It was always coming, the plus-£10 pint. That’s how capitalism works: money goes up in lots of ways, including the price of things that affect “normal people” most.
I’m trying to find a way to blame the tech bros-cum-incels in Silicon Valley for the soaring cost of pints in London, because they must’ve had an impact, surely? They have all the money. There is hardly any left for the rest of us.
And so some pubs and bars are choosing to charge more for drinks for various reasons. There are the spiralling rents and utility bills with which to contend, not to mention the Government tax grab on hospitality.
It could also be that they’re unable to scale to the point of funnelling costs down a little to accommodate greater accessibility. Oh, and then that people are drinking less due to health concerns and have less disposable income. I’ve barely begun to get into this and everything already feels like a mess. I guess that’s because it is.
Imagine getting a round in after work at that price. Four friends, that’s £55
Inevitability makes the fact no less challenging. Find the £11 pint at Stanley’s rooftop bar in Mayfair, a part of town associated with big spenders, the upmarket. No wonder it’s here that the working person’s pint eclipsed a tenner for the first time. Shocked, much? I’d be surprised if you weren’t — £11 for a solitary Birra Moretti is alarming whether it’s for good reason or not. Imagine getting a round in after work at that price. Four friends, that’s £55. Two rounds are over £100 — a ton — for a handful of five per cent pints. Absolutely insane. Disastrous, culturally, by the way, in Britain.
Does Stanley’s need to charge so much? I’d wager not. Yes, costs are up for everyone and I’m sure the bar, which is part of the upscale Chesterfield hotel, needed to review prices to keep the balance sheet in check. Many hospitality businesses are suffering in Britain in 2026, even if some are doing spectacularly (that’s why places keep opening — there’s still money to be made). But £11 for a Moretti, come on. I don’t believe a Mayfair hotel buys so little lager that it needs to charge such a premium.
What are you really paying for?
Fine, it’s the hotel’s prerogative: those in charge are catering for a certain clientele and bid to attract a small portion of the market. This is not a place for the everyday worker.
No problem. More upsetting then is the precedent it sets: this will prompt others to do the same. When there really wasn’t any need.
I’ve absolutely no problem with quality food and drink requiring a fair price, one many would deem steep or out of reach, but this is a fairly average lager. Moretti is basically the Sainsbury’s of beer. Decent, but nothing special. It’s no Asahi. And although the cleanliness of pipes, storage and so on play a part in the taste of lager, generally it’s much the same around town. I could go to an everyday pub and have a Moretti that tastes a little better, in fact, for half the price.
At Stanley’s, you’re not only paying for the lager, that’s true. It’s — supposedly, at any rate — the service, the view from the rooftop, the fact you’re in Mayfair, which is considered by many to be a privilege. If lavish living and luxury (well, four-star luxury rather than five) is your thing, Stanley’s would be a shout.
The only issue might be the £11 pint or the fact a single Guinness is £10 (a half is £8, hilariously). But now comes another question: why would you go to a swish rooftop bar to drink a pint of lager? Surely cocktails are in order. Or Kylie Minogue’s rosé. Maybe the place is punishing people for buying lager in a place where they shouldn’t. Then why do they have it on in the first place? Again: good lord, what a mess.
Back to the local boozer
Beyond all this is the fact the £11 pint is courting media interest, this included — irony does not elude me — and so comes a furore, takes abound. “What the hell is going on?” cry the masses. “Have you seen how much a pint is now?” comes the chorus of pitiful suburban types who live, for the most part, in perpetual despair. And it causes a fuss, culture becomes fractured, and the circus goes whirling on for all to see. All this takes away from what we should actually care about: the neighbourhood boozer; the local. These family-run establishments are where our minds should be set, where our hearts should be. Where we should be, the drinkers.
Quite frankly, who bloody cares about the price of a pint in a Mayfair hotel? The rich will carry on regardless of anything. With whatever beer money you have, go to the beautiful pubs in London, of which there are near-countless. The Barley Mow in Marylebone, the Coach & Horses in Soho, Skehan’s in Peckham, the Sebright Arms in Hackney, the Dove, the Severn Stars, the Mayflower, Tir Na Nog… I’m breathless.
None of these places charge £11 for a pint. Most are still flirting around the £6 or £7 mark, which might be still eye-watering to some but is resolutely more reasonable pound-for-pound and certainly more achievable. £11 in Mayfair? I hardly knew them. Nor should you.
