We never knew, or never noticed, The Mayors Arms, one of Bristol’s few surviving post war buildings. And now it’s set for demolition.
Actually, we did notice it – just not before 2009 when it was converted into a restaurant.
In its most recent guise as Sousta, a “Mediterranean restaurant and bar”, it intrigued us because it never seemed to have any customers. Ever.
Its location, at the bottom end of a large council estate, on the river embankment, offers little passing trade. There are no other shops or hospitality outlets nearby.
In fact, the only business that could really work here is a neighbourhood pub in a working class area where people drink plenty of beer.
And that’s what Redcliffe was in February 1964 when this version of the pub opened. Here’s how it was described in a report in the Evening Post:
A three-storey building of striking appearance, this modern Bass-Worthington house has a spacious lounge and bar and an off-sales shop on the ground floor. In the summer a paved terrace off the forecourt will assume a Continental atmosphere with flowers and shrubs, and tables fitted with sun umbrellas… The Avon Lounge, following the trend of modern public-house design, is an attractive room, tastefully decorated, luxuriously carpeted and discreetly lit. The main part of the room has concealed trough lighting at ceiling level. In addition, spotlights pick out the bar counter and service area, opposite which is a 32 foot long photo-mural showing something of the activity at Bristol docks. The Redcliffe Bar is also decorated and furnished in modern style and affords a high standard of appearance and comfort. Concealed lighting, similar to that installed in the lounge, adds much to the general atmosphere.
This new building replaced an older pub of the same name on the same site which was demolished in 1963 as part of the post-war redevelopment of the entire area.
In short, though, this was a flagship development for Bristol Council after World War II as they sought to (a) rebuild a badly blitzed city and (b) move the population from crumbling Victorian terraces into modern homes and tower blocks.
The old Mayors Arms did, it has to be said, look rather more appealing than the new one. If it had survived the post-war reconstruction phase it would no doubt be sitting there now looking quaint and rather appealing.
There’s a nice human story attached to the 1963 demolition, however.
When regulars at the old pub heard the news they immediately raised a petition to have the brewery put the publicans, Mr and Mrs Jones, in charge of the new one.
But, as the Evening Post reported, “Bass, however, had already decided Mr and Mrs Jones were the right people for the job.”
Two long modern bars with spacious lounges set out dining room fashion. Piano and darts but neither are used much. Takes coach parties and locals from the nearby flats. Coffee is served in the morning. Full range of food at lunchtime. Full Bass beer range (no real beer though), a bit expensive. ‘Music while you work’ muzak horribly obtrusive.
The story of this particular estate pub isn’t much different to that of many others.
The newspaper archives have “under new management” announcements and proud talk of refurbishment.
They also have this story from the Bristol Evening Post in July 1986:
A man needed hospital treatment for cuts and a back injury after being attacked by a group of ten to 15 youths at the Mayor’s Arms, in Redcliffe, Bristol. One of the ringleaders was described as being white, in his middle twenties, slim, wearing a white T-shirt with the motif “I’m an alcoholic.”
Because it wasn’t especially remarkable, just another unfashionable estate pub, the trail runs cold until this entry at Pubs Galore from 2009:
Closed, emptied of fixtures & fittings and the builders are in knocking down walls etc. A roughly drawn notice outside says it’s to become an Indian Restaurant.
When you see an estate pub, do take a second to have a look, and maybe take a photograph, because the chances are it’ll be gone before the decade is out.
It’s been 10 years since our book Brew Britannia was published, and 7 since the follow-up 20th Century Pub. What did we get right? What did we get wrong? And where is British beer today?
As one review of Brew Britannia suggested, it was a story half told, because we hadn’t reached the end. We were obliged to reflect the contemporary scene as best we could, and take some guesses about where it might go next. This is what we wrote:
Though ‘big beer’ seems to be struggling, there is plenty of energy and excitement on the latter side of the fence, and new breweries continue to open while better-established ones keep growing. Now that ‘alternative’ category is in the process of subdividing yet again, this time into two broad camps: ‘real ale’ and ‘craft beer’… For all its increasing diversity and apparent health, there are anxieties in the world of ‘alternative beer’. Several people we spoke to in the industry say they are braced for a shake-out: there are too many breweries, they say, and many are brewing downright bad beer, which they are selling too cheaply… Another concern is that, in a market where the buzz is around the latest and weirdest beer, there might be nothing new left to discover…
This long post is an attempt to fill in some of the gaps and hold ourselves to account: what did we get right, what did we get wrong, and what took us totally by surprise?
More importantly, it’s about gaining some perspective. It’s easy to mistake the fact that we personally have become older and more jaded to mean that there has been a decline in the quality and vibrancy of the beer scene.
Maybe there has, maybe there hasn’t – but there must be some objective facts we can use to test our gut feelings.
We know other people have different perspectives, though, so we’ve also asked as many people as possible for their thoughts.
Our criteria for a healthy beer culture from 2013
A decade or so ago, beer felt exciting. It was at the centre of the conversation with a significant buzz about it. The very existence of Brew Britannia is proof of that. We wouldn’t have got an offer from a publisher for that book in 2004 but in 2012 Aurum (Quarto) thought there might be a market.
There were new breweries and bars opening all the time, along with constant ‘product innovations’ – for better or for worse.
We visited on a busy Saturday expecting a sterile exhibit, based on the photos we’ve seen online. The very act of rebuilding and restoration means the building looks too neat and bright, like something from Poundbury.
In its original location it was covered in soot, urban grot, and layer upon layer of paint. It was surrounded by railings, billboards, street furniture and litter. At St Fagans, it’s all fresh bare brick and fresh country air.
The Vulcan was to Cardiff what the Laurieston is to Glasgow (or the Charlie Chaplin was to the Elephant & Castle if I’m honest), that “was” telling you that the pub closed a decade ago and is still being rebuilt brick-by-brick at St Fagans, where pashminas from Cowbridge will ask what wines it sells.
On top of all that, the website suggested booking a table if you wanted to see The Vulcan and, as we approached, it looked overcrowded and oversubscribed.
Imagine our surprise, then, when we walked straight in, got two pints, found a seat, and forgot we weren’t in a ‘real’ pub for an hour or so.
Well, no, that’s not quite true. We were always aware that it wasn’t quite a proper pub. But rather than sterility, its location and status seemed to add to the fun.
The pale wood partitions between the public bar, jug and bottle and, beyond, the corridor to the smoke room.
We’d got the impression that this was going to be something like an ornate Victorian gin palace, perhaps because the exterior is richly decorated with shiny green tiles. But the public bar is actually defined by plain, light-coloured wood, and mostly plain walls decorated with the odd vintage advertisement. There is literally sawdust on the floor, to the delight of every toddler that passed through.
The smoke room at the back feels cosier, with lower light, dark green paint, and dark wood furniture. It’s really not much different from a room in a typical 21st century pub in, say, Sheffield, or Dudley.
It was constantly busy and not only with gawpers. Lots of booze was being bought and drunk and everyone was mildly merry, including us, in a realm where a mild caffeine buzz and a sugar buzz from scones is about as far as it usually goes.
We didn’t see any pashminas but there were plenty of football kits, trackie bottoms, trainers, and tattoos. There were lots of strong local accents, too. Delightfully normal. After all, St Fagans isn’t a particularly snooty museum – entry is free and you can use it like a park, if you like, and hang out all day with a picnic.
From our seat near the door we watched one person after another walk in and beam with delight, say “Wow!”, or both. And it has to be said that dads and granddads in particular seemed to be in their element.
Hard working staff at The Vulcan.
There were four bar staff on duty in vaguely historic costume and we wondered whether they were pub people with a bit of museum training, or the other way round.
They were remarkably cheerful and willing to engage in chat, and the conversation around the crowded bar went something like this:
“How long have you been open, then?”
“Four weeks today.”
“Busy?
“Very.”
“I used to drink in this pub when it was in town. I’ve come out special.”
“Aw, that’s lovely. You’re not the first old faithful we’ve had in today.”
“I see you’ve got an electric till – that’s not very authentic, is it, ha ha!”
“Well, we can’t be expected to tot it up in our heads, can we? But we’ve hidden it under the counter.”
“How long have you been open, then?”
“Four weeks today.”
“Pink nail polish – that’s not very authentic, ha ha!”
“It’s not, is it? What can I get you?”
“Do you do a normal lager?”
“We do. Pint?”
“My granny used to drink in The Vulcan years ago.”
“Aw, that’s lovely.”
“Health and safety notices – they’re not very authentic, are they, ha ha!”
“We’ve had to make a few compromises, unfortunately.”
“I wanted to show my son where I used to drink when he was little.”
“Aw, that’s lovely.”
“Where did this pub used to be, then?”
“Adam Street.”
“What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?”
“Well, some of the spirits are 43%, but you probably want the pale ale.”
“Is the ale real, or fizz?”
“This is real ale on the pumps.”
“Lager – that’s not very authentic, ha ha!”
“Well, we do hide it under the counter.”
Looking at the barman in the flatcap Ray growled under his breath: “I bet this will attract Peaky Blinders wankers.”
“To a museum? Nah,” said Jess.
Then, a few minutes later we overheard one of the staff said: “You can hire it out for private events. We’ve got a Peaky Blinders theme thing happening soon…”
The other thing that’s great about the new location is the additional context it brings. Right across the road is the Oakdale Workmen’s Institute, built in 1916 and relocated to St Fagan’s in 1995.
It was intended as an antidote to places like The Vulcan, with libraries, reading rooms, and space for edifying concerts.
If you want to understand the evolution of the pub in the early part of the 20th century, you can do worse than hop between the two.
Will the staff at The Vulcan still be cheerful after a long, hectic summer season, we wonder? And will the pub still be as busy once those curious to see an old haunt in a new location have done so? We’ll have to go back in a year or so to find out.
Seeing how much booze this museum exhibit was selling, and how happy it made people, made us wonder whether more pubs could consider the heritage angle.
We know we’re weird – we know – but we’d certainly be interested in drinking in historic pubs that have been made over to feel historic. Rather, that is, than painted bloody grey.
Watney’s brewery might have disappeared but its brand lives on in the collective memory and people often ask “What is that font?”
The post-war Watney’s brand identity was created by the Design Research Unit. They were commissioned by Watney’s in 1956 and eventually delivered a pioneering House Identification Manual in around 1960.
This guidance included comprehensive rules on which lettering styles to use, for which purposes, in which contexts.
So, there’s problem number 1: there is no single lettering style but rather a whole set of different, complementary ones.
Problem number 2 is that these weren’t ‘fonts’ in the 21st century sense.
This is a bit boring, and tends to bring out the pedants, but here’s a quick summary of the terminology as we understand it:
typeface – related sets of letters and numbers in different sizes and weights, like Gill Sans, which comes in bold, condensed, italic, shadowed, and so on.
font – a specific style of a particular typeface, such as 12 point Gill Sans Italic. In the days of traditional printing, this would be a single set of metal letters.
lettering style – a design for a set of letters and numbers that might not be used in print at all but cast in metal or plastic, cut from wood, or hand painted.
The meaning of ‘font’ has changed, however, so that, these days, it usually means a digital file you install, such as Roboto_Black.ttf (a TrueType font), which can be automatically resized.
And what most people want to know when they ask about a font is which one they should buy or download for their computer.
With that in mind, throughout this piece, we’ll suggest some digital fonts that will get you close to those used by Watney’s, even if they’re not exactly the same.
The information in this post comes from two Watney Mann in-house technical manuals, House Identification Manual and Basic Elements.
We’ve seen pages from these reproduced in other books and online but were very kindly sent complete scans by Nick Stone, AKA TypeJunky, to whom we owe several pints.
This style could also be used for, e.g., signs pointing to the toilets, or the lounge in a pub. But, in practice, that doesn’t often seem to have been done.
It was also allowed to be used for pub signs in specific circumstances – see below.
The capital letters from Watney’s Clarendon Bold Expanded, from Basic Elements.
The style used to write WATNEYS was described in the brand manual as Clarendon Bold Expanded. But no other font by this name actually looks like Watney’s version, which is sort of curvy and almost cartoonish.
There is, however, a modern digital font called ‘Freehouse’ designed specifically to mimic Watney’s lettering. That’s what we used for the image at the top of this post.
This style was also used to write the names of subsidiary breweries such as Bullard’s, Phipps, Usher’s, Wilson’s, tying together the various companies that were added to the Watney’s family as the 1960s went on.
The fonts used for Watney’s pub signs
A comparison of the permitted lettering styles from Basic Elements.A display of pub names from an exhibition at the Design Centre in London in 1966, from The Red Barrel magazine, August 1966.
A common complaint about Watney’s was that their pubs, and the pubs of breweries they took over, all looked the same. In fact, there were a range of different lettering styles for pub signs, with some loose guidelines for which should be used for which brand, in which parts of the country.
In London, Watney’s own pubs used a style described as English Two-Line Antique, somewhat similar to Egyptian Italic and, to a lesser extent, Festive. It’s a 19th-century-style italic slab-serif that absolutely reeks of post-war Britain.
Two plainer serif styles were also available: Clarendon, of which there are many digital versions, and something called ‘Modern No. 1 Wide’ for which we can’t find an exact match, but it’s in the Modern/Scotch family.
Finally, the red barrel logo font, Grotesque No. 9, was given as an option only for pubs “having narrow fascias” – because its letters are themselves relatively narrow.
Watney’s typography on packaging
A Watney’s beer mat from the 1960s.A selection of branded items pictured in 1960, from The Practical Idealists by John and Avril Blake, 1969.
We don’t have copies of the manuals for this but grab any Watney Mann beer label or promotional item and you can see the same lettering styles being applied, with similar rules.
Handmade, not digital
If you want to recreate the Watney’s look for your own project – a beer label, say, or a sign for the pub in your shed, consider how you’ll avoid the digital look.
Digital fonts can be a great place to start. But back in the 1960s, signs were painted or cut by hand by craftsmen who painstakingly transferred the letter styles from manuals and pattern books.
This meant they were often subtly wonky or misaligned, with a somewhat organic feel.
And printed labels had ink bleed and other characteristics that gave them texture. There are lots of tutorials on this, like this from Spoon Graphics.
In the 1970s and 80s pubs added video game arcade machines to their roster of attractions, in pursuit of younger customers and additional revenue.
We sort of knew this but had forgotten it. We both recall seeing arcade machines in unusual places when we were kids – Chase HQ at the swimming pool, Space Invaders at the chip shop.
And, yes, we must have seen them in pubs here and there, perhaps glimpsed through cracks in the door as we sat on steps with Panda Pops, or ran around beer gardens.
What brought this memory back with a rush was this clip from 1983 via the excellent BBC Archive, From 23 seconds.
It shows office worker Chris Carter spending his lunch break playing Mr Do! in a very normal looking Truman’s pub, presumably in London. Next to the arcade game there’s a gambling machine, a cigarette machine, and a payphone – coin-op corner!
One detail we get about the business model is that the machines in this pub were changed once a month so that there would always be a new game, with novelty value, for people to play.
The questions the video prompted in our minds were when did video games first start appearing in pubs – and where did they go? Because you rarely see them these days, except as retro novelties.
Pong, 1972, running in an emulator.
1973: Pong in the pub
It seems to be accepted generally that the first commercially successful video game was Pong, a basic tennis simulator released to the market by Atari in 1972.
It was actually designed with pubs – or, rather, being American, bars – in mind. The first prototype was tested at Andy Capp’s Tavern in Sunnyvale, California, which seems to have been a restaurant-bar with something of an English pub theme. (Further research required.)
It didn’t take long for real British pubs to start installing Pong-style video game cabinets. In August 1973 Ros Dunn reported for the Huddersfield Daily Examiner that Trevor Haigh, manager of The Albion in New Street, wanted to start a ping-pong pub league “using the new computer machines just coming in”:
They look like small television sets. The two small bars on the screen (the bats) are controlled by two knobs below it. A white dot (the ball) is bounced across the set by moving the bar up to meet it… Mr Haigh believes computer ping-pong wil be just as popular as the more traditional pub sports – darts, dominoes and cards.
Haigh reckoned he had about a dozen keen players even though his machine (a Pong knockoff called Space Ball, from Nutting Associates) had only been installed for a couple of weeks. That means we can pinpoint its arrival to around July 1973.
In December 1973 a firm called Dormer Projects Limited was advertising its “TV Tennis Non-Gaming” machines in newspapers and boasting that they were installed in “over 5,000 pub and club sites throughout the UK”. They were supposedly taking up to £80 per week on each site (pinches of salt required) and cost £650 plus VAT – just shy of £7,000 in today’s money.
In April 1974 a promoter called Len Bruce was trying to get a national Pub Olympics off the ground, in collaboration with a firm based in Morecambe that was producing 30 video game machines a week, and had sold about 500 to pubs up and down the UK. (Does anyone know which company this might have been?)
Most histories of video games, however, report a collapse in the market from about 1974 onwards. Once you’d done Pong, then Pong Doubles (1973) with two paddles per side, then Quadra Pong (1974) with a four-sided court, the novelty began to wear off.
Firms continued to advertise video games to pubs throughout the late 1970s but there were also reports that highlighted the extent to which the first wave of the craze was over. Like this from the Southall Gazette from July 1978:
Pub football and tennis machines fluctuate in popularity, enjoying seasonal success rather like rugby and soccer… Although there are no hard and fast seasons, their popularity can be gauged by the takings or rather the lack of them… The prospect of vidfeo machines lying redundant, naturally enough, causes concerns among the owners of these large and costly boxes of electronic tricks…
More from the BBC Archive including a Space Invaders cocktail table.
1979: Invasion of the Space Invaders
Space Invaders was released by Taito in Japan in 1978 and took a while to make it to UK pubs.
In June 1979 the Liverpool Echo reported that it was on its way, accompanying its report with stories of a wave of juvenile delinquency the game had supposedly unleashed in Japan. (More on this shortly.)
Then, in December 1979, the Liverpool Daily Post published a snarky column by John Williams with the headline “…to boldly bleep where no man can drink in peace any more”:
[The] bar had been equipped with a built-in migraine… This emanated from the lead-booted feet of creatures from outer space and became louder and louder as they neutralised the exploding missiles fired by Earthlings feeding 10p pieces into the Space Invaders machine… The object of the game, apparently, is to save humanity. But it’s too late, at least for our pubs. They have been taken over by the new age of the machine… In [one] pub I counted one video game, two juke boxes, a pin-ball game and two Bandits. Just imagine the whooping, hollering, bleeping, banging, rattling and wheezing when they are all operated simultaneously… At a time when CAMRA is trying to recapture the good old flavour of real ale, everyone else seems hard at work turning pubs into amusement arcades.
As it happens, CAMRA was on the case. An edition of its short-lived print magazine What’s Brewing (not to be confused with the monthly member newspaper) from summer 1980 had a feature by Mike Chapple called ‘Bar Invasion’:
Rick Zaple, CAMRA’s regional organiser for the West Midlands, tabled a motion at the Campaign’s recent Annual General Meeting to place curbs on the offending aliens… “The objection was not against the machines themselves,” says 27-year-old Rick. “It’s just the noise that they create.”… Understandably Rick maintains that Space Invaders, together with other such electronic gadgetry as juke boxes and fruit machines, tend to disturb drinkers out for a quiet pint and a chat… “Rather than banning the machines, there should be more stringent control on the amount of noise they actually make, so that people who do not want to become involved are not being disturbed in the pub,” he said.
In May 1980 the Carmarthen Journal was reporting that…
Public bars in the Carmarthen area which normally echo to the sound of popular pastimes like darts dominoes may soon be buzzing with the strange electronic noises of a new amusement machine which is currently taking the country by storm. The machine, which is called ‘Space Invaders’, has already won the seal of approval from public houses in the large cities and is now being installed in many local pubs, clubs and coffee houses… And master-minding the ‘invasion’ of the machines in West Wales is the Pendine based Arm of Robot Machine Leasing, which has already distributed about 100 ‘Space Invaders’ throughout the area.
By August in the same year, however, a publican in Sevenoaks in Kent was complaining that Space Invaders was old hat and that punters were demanding newer, more sophisticated games:
Mr Gordon Hobson, the landlord of the Camden Arms… said that the craze had died down slightly over the last few weeks but added that manufacturers were constantly thinking up new ideas for video games He said: “At one stage we had a Space Invaders machine in the pub but as the novelty wore off we replaced it with a more advanced game. It is like most things, they tend to wear off after a time.”… Mr Hobson has a wide variety of video machines which budding Luke Skywalkers can pit their wits against and there is nothing more rewarding than seeing your initials proudly displayed on the screen if you manage to achieve one of the highest scores.
1981: Won’t somebody think of the children?
In February 1981 Chief Superintendent David Jones of Gloucestershire Constabulary spoke at an annual licensing session in Cheltenham. He suggested that the presence of video games in pubs had led to a surge in under-age drinking because “Young people are being attracted into bars to play the machines”. Police in nearby Bristol said the same thing.
And in March the same year police in Stockport joined in the chorus, as reported in the Advertiser and Guardian:
Stockport schoolboys would seem to be deserting the playground for the pub in a bid to master the Space Invader craze… Moreover the mania for video games – which have flooded the country – has brought fears from the police that the micro-chip fever could lead to a new generation of teenage tipplers.
There were also stories, echoing those from Japan, of children stealing to pay for their video game addiction, or fiddling the machines to get free plays.
An anti-video-game lobby emerged in the UK, arguing that video games should be treated like films, with venues required to have a licence to ‘exhibit’ them. This debate rumbled on throughout the rest of the decade.
1982: Game over?
If the purpose of putting video games in pubs was to attract younger customers, and authorities were saying, “Oh no you don’t!” then perhaps a crash was inevitable.
In January 1982 the Daily Mirror was convinced the craze was reaching an end:
Space Invaders are being beaten off by the recession… Many pubs and clubs are replacing them with fruit machines because of a big drop in profits… One video games firm, Sabelectro of Cheltenham, has lost £600,000… Broadway coins of London said: “Last year every machine netted £200 a week. Now we’re lucky to get £40.”
It’s also worth bearing in mind that the home computer boom kicked off in earnest at about this. The Sinclair ZX Spectrum was launched in 1982, for example, and a major selling point was that for a relatively small initial outlay, you could save a fortune in 10 pence pieces.
He describes an odd sort of feedback loop where, by the early 1990s, home video game consoles were being installed in pubs in the guise of the PlayChoice-10:
The PlayChoice-10 contained a robustly built [Nintendo Entertainment System] home console in an arcade cabinet, as well as a mechanism for the player to select from up to ten games installed by the operator. The PlayChoice-10 performed well in Britain, especially as an arcade machine for the pub trade, where space was at a premium. Of the estimated 30,000 PlayChoice-10 machines manufactured globally, 6,000 were sited in Britain…
The supply of ‘proper’ video games from Japan, with dedicated circuit boards, began to dry up.
And gambling machines based on recognised licensed properties became more popular, such as a unit based on the board game Monopoly launched in 1992 that we think we remember seeing in pubs when we were students.
So, we reckon it’s fair to say it might have been surprising to see a video game in a pub after about, say, 1995. If you know otherwise, let us know.
