The Golden Age?
There used to be pubs on Market Square
Named after heroes
The Lord Nelson, King George or Prince William,
Or mythical beings
The Griffin, Green Man or Unicorn.
With a snug, a lounge and a bar.
Where smoke curled and swirled, round dark oak beams,
Like the smog in Bleak House.
Men in dull grey jackets and shiny ties,
Lounged on wooden benches,
By tables scarred with stubbed out fags
Topped out with over flowing ashtrays.
Drinking mild, bitter or boilermakers,
The consistency of the silt laden stream
Which flowed at the bottom of the yard.
The drink went down to the thud of darts
Or the clack of dominoes on a board.
Ladies sit with their men in the lounge
Drinking port and lemon the colour of blood.
Or in the snug
Gossiping about the pregnant teenager from down the road,
Or Mrs. Smith and her brood and her men.
The barmaid wobbled her large breasts
As she pulls the pints for indifferent drinkers,
Thinking of rich men and sun kissed beaches.
A dyed blond night lady pulls up her skirt
Revealing nylon clad legs and smiling,
Hoping that some man would talk and take her home.
The other women turn up their noses, shake their heads,
Making plain that she was an outcast.
Now the pubs have gone.
Turned into banks and shops.
New theme pubs have been designed,
All chrome and leather,
With flashing screens and loud music,
Where drinkers guard their bottles of larger
Which come from God knows where.
The girls prance around, Salome without the veils,
Attracting the boys in only their shirt sleeves,
Even when the ice is on the ground and breath freezes on the nose.
Once at ten thirty, people would stagger home,
Now they spill out onto the square,
Falling, vomiting, shouting, laughing, growling and fighting
Before staggering towards the night club
Where Mrs. Bennet's dancing school once stood,
Teaching the young to twirl and prance
To the beat of a dance band.
Now lights flash, mist spreads from hidden blowers
Bodies gyrate and grind.
Times change.
