case that, in order to obtain a late licence, a pub had to serve food, though the quality of the food was not an issue. One publican (an ex-boxer) applied for such an extension and went in front of the Licensing Board. When asked which dishes he would be serving, he replied abruptly, 'peece and mince.' The licence was duly granted.

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