People are protective over pubs. Working up the list of the Standard’s 50 favourites, the line I’ve heard most has been “well, did you include…?”, often swiftly followed by “it has to be in there”. Pubs matter, because so much of our life happens in them: the after-work swift half that comes with a case of the 4ams, the lazy Sunday afternoons, the family catch-ups, the first kisses. At their very best, pubs remain the great leveller; somewhere all of us, in whatever mood and with whatever resource, can share. A great pub has both bin men and chairmen, artists and piss artists.
It was in this egalitarian spirit that yesterday’s list was chosen. These things are not an exact science: we didn’t enslave ourselves to Excel, building columns of the craftiest beer lists or the biggest gardens. There were no points added or deducted for wine lists, music or newspaper clippings on the walls. In George Orwell’s last essay for the Standard, 1946’s The Moon Under Water, he details 10 rules for his dream pub. We worked with none.
