It’s a good time to be sentimental about the Warrington. After all, the bar staff hasn’t changed much. The regulars like Bill and Tony and Stan are still propping up their ends of the bar. It’s smoky and that one ceiling fan always looks like it is ready to fly off and shoot across the room.
Old pubs… old, grade-two-listed pubs — no matter who owns them — are all the same. They are bitchy and sweet and demanding. And they take a hell of a lot of time getting ready to go out.
These are the days of the time warp, like those last seconds before you open the Tardis door, not sure at all what will be on the other side. It is scary, but aren’t you curious? Isn’t it going to be good?
Now that Ben’s Thai has found itself a new home at the friendly, ne’er-do-well boozer the Robert Browning (or at least, so they say), things have settled down. The less-than-regulars still stream in on a Friday night, clomp upstairs, and turn back again, befuddled and wondering. But they have a drink, both of the booze and of the atmosphere.
The more the time goes by, the easier it is to love the Warrington exactly as it is now : not John’s, not ours, not Gordon Ramsay’s, not theirs. Right now, it is a ship at sea, with old barred customers drifitng in as new, posh guests are finishing up. New quiz nights and wine lists are coming in as broken fittings and useless furniture — inanimate and human — are going out.
It’s easy to love the Warrington right now, while the past and the future are right here , sizing each other up.
There’s nothing tastes as sweet as a well-mixed drink.