What is your idea of the perfect Saturday evening out? Being in a sweaty, humid nightclub unable to hear yourself think over the DJ’s questionable music selections, or enjoying a few pints in your local village pub with friends and people you know and love? I certainly know my preference, and this was drilled home to me just recently after a couple of - how to put this? - downright sh*t experiences in town.
A good friend of mine compared the feeling of walking into your local to that of coming home, and she was so right. Okay, so she and her family run one of those pubs, so impartiality may not be at play, but that doesn’t make the comparison any less apposite.
The faces you see are as familiar as they are friendly, and there is always something new to talk about and have a laugh over. If you are struggling with, say, your mental health, those same people will never fail to offer support and helpful advice, or simply a listening ear. Try doing that on the dance floor under the deafeningly loud vocals of David Guetta…
By contrast, the unfamiliar faces you meet in town, which you thought you wanted to see, very quickly become faces you never, ever want to see again for the rest of your life.
There’s something else at play, too. By having a night in your local, you are supporting a local business and contributing to the local economy - something which is arguably more important than ever.
Honestly, some of the best nights out I’ve had have been in my local pubs. They possess an inherent cosiness and feeling of warmth, an almost quaint atmosphere which brings to mind the likes of The Woolpack. The Queen Vic, meanwhile, is more akin to a downtown dive in that it’s full of w*nkers fighting. And if there is one thing I cannot stand, it is aggressive drunk people. I like to think of myself as a happy drunk, or an anxious drunk, or a chatty drunk, but not one liable to get all confrontational with Darren because he says the Porsche 911 sucks. He’s wrong, though, and he’s still an idiot. Sometimes it’s better to walk away.
So, by all means don yourself in Lacoste, get overcharged for piss-poor beer, lose your hearing, stand out in the cold waiting for a taxi, end up with your clothes stinking of a combination of greasy fast food and vapes, and devote your love to a group of random strangers who are probably judging you. Meantime, I’ll stick to what I know and love. Mark, mine’s a Carling, please…
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