There’s going to be a new pub in my village. I say new, it’s a Grade 2 listed building but has been a watering hole since 1976. The latest owners are giving it a full refurb. It wasn’t bad before, but there were definite vibes of The Slaughtered Lamb from American Werewolf in London. I don’t know about you, but I like my landlord friendly and my wine cold; and nipping to the ladies shouldn’t feel like you’ve been dropped into a budget version of Carrie Johnson’s lounge. 

It reminded me of a bar I went to in Tennessee with a Swede, a Korean and a guy from Japan. It was called the C&S and we thought that stood for something like Country & Soul. Nope. The locals called it the Cut & Stab, which took us about three minutes to figure out when we saw guns on the wall and a knife in the barman’s belt. Something told us they didn’t sell Saki, so we cut our losses and left. 

The best thing about a pub shouldn’t be the décor or drinks though, but the friends you quaff with. I’ve had some cracking nights in complete dives, losing all track of time and inhibitions. But most of us have endured the witching hour at 2-4-1 cocktail bars, secretly wishing we were ligged on a sofa watching Gogglebox instead. 

I’ve been invited to a ‘do’ in Halifax. A genuine function, booked in, on the kitchen calendar. After all the restrictions it feels like such a thrill, especially as it’s a wedding party. An alcohol-free one. The bride and groom are Muslims – he converted when they fell in love (I know, so romantic). Their big day consists of two ceremonies reflecting both families' beliefs, plus an evening do. The bride said we could come ‘pre-lined’ to the reception, but nobody will. We’re all just looking forward to seeing each other.  

It’s not the first dry nuptials I’ve attended. I was a bridesmaid for my best friend when she tied the knot with a genuine son of a preacher man. That was in Tennessee too, but back then I was single and in my early 20s. I did get pre-lined, along with all the other non-Pentecostals and as far as I can remember, it was a great night. 

My walk of shame the next morning was not great though. Something I’d certainly rather forget. Let’s just say a hotel keycard got waylaid. When I arrived late for breakfast with the extended family, I was still in my bridesmaid’s dress, complete with lager stains. I had no alternative but to style it out, claiming a mix-up on the booking system and a heathen spiking my lemonade.  

But time and experience put a halt to those shenanigans, so the upcoming bride and groom needn’t worry. Can’t guarantee the same restraint at the new village pub though. Perhaps they should rename it The Leopard & Spots.