2 days ago
The great British pub is not dead yet
My Oxfordshire taproom used to sing on Fridays: carpenters, teachers and office clerks, knackered from the week's graft, would elbow for pints in a natural democracy of nods and grins. The bar was a grand leveller – toff or tiler, all waited their turn and banter stitched the room together. Post-pandemic, that tune has gone quiet. Now, working from home has throttled the after-work scrum and business limps across midweek evenings.
The pub trade has troubles, no question. Energy bills, up a fifth in a year, are choking profits. National Insurance hikes, the return of the full charge of VAT and rocketing business rates (some landlords face £20,000 a year) make pouring pints costly. A Birmingham mate, running a local, says his takings had dropped 15 per cent since 2023; punters, skint from inflation, are picking Netflix and a supermarket Merlot over a bar stool.
But another nail in the coffin of pub life as we knew it is now looming. Labour's Employment Rights Bill contains some daft proposed new rules which could force us to police 'third-party harassment' against our staff (think a punter's cheeky quip). This risks turning taprooms into courtrooms, censoring the laughter that makes them hum.
Each closure, the real ale consumer organisation CAMRA warns, tears at the community's weave. Pubs aren't just boozers, they're schools where brickies, poets, old soldiers, students and all and sundry learn to share a chuckle and, most importantly, laugh at themselves.
Meanwhile, health-mad Gen Z is swapping lager for Heineken 0.0, Guinness 0.0, Nosecco. Low- and no-alcohol sales are up a third, and the demand keeps growing. Supermarket wines, cheaper and better quality every year, tempt folk to sip at home – a bottle, after all, is cheaper than a round.
Society has been infected with a puritan streak which prizes sobriety over revelry. The leisure pound is being split across the likes of escape rooms, yoga classes and virtual reality dens, all flashier lures than the pub's weathered oak. But don't mourn the British pub quite yet.
There are signs of a resurgence. Yes, drinking has turned a little fussy for many, a world away from carefree pints. Punters book tables like they're at some swanky bistro, they chase curated nights, craft ale flights with daft tasting notes, small-batch gins with even dafter tonics: all of this Instagram-ready charm is hooking a new generation. Leading the charge is Guinness, its black-gold pints pulling in young punters like never before.
Diageo's marketing played a blinder; campaigns like #GuinnessTime, full of moody filters, matey vibes, have made that creamy stout the drink for twenty-somethings craving something unique. Guinness sales jumped 20 per cent in 2024. Last Christmas's keg drought left landlords like me scrambling for supplies as Gen Z snapped selfies with their pints.
But the fightback is just starting. Small, freehold, wet-led pubs are storming back, nailing the basics: quality beer, fair prices, real pubs serving the proper communities who are packing their bars.
In Worle, Somerset, Glynn and Lindsey Smith, the couple running the Old Kings Head, have raised £21,000 for charities since 2019. Their bar is rammed with loyal regulars who'd rather die than drink elsewhere.
In Lincoln, Jez Nash's Strait and Narrow smashed its Good Friday record, punters were three-deep by noon, supping craft beers, ciders, torrents of Guinness, free from pubco chains. David Bentley's Old Bowling Green in Derbyshire, a 15th-century gem, ditched its gastro guff for drinks-led trade, keeping pints cheap and profits plump.
The micropub boom is a joy: since 2015, tiny boozers like the Two Pigs in Cheltenham pack 'em in with local ales, quirky stouts, and no-frills charm. The Star in Godalming, with Greene King's nano-brewery, pulls crowds with house-brewed ales, quiz nights, and a buzzing community vibe. These freehold pubs, cut loose from brewery ties, pick their stock. Guinness is a staple, they keep prices low and show punters love: a decent pint in a decent place and prices that don't make you feel robbed.
Still, some things seem to be going for good: the bar queue, once a lively scrum of wit and patience, taught natural democracy, with everyone served regardless of colour, creed or class. Lockdown mucked it up. Youngsters, drilled in single-file order, stand stiff as boards; missing out on the banter that thickens skins and builds bonds.
My nearest competitor grumbles constantly about twenty-somethings with no spark, no chat. The pub's old code, that a nod got you your pint but a jest won respect, wobbles under this primness. But there's fire yet. At the Civic Future Start Up Society Summit, a gathering of young entrepreneurs and innovators that I attended last month, I met twenty-somethings, bright as polished brass, brimming with rebel spirit.
They drank, ate and argued with gusto about politics, religion and everything in between; they laughed at themselves and each other. They were charming, brilliant and clever. A tech genius in her twenties told me she'd take a shared stout over a TikTok reel any day; she craved the real stuff. These aren't the po-faced puritans you'd expect. I left feeling more hopeful about Britain's future than I had in a long time.
Pubs face a scrap, but the path is clear. Rate reform, the £1 billion needed to save 1,000 local jobs, community grants like Devon's, could ease the pinch. Landlords like Jez and Glynn will lead the charge, keep it simple, keep it true. As I stack crates and scrub toilets, I raise a toast: the pub's not dead yet. It's teaching its lessons and providing a service still, not taking yourself too seriously, manners, sharing a space with strangers, and forcing us to interact with the real world. Do your bit, visit the local and let's keep the bar swinging.
