Chris Titley

For a slightly repressed Englishman it was always going to be an embarrassing inquiry. But there was nothing for it but to clear my throat and dial. "Hello, Tesco supermarket, how may I help you?"

"Ah, yes, good morning. I, um, I'm visiting a friend today and I want to buy him a present - a bottle or something. But I've a train to catch, so I was wondering - well, the point is, when do you start serving alcohol?"

This Hugh Grant-like preamble could not have endeared me to the busy woman at Tesco, but there was no choice. Asking about buying booze early in the morning made me feel like a junkie desperate for his fix. It was crucial that I explained the reason for my query to a complete stranger, lest she pictured me as one of those cheerful if malodorous types who hang around churchyards toasting passers-by in Special Brew. The answer, by the way, was 8am.

I blame Lloyd-George for my discomfiture. He was at the helm when the "terminal hour" was introduced, a suitably gloomy term for the moment when the Government turns off the pleasure taps by forcing pub landlords to call "time". This, and the rest of our silly licensing laws, have conditioned us all to feel awkward about alcohol.

After pub-going for a number of years, I discovered that there is a simple rule-of-thumb when it comes to socially acceptable drinking. Total abstinence until the sun is behind the yard-arm, then first one to ten pints wins a kebab.

Sensible, no; insensible, yes. Such an approach may account for the fact that continental drinkers can quaff wine from dawn till dusk and still remember the steps to the Macarena, while their British counterparts are staggering in search of a toilet-seat necklace at 11.05.

Suddenly, however, things are going to change. Merely a matter of months into the 21st century, the Government feels we are old and mature enough to be granted special privileges. The gist of Jack Straw's White Paper is that we will be able to drink when we want to, as long as we tidy up our bedrooms first.

Twenty-four hour opening will not be available everywhere. And it is up to us, "the community", to help decide which pubs and off licences open when. Here are my suggestions for a new York licensing regime.

The Pitcher & Piano, Coney Street: only allowed to open when its prices come down from the stratosphere and it employs enough staff to ensure that service is no longer optional (that should keep it quiet).

The Bootham pubs: as per, except when York City are playing at home. Then anyone showing the bar staff a valid match ticket should get a whisky chaser on the house, as a compassionate anaesthetic.

Walmgate pubs: to be granted 24 hour licences so they can host Evening Press morning conferences. Free whisky chasers to all attendees (reason: see above).

Toffs nightclub: only tattooed males allowed entry.

Tesco: free bag over the head for anyone buying booze at eight o'clock in the morning.

Twang. Twang twang twang twang. Twang twang twang twang. So began the theme music to the worst soap opera in the history of television. And now Labour luvvie Lord Waheed Alli wants to bring Crossroads back.

Yes, why not! Let's destroy once and for all the myth that British TV is the best in the world. There's no need to stop at Crossroads. How about the return of Mind Your Language, set this time in an asylum seekers' compound. Perhaps Lord W could then hire The Krankies to front a new-look Newsnight and commission a remake of weary Seventies sitcom Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased). On second thoughts, scratch the last one. Surely not even a Crossroads fan would be so daft.

If you have any comments you would like to make, contact Chris Titley directly at chris.titley@ycp.co.uk

12/04/00

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.