The Glass Divide

London N1, early 70s All thirteen pubs within staggering distance of my childhood bedroom had a method of demarcating the saloon from the public bar - a velvet curtain, a smoked glass door, a carpet. The dartboard was always in the public, as were the the pool table and gherkins on the counter. The jukebox was in there too - my new 10p got me two plays - Bowies’s cover version of the Merseys Sorrow; and the B side - more of which later .

The Saloon contained carpets, coasters and ...gulp...women. Drinks cost more in the saloon and there was a dress code a, Hamlet cigar, a Crombie coat and a Tory vote. Keg Double Diamond one side; Warninks advocaat with glace cherry the other. Let’s call the boozer The Lord Raglan as that was its name and acknowledge the divides within the working class. The margin between the groups was the durex gossamer but each imagined a yawning chasm - the saloon occupants identifying with the ruling classes far more than those on the other side of the of the anaglyptic papered wall. Aspirational that’s called now.

Ashtrays piled high with Guards/ No 6 and the rush to closing time when bell sounded - the short not a pint ; the sudden exit into a freezing outdoors; home to a salty chicken sandwich; Capital radio moment of terror and a swirling bedroom ceiling. Tescos Chapel Market deli counter  the next day. Latest RCA Bowie 45 or import soul from some obscure label picked up at lunchtime with a DeMarcos coffee / Neapolitan cone with flakes depending on season. Reciting the coda to Bewlay Brothers as you deal with insane management demands and bizarre requests from the older customers. Always worked, try it- lay me place and bake me pie. If this failed you could bring out the zane zane zane ouvrez le chien but my brother and I would generally save that for our boss. What you would now call a line manager. I also joined the Union (USDAW) at 15 because that was how you got higher pay and better conditions -it still is. You call it a closed shop; I call it a profession. When I struggled for years to get my Equity Card my consoling thought was I’d at least be guaranteed work of some sort. Enter the Tories, exit closed shop for many industries but not for the Law, Politics (check out the PPE grads in cabinet) or Accountancy. Any class bias  there?

The man in the saloon was saying: I can afford to pay more for the same drink in the same glass than you - conspicuous consumption it’s called and it is as much an art as KLF burning those fivers. It is proper working class ; as it is to call them flash gits.Therein lies the dichotomy, the paradox, the swing voter.  So I was caught halfway between thinking wish I was in there and that place looks dreadful - better denigrate all who linger there. So I did.  And that made me happy. They shrugged off the barbs- Majorca next week - that made them happy - golf club membership if I laugh at the chairman’s jokes loud enough - that made them giddy - freemason entryism if I move my orders to their company - delirious. Their nightly joy was only wrecked by the above mentioned B-side: the cover of Jacques Brel’s Amsterdam replete with words rarely uttered in the subdued lighting of the inner sanctum.

Common wisdom tells us the public bar are now UKIP and the saloon UKIP tribute act - Tories. Can the left bridge that gap?  Wrong question. To paraphrase Wilfred Owen, globalisation done for them both with its plan of attack.  Nearly all 13 pubs are gone - worth more as buy to let property for Chinese investors. What we all need is something to vote for.