The Essential Guide to Pub Etiquette
It was the writer and politician Hilaire Belloc (1870–1953) who famously said, “Change your hearts or you will lose your inns and you will deserve to have lost them. But when you have lost your inns drown your empty selves, for you will have lost the last of England.”
Belloc was right to worry about the loss of inns—or pubs, as we call them today. According to figures published in the Morning Advertiser, the UK has experienced the closure of around 15,800 pubs since the turn of the 21st century, a modern disaster, and one which goes a long way to supporting his famous adage. Pubs are vital spaces, the lifeblood of communities up and down the country, and their existence is an essential facet of both our social cohesion and our collective history. Life is better when you spend some of it in the pub.
However, I prefer to extend Belloc’s warning beyond pub closures alone, to encompass other threats to their atmosphere and use. Pubs have been forced to adapt to changing circumstances in order to survive today; often, they lose something vital in the process.
For example, when Michael Belben and David Eyre opened The Eagle in London’s Farringdon neighbourhood in 1991, it became the progenitor of the modern gastropub. But what they’d really done was open a restaurant inside a building that used to be, and still vaguely looked like, a pub. What made the space a pub in the truest sense had largely been erased, replaced by a heavily polished facsimile. Out with the Scampi Fries, in with the John Dory.
Many British pubs have similarly lost themselves over the decades. They might remain pubs on the surface, but in practice are drab chains owned by lumbering pubcos in their thousands, with little community spirit left.
But despite these challenges, proper pubs have found a way to survive in myriad forms. Some adhere to the truest ideal of the concept, with their faded carpets and worn wood. Others function as taprooms or micropubs, often housed in former retail spaces, serving the social needs of their local communities once again. It’s the intangible vibe that makes a pub, not the building itself, and this is what we must preserve to prevent Belloc’s fears from ever coming to pass.
““All good pubs have unwritten codes of conduct that, over time, become instilled in the people who use them regularly.””
Likewise, a certain level of pub decorum must also be preserved. All good pubs have unwritten codes of conduct that, over time, become instilled in the people who use them regularly. It is the responsibility of those who live by these codes to pass them on to others. Pubs are for everyone—but not everyone who visits a pub is aware of the particulars that make it hospitable for patrons and staff alike.
That’s where we come in. At Pellicle, we’ve assembled a crack team of writers who are also dedicated pubgoers, several of whom still work in pubs today. Together we’ve outlined our non-negotiable list of pub dos and don’ts, designed to make stopping for a pint as simple for the newbie as it is pain-free for the regular.
This is our essential, indispensable guide to pub etiquette. We urge all those who love pubs as much as we do to take in every word—and change their hearts accordingly.
Author Key: Claire Bullen (CB), David Jesudason (DJ), Katie Mather (KM), Lily Waite-Marsden (LWM), Matthew Curtis (MC), Rachel Hendry (RH), Ruvani de Silva (RDS), Will Hawkes (WH).
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Table reservations are for restaurants, not pubs
We live in an age of table bookings in pubs, whether you like it or not—and I do not. When the Covid-19 pandemic made it essential to book a pub visit in advance, the country was in conniptions. How does one enjoy the sacred spontaneous pint if it has to be booked and signed in for? Five years on, the practice continues by choice, with pubgoers actually requesting specific tables be reserved for their deferred drinking.
It’s an outrage. Pub seating arrangements are subject to an unwritten hierarchical process, with the best or most sought-after seats—the stammtisch, if you will—belonging to certain members of the local drinking elite, the knowledge of which is passed down through oral tradition. To get a seat at one of these hallowed stations is to be blessed by luck—right place, right time, perhaps, or a touch of karmic retribution.
In busier times, a table is won through stealth, trickery, speed and wit. Stand with your beer and enjoy the room as it is, using your peripheral vision to scout for a leaving group with the precision of a sniper. Swoop in with bags and coats, using the correct balance of confidence and manners. You don’t just bully your way in, shoving and barging. That’s how you lose friends and start a war with the hardest-looking member of the bar team. It’s an artform, a dance, and booking tables curtly avoids participating in the full experience.
What type of person tries to book stools at the bar? People who would rather be in a restaurant. People who have written negative reviews about my service because I didn’t take their order at the table. People who want to organise a group chat night out that nobody else wants to go to. — KM
Illustrations by David Bailey
Don’t form a queue at the bar
What are you doing? Before you is a vast landscape painting, a Turner, a Lowry, Manet’s Bar at the Folies-Bergère. The bar is a wide-open space, full of choice and promise, that invites you to access its entire breadth. It is there to be used as an absolute whole.
Why, then, would you choose the dark, linear obscurity of a railway tunnel, transforming yourself into the figurative rabbit in the headlights as you stand, confusingly, at the back of a long line in the middle of the fucking pub?
Forming queues in pubs feels like a relatively new phenomenon, one born out of people forgetting the rules, or attempting to force a new kind of pub etiquette after the Covid-19 pandemic. All it does is indicate to regular pub users that you are someone who doesn’t quite understand, or remember, how a pub works. It’s even worse when bar staff start shouting and waving at the assembled line, urging people to come forward and use the entirety of the bar—only for them to remain in place, steadfastly scrolling on their phones while they wait for some imaginary number to call them forward.
You are not supposed to queue in pubs. The staff don’t want you to because it makes their job more difficult. Customers like me don’t want you to because now you’re standing 10 people back from the bar and your backside is in the direct periphery of my head, at the table where I have decided to sit and enjoy a quiet pint.
It’s an easy thing to bypass, though. All you need to do is ignore it, walk to the bar, order your drink, and get on with pub life as intended. You can stand there in your queue and throw me disgruntled looks all you like, or you could just do the same, and let the pub be a pub. — MC
Always read the menu/blackboard before you order
“Have you got a lager?”
Yes! We have two, as communicated by the tap list behind me and the keg badges a foot or so from your face.
“Can I have the IPA please?”
We currently have four on the board.
“What hops are in them?”
That information is all listed above.
“I’m looking for a session IPA.”
At this point I imagine answers to the majority of your questions may be dispensed by the clearly legible and reasonably sized board directly in your line of sight, provided for the very purpose of aiding and expediting your decision-making.
“Actually, can I just have three pints of Guinness, please?”
Certainly, we keep the most popular beer in the UK as a secret, off-menu item solely for those who can’t be fucked to use their powers of observation. Three on their way, shamrocks on the foam.
I’ve long argued that everyone should do a mandatory tour of duty in either retail or hospitality, so customers and punters can learn to behave like decent and normal people when shopping or drinking. The exasperation people who work at pubs feel when a lazy, thoughtless, or otherwise useless person refuses to put their ocular and/or mental faculties to good use might seem disproportional to civilians. Our roles are, arguably, predicated on helping the customer find and subsequently enjoy a delicious beverage.
And yet, I’m sure many others will agree: It depends who’s asking, and how. When faced with a “I don’t know what I’m after—have you got anything like XYZ?” or even a frustratingly nebulous “What do you recommend?” I’ll gladly run the script and go to every effort to help out the undecided drinker. But there remains a special place in hell’s unending fires for those who uncaringly, and often with great entitlement, barrel up to the bar, swiftly and wholly reject the unspoken social contract, and proceed to waste both of our time. Just read the fucking list, my guy. — LWM
Don’t order cocktails
People say getting older makes you grumpier, but I don’t agree. I’ve always been grumpy, and nowhere more so than while waiting at the bar of a busy pub.
There’s so much to moan about. Pushing in, obviously. People who order a large round and then add Guinness at the end. Bar staff chatting merrily amongst themselves while I’m waiting. Customers joining—or even worse, forming—queues that snake away from the bar, getting in everyone’s way. Cocktails.
Oh, you want a cocktail do you? Grow up. This is not the time or the place. We’re all waiting an extra five minutes because you’ve decided you’re too good for beer/Pinot Grigio. Just get an alcopop like a normal adult.
The truth is—and this is a rule I’ve just made up, unless I read it somewhere, which is eminently possible—pub drinks should have no more than two components (note to pedants: not including lemon/lime slices or ice). Gin and tonic, fine. Scotch and soda, fine. Lager and lime, fine. Espresso martini? No. And also: Get out.
“But some pubs have a cocktail menu,” I hear you whimper. It doesn’t matter. They presumably think it’ll make them more profitable. Maybe it will—or maybe it won’t, because people who just want a pint will go somewhere else rather than watch the poor lad behind the bar sweating for 17 minutes over a sex on the beach.
We shouldn’t encourage pubs to serve cocktails. We should shame it, with one exception: canned cocktails. If it’s pre-mixed, it’s fine (there’s just one ingredient, after all). I’m not a complete curmudgeon. — WH
The bartender probably knows more than you
As someone who regularly gets whitesplained about India pale ales (my favourite is “It’s called Indian as they used to be spicy,”) I’m willing to concede that there are times when you may be more educated on beer than the staff.
I might wrongly go around white-people-pleasing—but at the opposite end of the spectrum, it’s not great to argue, huff, puff, and basically be a dick to someone because you assume they don’t know as much about beer as you do.
Nearly all of the time, the bartender does know more than you. They’re the ones who serve the beer, hear the feedback, work the cellar, clean the glasses—and, in some cases, maybe even brewed the damned thing.
At one pub where I worked, another bartender had collaborated on a beer with a popular brewery. Some customers didn’t even deign to listen when he described the pint that he had personally devised. One returned to ask “Is this toffee flavour right?” when he had, in fact, mentioned it twice.
Unfortunately, there are still people among us who view hospitality as a lowly pursuit—barely a profession—not realising the level of skill and sheer hard work it takes to provide the experience that pub patrons expect. That bartender scraping a living working night shifts could be tomorrow’s publican empowering communities and supporting the local high street. They could also have a PhD in psychology. You just don’t know what they know.
Hospitality has a high rate of staff turnover, and you know what? People aren’t going to commit to such a career path if punters are continually and needlessly rude to them. If you think you know more than the server, either find a way of breezily and respectfully imparting your knowledge, or just act like Homer Simpson meeting the Smashing Pumpkins: smile politely and shut up. — DJ
Don’t hog your table
I get it—in Britain we’re at the mercy of arguably the world’s most capricious weather system, so we’re perpetually overloaded with coats, hats, umbrellas, and sundries. It’s not our fault, and it’s a bloody nuisance. Add in a book or newspaper, or perhaps a bit of shopping, and suddenly our hands are full and our shoulders burdened. Where better to take a load off than the pub?
By all means, if it’s a quiet Wednesday afternoon, feel free to spread your possessions across one of many empty tables before heading over to the bar for what I sincerely hope is a pint of cask mild. However, come five o’clock (or whenever people start drinking en masse these days), be sure to scoop up your trappings and stow them under your seat, in your lap, on a hook, or anywhere else that won’t impede your fellow drinkers.
Extend others the courtesy you’d like to receive (this applies to all pub etiquette rules, and life in general), and save other patrons from the awkwardness of asking you to shove up a bit. If you’re saving space for a group, proper etiquette dictates that those seats remain available until your friends arrive. We’ve all, at some point, been desperate to collapse into a chair, wishing some selfish sod would just shift their damp umbrella, move their dirty glasses, or otherwise free up space at their still-empty table.
You never know: If you invite someone to sit at your table, you might even make some new friends, or at least enjoy an interesting conversation. Pubs are bastions of our social contract, and making space for other humans is a central tenet. These are our third spaces, places to just be, but part of that being is being mindful of one another. If you need to spread out that badly, go home. — RDS
Never vape indoors
One of the worst things to happen to society in recent years—political atrocities aside—is the rise of vaping.
It’s not just the fact that the act is entirely devoid of glamour and ethics, or that it smells awful. It’s the arrogance of those who think it’s okay to vape inside that really irks me. I don’t want my delicious white wine soda and ready salted Hula Hoops experience ruined by a fog of foam banana cherry vanilla, emitted by someone who thinks the rules don’t apply to them. There’s something incredibly unchic about partaking in something that’s simultaneously detrimental to the planet and to the vibe. Why don’t you take your little toy outside like the grown-ups who smoke cigarettes and think about what you’ve just done?
I do think that, in contrast, smoking etiquette is adhered to beautifully. Cigarettes are brought outside and smoked at a safe distance. Customers tend to inform those of us behind the bar if they’re leaving for a quick cig with a, “Would you mind keeping an eye on my table whilst I go for a smoke?”
I watch as lighters and filters are gifted generously, as people charm their way into a free menthol, as flirtations occur over a shared smoke. Perhaps the camaraderie in undertaking something illicit brings people together this way, or perhaps the hottest members of society are the smokers after all. Vapers take note. — RH
Always buy a round when it’s your turn
We’ve all been there. You arranged to meet your friends almost half an hour ago, and you’re marching towards your local with a sweat on, desperate to grip your first pint and share some much-needed camaraderie. Your lateness sees you arrive right as said friends drain the final drops from their glasses. They tilt their chins upwards, shooting you expectant looks. They know you’re off to the bar, and it is absolutely your round. No excuses.
But look, there’s beauty in buying a round—especially upon arrival at the pub. Now your next two or three drinks are locked in, with only the inevitable call of nature giving you reason to rise from the table. Buying a round when it’s your turn isn’t just genial; it’s one of the truest demonstrations that we are a civilised society, doling out the work evenly so that all those gathered get to reap the same rewards.
When engaging in a session, whether long or short, it’s worth keeping a mental tally. If someone tries to buy a round when it’s not their turn, give them a gentle nudge so they don’t dip into their pocket unnecessarily. Similarly, if someone attempts to shirk their round with a feeble excuse, it’s fair to give them a light jibe before sending them packing towards the bar. Crisps can (and should) be purchased at this point and placed in the centre of the table as a peace offering. Spill someone’s drink by accident? It’s your duty to purchase them a replacement. Heading on a longer session? The kitty system is your friend—plus, any leftover change can be used for vital chips and kebabs to help cushion the blow that tomorrow morning will inevitably bring.
The only circumstance when it is OK to duck out of the round is when you don’t have the financial means to contribute. Good friends will always buy you a drink when you’re a bit short, because your company is more important to them. Just remember that when you’re not struggling, and one of your group potentially is, it’s time to return the favour.
Of course, there are those pals who always seem to get the rounds in. No one likes a show-off but, then again, no one’s going to stop you. Just remember, if someone says “no” when you ask if they want another, to respect their wishes. Peer pressure is for losers, after all. — MC
Get a nice little snack with every round
I simply do not have the constitution to drink on an empty stomach.
This became a problem when I moved to London 13 years ago, and discovered I was expected to down several pints without so much as a basket of Buffalo wings for ballast. It took years to find my sea legs, and still, I suffer the next day whenever I forget to eat.
Recently, I decided I’d had enough of this self-abnegating expectation. And so—at least in wet-led pubs that don’t have kitchens—I’ve started buying the table snacks with every round. Salt and vinegar crisps, of course. Scampi Fries, routinely. Posh snacks, like Serious Pig’s Snacking Cheese, if they’ve got ’em. Or just crackling—especially if it’s the kind with the creamy layer of fat underneath the blistered rind.
This is absolutely a self-serving gesture, but it also feels like an expression of loving abundance. I enjoy marching back to the table with an armful of small snack bags and ripping them open so they transform into silver serving platters.
At best, it feels almost chic. I can pretend I’ve gone somewhere like Italy, where aperitivo is taken seriously. I still remember a trip there, years ago, when I was given such a large platter of nibbles with my drink order that I tried to send it back, convinced I’d received someone else’s food. There were breads and crackers, plus nuts, olives, a few pickled things, and even cheese cubes. The moment I discovered it was all free reoriented my worldview.
Unfortunately for me, the UK has not spiritually caught up with the Italians. But until then, the least I can do is provide for the table—and stop pretending I can skip a meal without consequences. — CB
(Digital) silence is golden
Whether you’re in the pub for socialising or solitude, there is one thing you never, ever want to hear—and that is someone else’s digital noise.
This covers, but is not limited to, speaking on your phone; playing music, sports, videos, or anything else without headphones; or showing your friends the latest viral meme that they definitely care about less than you do. If you don’t want to hear it from someone else, don’t do it yourself. Even if, for some inexplicable reason, you’re not bothered by other people’s racket, be mindful of those who are. It’s called noise pollution for a reason.
While banning phones, as a small number of pubs do, is excessive, the imperative to preserve pubs as social and convivial spaces is a solid one. Putting aside our collective dependence on digital stimuli makes our pub experiences better and more rewarding, and ultimately roots us more deeply in where we are, who we’re with, and what we’re drinking.
Having that connection disrupted by a screeching TikTok video is unfair, and such discourteous behaviour does not belong in the pub (or on the street, bus, train, or pretty much any other public space). For a very long time, many pubs didn’t even play their own music, never mind allowing anyone else’s—they were specifically for folks to drink and talk in.
If this just sounds like boring, old-people stuff, maybe the pub isn’t for you. Or maybe you don’t yet know how sweet the sound of actual human conversation and laughter can be. Put your device on silent and come find out. — RDS
No shushing
I’ve rarely been more offended than when I’ve been shushed in the pub.
There was the moment more than a decade ago, at a pub in North London, when I burst into laughter in response to a friend’s joke. The man at the adjacent table was so incensed that he told my friend to put a bag over my head.
Then there was the recent incident at a beer festival in Essex. Four of us sat down to chat over pints. Eventually, we realised the men next to us were listening in while they played cards, making snide comments about everything we said. They were too passive-aggressive to shush us directly, but the chilling effect on our conversation was the same.
What possesses people to enter lively social spaces and insist on monastic silence? Whatever their reasons, it is a joyless and solipsistic way to experience the world. It’s also antithetical to the institution of the pub.
Newsflash: Pubs are public. They were never designed for silence. The buzz of people greeting one another, the clinking of glasses, the rise and fall of conversation—these are the sounds of a pub that is in good health.
Of course, that doesn’t mean every noise is welcome. Conversation that is hateful, intimidating, or intentionally disruptive is obviously not acceptable. Punters should generally be respectful of the room’s volume, and pubs should take sound-dampening measures to increase their accessibility.
But as the number of pubs continues to decline, it becomes all the more important to protect them and their purpose. At their best, they are the rare common spaces where we can freely gather, talk shit, and be most fully—and merrily—ourselves.
If the sound of friends chatting happily offends you, I can only say that the problem lies with you. Instead of shushing them, you should probably stick to drinking in your front room. — CB
Don’t cheer when someone drops a glass
There’s a certain type of person—almost invariably a white, cishet man—who uses social media like an AITA helpdesk. They’ll frequently pose unsolicited questions, asking “What’s wrong with that?” whenever a masculine microaggression is challenged.
Ironically, even though they rarely get a reply, these utterances always prove that, yes, they are the arsehole.
I regularly get asked “What’s wrong with that?” when I call out pubgoers who shout “wheey” when a glass smashes. I think it’s fairly obvious that revelling in a server’s misfortune is such a clear warning sign that you’d almost expect a stovepipe-hat-wearing Victorian railway worker to magically appear at the pub, furiously waving a red flag.
I’ll break this down further for the few people who still think this kind of behaviour is acceptable. When you’re working behind a bar, the relationship between server and customer must be mutually respectful, especially when there are groups of men present.
When I’ve dropped a glass while working a shift, it feels like I’ve made a very public error—and it’s always made worse by the glee some take in the slip. The “wheey” is a form of finger-pointing and, quite frankly, bullying, typically from people who’ve never worked in a pub before. It’s also just not funny (neither is “sack the juggler”), and it’s worth questioning why some feel the need to carry on with such an outdated and ultimately hostile tradition.
Isn’t it time you stopped acting like your grandad, or pretending that pubs are still male-orientated spaces? — DJ
Don’t ever photograph or film staff without their consent
You want ice in your Guinness? Coming right up. You want me to plug your phone into every socket in the bar so you can be absolutely certain it’s broken? I’m down. You want me to know that, even though you’re two men paying together, you’re not together together? Well fellas, I didn’t realise it was gay to do rounds but consider me informed.
Bartenders are beholden to the whim of their customers. It is our job to provide a welcoming and safe space, to respond with warmth and flexibility to the needs of others, to be gracious in the presence of idiosyncrasies and faux pas.
That is until someone takes a photo of me at work without asking first.
With the rise of phone-eats-first influencer content and surveillance culture, I’m finding myself being papped at work with increasing regularity. Whether it’s a customer taking a photo of the bar, filming a reel, or otherwise attempting to document the vibe, more and more staff are being greeted by someone’s phone before their face, and rarely with prior permission. It’s rude, if you ask me.
I can go into why data protection laws and the blurring of boundaries between personal and work social media make such behaviour a potential breach of the law. But what I think is more important to stress here is that bartenders are people who have a right to dignity and autonomy over their bodies. Access to service staff has to end somewhere. So next time you have the urge to document your pub visit, remember that just because a person is working in a public space doesn’t mean they want that digitised and shared all over the internet. Consent is sexy, after all. — RH
Never misgender staff (or other customers)
I’m wiping down the patina of the steel surface when you belly up to the bar, hands perched on its edge. Your eyes click to mine as I greet you; they narrow slightly before you tilt your head. We say our lines, I pour, hand you your glass, there’s a beep from the card reader. You lean forward, oddly conspiratorially for the impending volume of your question, bellowing over the roiling Saturday night throng.
“Are you a man or a woman?”
My cheeks flush, my stomach drops, I retreat into the back room. Don’t cry, smile at the next customer, I tell myself.
10 years have passed and yet I still remember the details of that interaction, and of countless others: hurtful, stupid, or careless comments, weapons of words thrust my way, thoughtless litter dropped by mistake. Being trans in hospitality means this is inevitable, a symptom of close and ever-refreshed proximity to people for whom trans people remain a spectacle, an irritation, an eye-roll of inconvenience.
Here’s one abiding tip to avoid misgendering someone and possibly ruining their night: Use your head! Do you know someone’s name or pronouns from context? Grand, use them. Do you need to speak about them in front of them? Use neutral language, or say “the bartender” or “this person.” Do you need to refer to them when not in their presence? Use “they” if you’re unsure. You can, of course, always ask for their name or how they refer to themselves—their pronouns.
It’s simple, and conveys the most basic level of respect. It is exhausting to be misgendered, to be reminded of your otherness, to feel that pain in your chest again again again, by someone for whom it does not even register as a misstep or infliction. My personhood is worth less than yours because you do not even care to see it; as such you seek not to modify your behaviour, to look for the respect in how to address me. Who I am means nothing to you beyond a pint.
It may feel awkward to ask the question, and it’s never entirely comfortable to receive it, but it’s a lot better than the alternative. And, as ever, just be kind. — LWM
Don’t shove rubbish in your glass
I love to serve your beer, becoming part of your day in the best way possible—the person who bestows the delicious gift of a pint. I don’t even mind clearing up after you; it is my job, and it’s part of creating a relaxing, tidy atmosphere for everyone to spend their precious time in. What I do mind is picking your tissues out of a glass. Your snotty rag inside my glassware—unhygienic, unwelcome, disgusting.
I understand why you might have done it. You wiped your hands with an antibacterial wet wipe and then stuffed it, used and dirtied, into the nearest receptacle. You thought you were being tidy.
Picture this: You sit at a table with someone you love, sharing a torn-open bag of crisps as you sip pints of local bitter. A laugh passes between you, a moment as meaningful as it is fleeting. You reach for a snack and accidentally drop a Scampi Fry on the carpet. Not wanting to appear slovenly, you bend down to pick it up, and as you talk, you absent-mindedly spin it on the table. It can’t stay there, one of you might eat it by mistake, ingesting a hundred years or more of dirty footprint molecules and dog hair.
Without breaking a sentence, you take a used tissue out of your pocket, wrap the dirty crisp in it, and pop the whole scenario into your now-empty pint glass. It sits for a while as you continue to gossip, having a wonderful time in the late afternoon lull, enjoying one another’s company and the comfort of your favourite pub. Then I come along to collect your glasses, you say thank you (because you are a nice person, and I don’t doubt that), and when I’m gone, the entire situation is erased from your mind.
Meanwhile, I return to the other side of the bar and curse your entire family’s existence (a little harsh, maybe, but I haven’t had anything to eat yet) for making me slide my bare hand into a pint glass lined with stale foam to pick up a soggy tissue that’s been up and around a stranger’s nostrils. — KM
Always bring your empties back to the bar
When it comes to showing what a good person you are, the modern world is chock-full of easy wins. Social media, in particular, offers the chance to be a hero every day—which is fine but, as ever, real virtue is displayed in the streets. Or, to be more precise, in the pub.
When it comes to great pub behaviour, taking your empties back to the bar is right at the top of the list. Is there a loftier source of self-worth than when, unbidden, you pop a few recently drained nonics back on the bar? I don’t think so. It’s like escorting an elderly lady across a busy road, but without all the bother. The cherry on the cake is when the bar staff acknowledge your efforts with a nod or—best of all—some sort of verbal affirmation (e.g.: “Thanks, mate.”)
All in a day’s work, you think to yourself. All in a day’s work.
Why does it feel so good? Because the best pubs are a collaboration between workers and drinkers. Yes, they’re businesses, but not like the other, inferior ones. Pubs are different from restaurants, for example: There’s no table service, and the staff-to-customer ratio is often much lower. If you help staff with their job, they can be doing something far more important—like getting the next cask on, or explaining to a young person why they don’t serve cocktails.
When you put your empties back on the bar, you’re making the pub work better. You’re ensuring it is a tidier, cleaner, more enjoyable experience for everyone—and you get an endorphin rush from being such a stand-up citizen. That’s what I call an easy win. — WH
Tipping is important, actually
Working in pubs is hard. The hours are long, the job is messy, there is little opportunity to sit down, and interactions with other customers can be emotionally and physically draining—but you’re expected to do it all with a smile on your face. You also need a wide variety of skills, from cleaning and customer service to cellar management, beer service, and basic accountancy, plus some decent marketing nous (do you think those A-boards paint themselves?). All that for a pay package that can generously be described as “shit.”
There are several things you should expect when you go to a pub: a nice setting, good drinks, maybe good food if it’s that kind of place. The servers owe you nothing more than facilitating those basic needs, but this is not what is expected of staff. What is expected is good service, always, and good service—no, the expectation of good service—deserves a tip. Always.
Leaving a couple of quid on the bar (or via the prompt that now appears on most card readers) is the least you can do to support those who try to make your leisure time more palatable. Alternatively, you can ask the staff if they’d like a drink. One regular during my pub days, Mick (sadly no longer with us), used to buy me halves throughout my shift. When I said I’d save one for later, he’d reply “I want to see you drink it.” But most staff are happy to leave them in the lines until their shift is over.
Visiting pubs is no longer a cheap pursuit. I carry the fundamental belief that staff should be able to afford to eat and drink within the establishments where they work. Often, however, this isn’t the case. As customers, we have the power to collectively facilitate this basic right. When someone finishes a 12-hour shift, with legs feeling like two hot pokers, they can sit down and have a glass of something nice, and enjoy the space that customers so often take for granted. Pubs are for everyone, after all, and that includes the people who work in them. — MC
