The late night violence in the town centre stems from the fact that the venues are no longer owned by local breweries who leased the premises to local tenants who ran the places personally and had the best interests of the community at heart.
They are now in the hands of multiple operators who treat a pint of beer the same way they would a pint of milk or a can of beans and they are run by graduate accountants whose only interest is the bottom line, and who would not know a customer if they fell over one.
When l started drinking in the ’60s there were proper landlords called Ray or Ted.
They wore green checked shirts, a misshapen grey pullover, baggy fawn trousers and beer-stained brown shoes.
They were affable enough most of the time but if you stepped out of line they only had to fix you with a baleful stare to bring you to your senses.
They not only knew your name and where you lived, but also knew your Father, so any transgressions would invite double trouble.
The landlord was backed up by formidable elderly barmaids called Trix or Peg. They had peroxide blond hair, three inches of make-up, long sharp finger nails and an even sharper tongue.
A tongue lashing from one of these harridans would have be sufficient to have even the most boisterous Jack the Lad quaking in his boots. Around 10pm the landlady would appear.
She was always called Renee and had her hair piled high on her head making her appear taller than she was.
The campaign for real ale has done wonders for our beer, so how about a campaign for real landlords?
Graham Cribb, Branksome Wood Road, Bournemouth
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