A Pint of Old Nostalgia
I’m on the gully-side with no more time
To linger or waste the daylight hours.
Into Silver Spoon I step to grab a scran,
Fried chicken and hot dumplings, packed to go.
Then slip along the length of Beresford Street,
Toward the grand Edwardian manor house,
Seeking a pint of old nostalgia
At The Claremont, where memories linger.
I enter through the narrow door. A moggy sits
Upon a carpet of rich magenta hues —
Deep purple crossed with cream acanthus leaves.
The curving fronds snare my eye
As I boldly stride over to the timber bar.
The short, plump barmaid stands and pours
My cold, golden pint of Diamond lager.
I turn right and tiptoe into an empty room,
Sitting down at the rounded wooden table.
Against the farthest wall, a fireplace stands,
All sealed and dark within the musty space,
Where damp, stale odours cling
To every sinew of my being.
I block out the darkness, lift the glass
And almost take a sudden gulp – but hell!
What the fuck is that inside?
A Drosophila melanogaster struggles in the foam!
I abruptly flick it onto the Wilton floor.
I hate to drink this, but the times we live in,
The cost of living constrains the choice I make.
With a grimace, I take three big swallows,
Then reach down and grab the cardboard
Beer coaster to cover up the rim:
“Unmistakably Mancunian. A True Icon.”
It says: “The Bitter That We’re Built On.”
Two minutes pass, and another fruit fly
Comes dashing across my itching brow.
No more of this! Three vigorous swigs –
I hastily hand the glass back to the barmaid.
She smiles, wishing me a pleasant day,
And from the Holt’s old Edwardian outfit
I breathe in the bustle of Claremont Road,
Sensing all the glory it once held:
British pubs are closing at a rate of two a day;
An age of shared memories slowly melts away.
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