‘I watched Oliver Reed get barred’
I started working at the Windmill in the Surrey Hills when I was 14 and the landlord, Cecil Baber Brendan Holland – Dutch to the locals – became my second father. My second son’s second name is Brendan, after him. Several photographers, entrepreneurs, sportspeople and musicians lived in the area – Eric Clapton’s house was just around the corner. Although I never quite got over answering the phone to someone asking for Mick and I made the mistake of asking “Mick who?”
The champagne lock-ins were legendary but not limited to the rich and famous. Plumbers and painters and the local bobby shared the bar with industrialists and faces. There weren’t many fights, but when it did kick off, Dutch would change from gentleman to street fighter. But I never saw him throw a punch – he never needed to. I watched him bar Oliver Reed one afternoon: he had a reputation for picking fights. They shook hands and Oliver left. Twenty-five years after it closed, Carol – one of the cooks – held a reunion party. We were all there, including Eric, the developers, the industrialists, the plumbers and painters. But Dutch was dead, so the magic was just a memory. Dutch had previously run the White Horse in Shere – the pub featured in The Holiday. If you want to feel the Windmill, watch the pub in that film. It burned down a few years ago and it’s right that it did. The Windmill belongs to a place before. Ben Darlington, 63, Maidstone, Kent
‘I won a pickled egg award’
The Cock Tavern in Hackney changed my life when I started working there 10 years ago. The pub was heavily focused on craft beers, of which I had little knowledge or interest. So I focused all my attention on the jar of pickled eggs. I sold them all within a few days, ordered more, sold out again, and so on. Sales went through the roof and we invested in eight different flavours. We sold so many that I ended up winning a pickled egg award from the supplier – we’d sold more than anywhere else in the country.
This led to starting a comedy night called Pickle Boy Comedy, where punters ate pickled eggs as fast as they could on stage. Ten years later, the Cock Tavern is still very much the pickled egg pub, and holds Egg Day every Good Friday, where they are eaten as fast as possible with times on a big scoreboard. It’s refereed by the manager, Eggy Joel. There was even a short documentary made, called How Fast Can You Eat a Pickled Egg?, which has featured in film festivals. My life has never been the same since. Luke Molloy, 39, London
‘We like to bore the kids about it’
When I was a student in the 90s, a night out could be had for £5: two halves, free club entry for women, chips, and a shared cab. I’d gone to the Hadfield in Walkley, Sheffield, to meet a friend who had split up with her boyfriend. I ended up meeting my future husband: our eyes meeting across the smoky haze, while Yes by McAlmont & Butler played on the jukebox.
The Hadfield had two doors, one side strictly for locals (almost always men), the other for “bloody students”. A central double bar kept the peace. Being a suburban southerner, I’d always avoided “old man” pubs. But I ventured out of my comfort zone that night – if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met the father of my children, or discovered a whole new side of lovely Sheffield.
Sadly, within a year, it would be absorbed by a soulless sports bar chain, and later by Sainsbury’s. We like to bore the kids, telling them “where we first saw each other is now a freezer cabinet”. But I still have fond memories of the Hadfield, playing Bauhaus, Bowie and the Beatles on that analogue jukebox, keeping both sides of the bar mellow. Mindi, London
‘I was reared on Bacon Fries and Coke’
My mum worked in the Smithfield Arms in my home town, Ballymena, when I was born 25 years ago. My dad drank there, so I was reared in the corner, with a packet of Bacon Fries and a bottle of Coke. I would receive what seemed like thousands of pound coins from the jolly patrons, as if I worked there too. Fast forward to now, I go to the same pub every weekend. Some of the faces haven’t changed, some have been replaced by my own friends, but it still feels like an extension of my living room. I have laughed, cried, and grieved here. Having such a supportive, helpful community my whole life, about 200 metres away from my house, has been a foundation of who I am and who I am yet to be. Chris Bleakley, 25, Ballymena, Northern Ireland
‘It wasn’t long before I fell in love’
In 1995 my mum died aged 63. I had no work, so I let out my flat and moved from Woking to Brighton. An acquaintance told me she was helping her friend renovate a pub and they would need bar staff. It was a struggle to persuade the owner to take me on, because he wanted “Brighton faces” behind the bar. But I had another skill, DJing, which won him over. The pub was renamed Hector’s House, and it became THE pub to be, with home-made flavoured vodkas and DJs most nights. And it was there I met Affy.
As far as I knew, I wasn’t gay. Although I now realise I had been kidding myself. Those days at Hector’s showed me it was all right. I was surrounded by gay men and it wasn’t long before I fell in love. I eventually managed the pub myself, and I’m still with Affy 30 years later, still in love.
Hector’s was a great pub with daytime food and drink available, but at night it came alive with DJs playing from a booth on the wall, a long bar with a multicoloured graphic top. But best were the lock-ins, with hours of drinking and dancing, snogs, arguments and passings out. Hector’s House closed down and reopened under a new name, but it was no longer a popular music pub. However, it was recently announced that it’s going back to its original name, with DJs, which will hopefully rekindle some of those memories. Neil Masey, 62, Brighton
‘The punks drank in one bar, the career drinkers in the other’
As a young punk in search of late night thrills in the late 70s, I’d heard about the Crown Tavern in Bristol from a friend, Bear Hakenbush, a local “scenester”. There were no pubs in or near the city centre where anyone looking vaguely punky would be welcome. The Crown was split into two separate bars, with punks in one and career drinkers and older men in the other. On a Friday or Saturday night, one would be met with a throng of spiked, dyed-haired and studded-jacketed hardcore punks. It felt like stepping up a level into a new world, where danger and excitement went hand in hand.
People would travel from various satellite towns and villages to be a part of this musical hub. After turning out time, many of us would then head to nearby St Pauls to continue drinking in the Dockland Settlement, where bands would play and there was a room dedicated to reggae. Bands would also sometimes perform in a back room across a courtyard from the bar of the Crown – I recall watching the premier Bristol punk band of the time, Vice Squad, at an early gig in August 1980.
I was exposed to a lot in that pub – sex, drugs and violence. But perhaps most of all, a bond with the Bristol music scene, which endures to this day. These days I often pass the large yellow and red brick building, dwarfed by tower blocks, and sometimes consider popping my head in to see if I can pick up a trace of the echoes of those now distant, raucous times. I never do go in, though. I don’t want the memories spoiled. John Finch, 63, Bristol
• People featured in the article responded to a Community callout. You can contribute to open callouts here
