Mark Daniels: A case of mistaken identity
Paul and Debbie did a great job for us, posing for photographs in the local press and generally mixing with my customers, chatting and doing small tricks. The weather on that August bank holiday weekend was spectacular and it still ranks as the best day we've had in three years running the pub.
A few months later we visited Paul and Debbie as they performed in pantomime and, over a drink, they told Ali and I how their copy of the photograph was actually on the bedside table in their hotel room. Aw, bless; how sweet.
Of course, it's no real secret that I know Paul quite well. He is, after all, my Dad's brother, so I've known him for quite a while, spent some of my teenage years growing up in the same house he lived in and last year went for a trip with him and my other siblings up the Thames on his little electric boat as we celebrated his birthday.
A few years back, Paul and Debbie did some advertising for Heineken and so, as a joke, we have a few of the old poster ads dotted about the public bar. It all adds to the humour and, of course, it's a natural talking point when strangers walk in to the pub.
If they're looking for an ice breaker, a way to break the tension when old Sid and Doreen stare up from their Special Brews at the strangers who dare walk into their little local, mentioning the photograph is a great way for them to leap over the cavernous silence that threatens to linger. "Ooh," they usually coo, "what was Paul Daniels doing here, then?" And away we'd go: a flow of conversation, they'd buy their drinks, enjoy a meal and go away happy. Once or twice a couple of people have walked in and said "ooh, my friend Betty came here last week and really enjoyed herself. You're Paul Daniels' nephew, aren't you? I met him in Blackpool in 1976 and he was wonderful. I bet he'd still remember me if we met..."
So I must admit I found it quite amusing yesterday when a couple strolled in to the bar and began studying the menu. Looking up for a moment, the lady caught site of the photo above the bar and a broad smile broke out across her face. "Ooh," she cooed, "what was Ken Livingstone doing here then?"
