The Lock-in
The Brits have some crazy habits. Many the world is already aware of, such as driving on the right side of the road, spending weekends and evenings "tidying up" national forests, and a deep and abiding fascination for Marmite. Recently, thanks to my neighbours Rob and Karen, I discovered another one - the "Lock-In".
On Friday, Rob and Karen invite Cin and I out to a pub in Leicester to listen to the live music of a friend of theirs (who plays absolutely amazing improv folk violin!). Cin had to work, so I agreed to go solo. That evening we piled into Karen's little blue car and whizzed away to a pub called the Black Horse, where we bought each other rounds of ale (the house best was called "White Horse Ale" - Brits also like their horses). We sang folk songs ("And now the Drinkin' verse!") and generally caroused and made merry until around about 11 pm. Then the "Lock-in" procedure began.
Now to truly get the depth of the story, I'll actually need to cover a little background. So let's roll the clock back to 1914 - The British commonwealth is mired deep in the tragedy of WW1. Few young men are present, and those that are are either heading to war whole, or coming back from it broken. Older men, women and sometimes even children are spending their days in factories to ensure a steady flow of material to the trenches, including high explosives. Up until this time public houses in the UK were open and allowed to serve alcohol 24hrs. As a consequence, many people were arriving at the munitions factories out-of-their-skull drunk. And spatially challenged, clumsy, people with poor-decision making abilities are not the best ones to have working around high explosives. So, to eliminate any unfortunate accidents, British Parliament decreed that all Public houses had to cease serving alchohol at 11 pm (with the exception of the pubs at the fishplants, whose employees work on a 24 hr shift timetable, and the pub in the Parliament building itself, for no reason what-so-ever). This provided enough time for people to sober up before heading off to their shift at the factory. Despite the fact that WW1 and WW2 have long since finished, this law has never been revoked. Consequently, all pubs in the UK are still required by law to close at 11 pm.
So, there I was, enjoying the music (you haven't lived until you've heard some bloke do an unplugged render of the Rolling Stone's hit "Honky Tonk Woman" accompanied by a truly gifted improv folk violinist) and great company, when at 11 pm the bartenders began ringing a bloody great bell and bellowing "Drink up! 11pm! Drink up! I need yer glasses, mates!". People drained their glasses, grabbed their coats and began filing out the door. Not wanting to be left out (and not quite thinking clearly anymore - that White Horse has a mean kick!) I drained my glass, rose and began struggling into my own coat. It was only after I had succeeded in putting my arm into the correct sleeve and was woozely showing off my miraculous accomplishment to my new best friends that I realized that none of the other people at my table had stood.
Karen waved her hand at me, and quietly bade me sit again, "Just wait a bit," she admonished. I sank back into my seat, then helped the guy next to me finish off his pint of apple cider (an endeavor in which I'm nearly 80% certain he actually asked my assistance in doing). After about 15 minutes, the bar had pretty much emptied of everyone except the people at our table - friends of the musicians plus one confused canuck. The Bartender came round the bar to the door, closed and locked it, and briskly pulled the curtains. While he was doing this, we all stood, gathered our coats, trooped around to the other side of the room (the bar was an island cutting the room in half) and took seats in the "less-windowed" half. The bartender returned to his post, and with a wink said, "Right chaps, looks like we're locked in. Might as well have a drink, eh? Bars open." And the Black Horse was flowing with White Horse once again.
This odd and technically illegal custom apparently happens every night. And is known and pretty much accepted by the authorities. In fact, Karen told me that during one lock-in at their regular pub in Quorn (called the White Horse - no relation to the ale of the same name), they spent the evening swapping rounds and stories with the local constable, who hadn't bothered to go back to his patrol after nipping in for a pint with his mates earlier in the day. When I asked why they didn't just change the laws the Brits looked at me with a look of shock and said, "But then we wouldn't be able to have a lock-in anymore."
Why let progress stand in the way of years of tradition? Gotta love the brits.
On Friday, Rob and Karen invite Cin and I out to a pub in Leicester to listen to the live music of a friend of theirs (who plays absolutely amazing improv folk violin!). Cin had to work, so I agreed to go solo. That evening we piled into Karen's little blue car and whizzed away to a pub called the Black Horse, where we bought each other rounds of ale (the house best was called "White Horse Ale" - Brits also like their horses). We sang folk songs ("And now the Drinkin' verse!") and generally caroused and made merry until around about 11 pm. Then the "Lock-in" procedure began.
Now to truly get the depth of the story, I'll actually need to cover a little background. So let's roll the clock back to 1914 - The British commonwealth is mired deep in the tragedy of WW1. Few young men are present, and those that are are either heading to war whole, or coming back from it broken. Older men, women and sometimes even children are spending their days in factories to ensure a steady flow of material to the trenches, including high explosives. Up until this time public houses in the UK were open and allowed to serve alcohol 24hrs. As a consequence, many people were arriving at the munitions factories out-of-their-skull drunk. And spatially challenged, clumsy, people with poor-decision making abilities are not the best ones to have working around high explosives. So, to eliminate any unfortunate accidents, British Parliament decreed that all Public houses had to cease serving alchohol at 11 pm (with the exception of the pubs at the fishplants, whose employees work on a 24 hr shift timetable, and the pub in the Parliament building itself, for no reason what-so-ever). This provided enough time for people to sober up before heading off to their shift at the factory. Despite the fact that WW1 and WW2 have long since finished, this law has never been revoked. Consequently, all pubs in the UK are still required by law to close at 11 pm.
So, there I was, enjoying the music (you haven't lived until you've heard some bloke do an unplugged render of the Rolling Stone's hit "Honky Tonk Woman" accompanied by a truly gifted improv folk violinist) and great company, when at 11 pm the bartenders began ringing a bloody great bell and bellowing "Drink up! 11pm! Drink up! I need yer glasses, mates!". People drained their glasses, grabbed their coats and began filing out the door. Not wanting to be left out (and not quite thinking clearly anymore - that White Horse has a mean kick!) I drained my glass, rose and began struggling into my own coat. It was only after I had succeeded in putting my arm into the correct sleeve and was woozely showing off my miraculous accomplishment to my new best friends that I realized that none of the other people at my table had stood.
Karen waved her hand at me, and quietly bade me sit again, "Just wait a bit," she admonished. I sank back into my seat, then helped the guy next to me finish off his pint of apple cider (an endeavor in which I'm nearly 80% certain he actually asked my assistance in doing). After about 15 minutes, the bar had pretty much emptied of everyone except the people at our table - friends of the musicians plus one confused canuck. The Bartender came round the bar to the door, closed and locked it, and briskly pulled the curtains. While he was doing this, we all stood, gathered our coats, trooped around to the other side of the room (the bar was an island cutting the room in half) and took seats in the "less-windowed" half. The bartender returned to his post, and with a wink said, "Right chaps, looks like we're locked in. Might as well have a drink, eh? Bars open." And the Black Horse was flowing with White Horse once again.
This odd and technically illegal custom apparently happens every night. And is known and pretty much accepted by the authorities. In fact, Karen told me that during one lock-in at their regular pub in Quorn (called the White Horse - no relation to the ale of the same name), they spent the evening swapping rounds and stories with the local constable, who hadn't bothered to go back to his patrol after nipping in for a pint with his mates earlier in the day. When I asked why they didn't just change the laws the Brits looked at me with a look of shock and said, "But then we wouldn't be able to have a lock-in anymore."
Why let progress stand in the way of years of tradition? Gotta love the brits.
posted by Mark at 6:52 a.m.
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