Being English, the concept of the pub has always held a place close to my heart. Of course, pubs are also part of the social fabric of Australian life too. However, back in the homeland they virtually take on an extension to someone’s lounge room. Why go to a house when you have a ready-made meeting place that serves up an assortment of alcoholic beverages designed to put crowds in good heart? Perhaps the English notion of the pub is slightly more emphasised because of the role that the UK’s erratic weather plays. The front room of a pub is always a welcoming prospect if grey skies and squally showers suddenly invade a supposed summer’s day. The barbecue has never been a workable attraction to me back in Blighty. The climate is so fickle that usually the garage takes over as the venue rather than the pre-planned garden. As the Beatles ruefully opined on I am the Walrus: “Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun; If the sun don’t come you get a tan, from standing in the English rain.”
So the pub has always been a staple stand-by for me. But oddly, amid all the years of imbibing at various hostelries, I can’t recall too many of the staff. I suppose I just took them for granted. Some of the classic Blackburn pubs of yesteryear were too packed to stay mingling by the bar. Sadly those golden days are gone. The list of Blackburn pubs that are no longer with us is endless: the Vulcan, the Peel, the Courts, the Regent (complete with swing doors), the Harrisons (pre-Ewood afternoons and evenings), likewise the Commercial, both on Bolton Road. There are so many defunct pubs that crawls from Brownhill to the town centre and the famed Revidge Run no longer exist. There were even rural havens for partied imbibers. The Spring Mill in Langho rocked on Monday and Thursday evenings; the Wellsprings at the top of Pendle Hill was a known hot-spot and plenty of cars had “Follow me to the Tanners” stickers on their back windows. Alas, the Tanners Arms at Dinckley is also ancient history. And who could forget the legendary Lodestar, run by Maggie Grimshaw. The nightclub appeared as an illuminated oasis in the middle of the rolling pastures of the Ribble Valley. You could not make it up — it was almost like a picturesque version of the bridge scene from Apocalypse Now. As Mott the Hoople sang in the midst of this madcap, dizzy spell in 1974, “The golden age of rock and roll can never die…” Unfortunately the golden age of Blackburn pubs passed away long ago. Thank God I’m old. Imagine growing up there now. And in those days you could also tell the character of a pub by its jukebox. I used to wonder how the staff could even hear. It must have been on ordeal working behind the bar of the Peel when The Tubes’ White Punks on Dope was being belted out full-blast from the other side of the room. This could be followed by Shot by both sides by Magazine — and so it went on.
Strangely I remember John and Barbara, who ran the Knowles Arms in its Seventies heydays, plus Anita, who did likewise just a gentle stroll away, along Whalley New Road at the Wilpshire Hotel. But not many others remain in the memory. Well, there were Roy and Vi, who took over from Anita and virtually emptied the pub of its soul by barring the bulk of the regulars for spurious reasons. So much so that the ‘Red House’ became the “Dead House” in no time at all.
But in the years since moving to Australia I have noticed how friendly and welcoming the barstaff are, particularly in some of the hostelries that I frequent in the Norwood or inner city zones of Adelaide. In many instances, I can just stroll in and receive a welcoming greeting, be served with a Cooper’s pale (or stout in winter) and enjoy the craic via a barside chat. It’s not exactly being Norm in Cheers or one of the regulars in the wonderful English series set in Manchester, Early Doors. But it is a fine feeling. So I thought it would be a good idea to sing the praises of some of the unheralded people who do such a wonderful job behind the bars, serving us up beers, spirits and fine wines or other tipples that we may fancy.
Unlike Blackburn, Adelaide still has pubs a-plenty. So I will begin a roller-coaster tour of some of my favourite venues and give potential thirsty patrons some tips and directions for enjoyable times, with warm welcomes to match from various mine hosts who deserve your presence. As Sham 69 sang in 1978 as the chorus to Hurry Up Harry, “We’re going down the pub.” It doesn’t sound much but remember that the bulk of pop/rock lyrics are banal and mindless. Not everyone can be Morrissey or Mark E. Smith. So I reckon Jimmy Pursey’s chant is a noble sentiment. Raise your glasses and stay tuned to the Dave Rose column…
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