Hamish Champ: Children and pubs
Families and pubs are a potentially combustible mix. Many people with children see the opportunity to pitch up at a pub with the kids in tow as the ideal way to combine a number of commitments and pleasures.
Others see their local pub as a haven, a place to which they can retreat in order to get away from the little bastards.
I can see both sides of the argument. When I'm in a pub 'sans enfant' I view the presence of children as a minor irritant. But when in the company of the 'fruit of my loins' I become exasperated by the Anglo-Saxon view towards 'der kinder'.
The key is to have the charmers under control. One of my friends used to call me 'Victorian Dad', such is my enthusiasm for seeing to it that Sam, my eight year old, behaves properly whether we're out and about or at home. I used to worry about this epithet, but not anymore. If you ask me there are far too many kids running around willy-nilly these days, waving Smith & Wesson Magnum replicas in your face and threatening to "blow your head clean off".
OK, my son is no angel, but he knows how to behave because we've instilled in him what's right and what's not.
Still, is the pub the place for a young person like him at lunchtime? My view is if he knows what's expected of him behaviour-wise - and he does - then the answer is clearly 'yes'. He's as much right as anyone else to be there, in my view. And it's not like he's going to be in the pub late into the evening, not for a few years at least.
Yesterday, Sunday, after a morning firing 'Jump Rockets' into the air on Blackheath in South East London, the boy and I made tracks to a pub in nearby Greenwich for lunch. "Why are we going to the pub, daddy?" Sam asked. "Because it's a lovely day and I want a pint," was my reply. "Plus you can have chips."
On our arrival at the Richard the First, a Young & Co establishment with which I've been on good terms for more than 20 years, we placed our order at the bar and headed out into the picturesque garden. There, Sam ate his chips and quietly blew bubbles into his lemonade, while I sank a pint of Waggledance and stuffed my face with sausage and mash. We talked of Bionicles and the kind of dinosaurs he'd liked to keep as pets. All was right with the world.
In the old days I would have been denied this pleasure. Attitudes are changing and while I concur with those who press for badly-behaved broods to be shown the pub door, I'm really rather glad…
