Hear For A Good Time — The Sound of Hearing Loss When It Comes To Ordering A Pint
“Sorry, I’m deaf,” I laugh nervously, feeling my face flush red in the packed brewery taproom. I feel sick. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed.
Dance music plays loudly, echoing around the cavernous, industrial space, while the sound of laughter and raised voices fights against it. Stools scrape against hard tiles, while dogs bark, and clinking pint glasses are stacked into a dishwasher.
The pump clips lining the busy bar—although colourful—are bare of details: there is no mention of style, ABV, or even the beer’s name. There are no menus or chalkboards nearby to provide me with tasting notes, nor are there screens, or even a QR code to scan so I can discretely browse the beer list. Instead, they’re just numbered.
After asking the bartender for a second time what beers were on, I started to panic; I couldn’t hear them.
Feeling flustered, I apologise for being deaf—too distracted by the surrounding chaos to lip read—and end up choosing a beer I know nothing about, accompanied by an overwhelming sense of shame, and alienation. Beer was supposed to be my safe space, but at this moment I’d never felt more alone or misunderstood.
In 2020, during lockdown, I discovered I had mild hearing loss. It’s genetic, but wasn’t helped by growing up with a penchant for loud music, coupled with bouts of call centre work. I became aware of my condition when I couldn’t ‘hear’ people wearing masks—I realised that I’d been lip-reading without really registering it for almost 30 years.
Meeting me, you’d be forgiven for not noticing it, you’d just think I was a loud Geordie. You probably wouldn’t notice me reading your lips, either, or subtly craning my neck to face my ears towards your voice. I’m still working up the courage to get hearing aids—with long NHS waiting lists and expensive private treatment hindering me—so, until then, my hearing loss is entirely invisible.
At first being diagnosed with hearing loss was a bitter pill to swallow—but it’s something I’m learning to live with (and hide). Except, as I’ve discovered the hard way, not every situation is easy for me to exist or operate in.
In the UK, there’s expected to be 12 million adults who are deaf or experience hearing. It’s predicted that one in seven adults have tinnitus, too (that loud ringing in your ears you often hear after gigs, that usually indicates hearing damage). Yet, people like me are rarely catered for in society—with hospitality being among the biggest offenders, including in noisy places like pubs, bars, brewery taprooms. We can hide our hearing loss, but we’re still here.
““I find loud, busy bars a real challenge, and avoid them where possible.””
If there’s no tasting notes on menus, I don’t order something new. I daren’t ask because I simply won’t be able to hear a response from vendors, albeit helpful ones. If I can’t decipher pump-clips, or read the chalkboard clearly, I order something that I know the bar will have—not necessarily what I want. Forget about the fridges, I don’t even bother asking if there’s no menu.
To me, there’s no such thing as a ‘quiet pint’. I struggle if I sit at the bar, or next to barking dogs (which is torture, I tell you—being a lover of all four-legged friends), speakers, toilets, televisions, fruit machines, pool tables, and kitchens, as I have to strain to hear my friends, or ask them to repeat themselves. It’s as frustrating as it is exhausting. There’s only so many times I can say: “Sorry, what?” before I end up closing in on myself, smiling and nodding, becoming reserved, and making an excuse to leave.
Having hidden hearing loss is difficult, it’s uncomfortable to talk about with everybody—and yet I find myself apologising on behalf of my deafness to embarrassed bartenders who can’t understand me. Sometimes, it stops me going to particularly noisy places altogether, or new bars for fear of embarrassment.
I spoke to another beer lover with hearing loss who has experienced similar difficulties to myself. She asked to remain anonymous as she manages her hearing loss privately and hasn’t told many people in her life about it. “I actively avoid places and plans that I know will leave me in a 'nodding and smiling' position for the evening,” she tells me.
“I can't remember when I first became aware of my hearing loss, but I have always struggled to take part in conversations in busy rooms (pubs with no soft furnishings being a regular culprit),” she tells me, adding that, like me, she became more “acutely aware” of her hearing loss during the pandemic.
Illustrations by Hannah Lock
“I've always had coping mechanisms for this—preferring to meet in quieter establishments, meeting people at my house or theirs, and never really going 'out out' as a night spent yelling 'what?' into people's ears simply isn't my idea of a good time,” she says.
She tells me that she spent most of her nights out while at University in the smoking area, despite being a non-smoker. “It meant that I could hear people above the background noise, which I didn't stand a chance of inside,” she says. “I find loud, busy bars a real challenge, and avoid them where possible, and I'm a big fan of a pub crawl as it means if somewhere isn't great for me, I've got an excuse to move on quickly!”
She adds: “After work drinks are one of the most difficult things in my social calendar”, claiming that she often spends the night “nodding and smiling and hoping no one asks any questions”. Despite this, she confides in me that she’s “putting off” a hearing test.
“I hope that one day I'll have the strength to confront this and get a test in person, but I don't yet feel I’m in a place to do that,” she says.
People with hearing loss are used to developing ‘coping mechanisms’ like nodding, and smiling with glazed over eyes and strained ears in efforts to feel included, and able to exist in tricky environments—but it can feel alienating, and overwhelming.
““So often in our industry, taprooms are built as an add-on to a brewery, rather than being designed from scratch with ease of access in mind.””
“My absolute worst possible scenario is when the taps are simply numbered or hidden and I have to ask the staff what they've got on - probably just as frustrating for the staff who have to repeat the list several times as it is for me not being able to hear!” my fellow deaf beer lover tells me.
I don’t blame breweries and taprooms, but rather society as a whole for this innate inability to ‘other’ anyone that doesn’t fit into a prescribed state of ‘normal’. Recently, it’s been refreshing to see taprooms and beer festivals make accessibility and diversity a priority in recent years, though. The number of female and LGBTQIA+ brewers and owned breweries showcased at festivals is rising, with London-based female and Black-owned Wild Card Brewery winning this year’s ‘Brewery Business of the Year’ accolade from SIBA, the Society for Independent Breweries. There’s now codes of conduct in place in taprooms nationwide, including at CAMRA’s Great British Beer Festival for the first time in its 52-year history, and schemes like The Coven’s Wellness Officer initiative have been born out of a want to protect people in spaces where beer is served.
But without measures put in place to help people like me, how will we ever be able to confidently announce that: “Yes, I’m deaf” to servers, rather than feel the need to apologise for it? We need to be able to see ourselves represented, and our needs met.
Alice Howells, head of marketing for Wiper and True, recognises that the brand’s Old Market Taproom—while a pioneering venue and role model for accessibility—“isn't as comprehensively accessible as we'd like it to be yet”. Still, the location has measures in place to help those with hearing loss—and is looking towards the future.
“Although our taprooms are bar service as standard, our team has been trained to look out for customers who may not feel confident or able to come up to the bar and order, and how to ensure these customers feel welcomed,” Alice tells me.
As well as large print menus in place, Alice tells me that they’d like to run a sign language version of its brewery tours.
“We are also looking into some sound insulation for the venue, as our cavernous room and high ceilings can lead to additional difficulties,” she says.“So often in our industry, taprooms are built as an add-on to a brewery, rather than being designed from scratch with ease of access in mind,” she says.
How can watering holes change and become more accessible? It could be as simple as placing speakers at a height, away from the public; turning the music down a notch or even turning it off at peak times. Venues could look to swap scraping metal stools for a snug or ‘quiet corner’ with softer furnishings. There could be large print menus on tables, or QR codes and TV screens boasting tap lists. Some breweries, such as South London’s The Kernel, have even gone as far as installing professional sound dampening equipment to make their taproom more hospitable.
“Bars, taprooms and pubs should be welcoming spaces to unwind and meet friends,” The Kernel’s taproom manager Mauritz Borg tells me. “Acoustics are as important as lighting, and sound dampening helps everyone feel more comfortable so I think it's something all bar owners should consider.”
Claire Whalley, founder and owner of Craft Republic, a bar in Barry, Wales, tells me that her venue operates table service through wireless call buttons at customer tables. The beer menu is available through a QR code, too.
“When customers want to order a drink, they press the button on their table, these buttons send a signal to watches worn by front of house staff,” she tells me.“It means that our front of house team are able to have conversations at our customer’s tables and can talk through the beers, answer questions and address any concerns without customers needing to shout over a loud, busy bar.”
Craft Republic offers both digital and paper menus at tables, too. “[Customers] can take their time and have their own space whilst deciding what they’d like to drink and don’t have to queue or be jostled at the bar,” Claire tells me—adding that Craft Republic’s beer menus are also projected in large format on digital screens throughout the venue.
When it comes to making beer spaces accessible for people like me, who would rather remain invisible than speak out—simply for fear of not being heard—the buck stops here. It’s up to the industry, inclusive of pubs, brewery taprooms, bars and festivals to listen up and take note, rather than simply smile and nod—before inevitably making up excuses to leave.
