British pubs have been pushed to the brink

A long time ago, a seasoned old hack gave me some wise words of advice: never to trust anyone who did not know the Sunday pub opening hours. This was back in the days when the Nanny State got to decide when pubs could open on the Sabbath.

This year, after thirteen long months of the Gestapo State in charge of whether pubs could open at all, I’ve decided to write off anyone who didn’t have ’12 April’ circled and underlined in red ink three times in their diaries to mark our return at long last, after a long hard lockdown winter, to the pub.

It was hailed as the Great Reopening. But when Monday finally dawned, the Great British Weather had other ideas, delivering freezing cold temperatures, sleeting snow and, yes, actual hail to large parts of the country. Not that it deterred the hardy Brits, of course.

‘Look!’ the lockdown lovers cried, ‘You’re back in the pub! We’re not in lockdown anymore!’