Going to the pub

Parenthood: it’s enough to drive you to drink. If you can get served somewhere, that is.

It’s understandable, really. For every one customer who’ll visit your pub because it allows kids, there are probably ten who’ll visit specifically because kids aren’t allowed. Pub parents will anxiously nurse half a coke for three quarters of an hour, dashing off to the toilets every few minutes to fill your bins with smelly nappies. They’ll put off casual customers who look in the window, see the pushchair, and walk on by to the next bar. They’ll ruin your chic aesthetic with their changing bags and muslins.

When you’re a new parent, though, your social life has taken its biggest hit since your parents last grounded you. Your free time is dictated by a tiny, irrational being, and your opportunities to pop out for a quick pint are decidedly limited.

That’s why it’s hard not to take it personally when you’ve managed to get the baby to sleep, get dressed and go outside, only to be told at your otherwise-friendly local neighbourhood pub that they don’t allow babies.

I get it, I really do. I used to moan about pubs I liked becoming crèches when we went in for a Sunday roast. Nobody enjoys screaming toddlers crawling under their feet while their parents ignore them from six tables away.

Newborns, though? If the parent has even attempted to leave the confines of the house then it’s probable that the infant is either sound asleep, or the parent has had the kind of day where a stiff drink is urgently required. Either way, it’d be churlish to refuse them entry. Lots of pubs allow dogs, who aren’t exactly famed for their bowel control, mastery of speech or ability to modulate their noise levels, either.

Nobody’s more hyper-aware of the racket their kid is making than a pair of tired parents trying to enjoy a beer and nervously checking they’re not being scowled at too much by their fellow punters. If the kid kicks off, the last place you want to be is standing at the bar trying to order that new IPA. You’ll be hot-footing it out of there either to avoid the social stigma, or to urgently source a new outfit for a soiled child.

Alas, not every pub near us has got the memo, and as you can probably tell by this blogpost, I’m sad about it.

The “parent pound”—as nobody calls it—is a pretty loyal one. And on the contrary, when the pub in question isn’t keen on you bringing your pride and joy with you… well, let’s just say I’m grateful for Cork & Cage, who had no problem with our sleepy Ted joining us for a pint this evening.