PUB
CHATTER
February 8th 2025 |
Words: Kieran Poole
Sitting here in The Gladstone, I feel a certain nostalgia for the standard pub - Nothing too fancy, too edgy, theme-ridden or the ones that charge you £8 a beer. I’m not tight; I'm just not that stupid.
These old haunts have always felt like bastions of simplicity, the kind of places where you’re encouraged to just be. There’s something about a pub that doesn’t try too hard to be anything but itself—no gimmicks, no neon-lit sign floating like a shit version of Blade Runner. These are pubs you don’t plan to find but stumble upon, though the regulars would argue they’ve been waiting for you all along.
The first thing that hits you walking into these sorta pubs is the unapologetic dimness—accompanied by a faint smell of ale and damp wood that has been inhaled and exhaled a thousand times, then heaved out twice as many.
Walls littered with beer signs, knackered dart board, mental carpets, books on rambling in the peak district that no-ones read and almost always anaglypta.
Nottingham’s old pubs have been sanctuaries for a good simple drink. No curated playlists, no desperate attempts at trendiness—just maybe a bit of The Housemartins or “a bit of Quo” playing in the background, you know, pub music.
At the bar, there’s a satisfying roughness—the elbow-worn wood, and behind it, unpretentious beer - Cask ales, bitters, lagers, and maybe a stout or two. No IPA revolution or anything that requires a dissertation to appreciate. Pubs are better for it, Honestly, pack it in now.
Pub snacks that consist of the usual relics the culture refuses to move on from - Crisps, roasted peanuts, maybe those pretzel pieces on a good day. There’s no kitchen to speak of unless you count the hand dryer in the bogs pumping out a thin gust of warmth that somehow reminds you you’re alive.
It doesn’t matter anyway - You don’t come to these pubs to eat. You come to sit, drink, and work through the day's boredom or excitement depending whether you’ve clocked out or just killing time.
In these pubs, you won't find young professionals trading stock tips or weekend warriors, but a mix of seasoned locals (Sometimes those weird "locals" who stare at you as if you've taken a dump in the bar area. Honestly it's just part of the experience) and a few cask seekers who have stumbled in, seeking a pause from the rattling of the bus lanes.
Background noise to conversations about work or football is drowned out by the occasional burst of laughter to a sinister joke that only makes sense when your fourth pint begins to blur the lines between reason and nonsense.
But hang on wait, I'm getting way ahead of myself here, or I'm just on autopilot for some love letter on 'proper pubs', or maybe I've gone past the 3-pint threshold… Fucked if I know.
Anyway, the point is, they're vanishing. One by one, have been for years now. Only to be redesigned by sleek, minimalist spaces designed to move pints and cocktails more efficiently, with values and trends that don't belong to Nottingham or its people.
Worse still, many of them are closing altogether, part of a broader culture that no longer values the simplicity of sitting with a pint in no rush, listening to music, and sharing space and time.
Those bars I mentioned above exist for the Instagram post—they exist for the farrow and ball, the fake plants, the trip advisor reviews, not the slow unfolding of lives spent in and out of each other's company in the confines of a pub with a roasting fire.
You can see it, as I do. Sometimes, these pubs are empty on a Saturday. The number of pubs in Nottinghamshire is always decreasing - Over the last decade, at least a thousand. Particularly independent pubs and those in smaller communities. Business rates, inflation, energy costs and a whole lot more challenge these places to stay open - Most things that are beyond our control.
So drink at home then?
Yeah, you could drink at home with cheap lager, boxed wine, or whatever's on offer at Aldi. It's cheaper, isn't it? But there's a danger there: you lose conversation, and a slow erosion of your sanity in the quiet clink of the glass ensues.
You might even start drinking more often; because everything becomes much more accessible at home, and you go out with friends, less. Drink enough at home, and the walls start to close in. The world outside becomes a little more distant, a little less inviting - The silence, too, becomes louder.
Getting older makes it all the more poignant. There's a weight in knowing that these places—where we used to waste time and light our cigarettes off each other's fire are slipping away. It's a loss of something unmeasured and deeply human.
And now, as Nottingham is being renovated en-masse and the spaces that shaped us slip through our fingers into crap student accommodation by busy junctions, maybe pubs are the last bastion of normality,along with the people and the stories.
Either way, don't let them fade to who knows where; keep them alive, as one day, even that will probably be gone.
Sip your last sip, use your local, and when you've had enough for that day, head back out there to a world that's forgotten how to sit still, eventually…