Rising East Online

Reporting the Gateway

Pub Talk

• Matt Challis Suburban Decay In The Essex That Time Forgot
• Adam Hall Community In The Lager

Pub Talk

Suburban Decay In The Essex That Time Forgot

—Matt Challis

In this day and age it is important to keep moving forward. New technology is taking over and if you don’t have the new HDTV or the latest broadband connection then you’re being left behind…..

Not so; not for all the people all the time.

The Hornchurch snooker hall, having not been worked on for almost thirty years, seems caught in a time warp. The floor sinks in places, tiles breaking away with the slightest flick of the trainer; the curtains contain so much dust even the mites can’t cope. Yet it’s full everyday of the week.

Upon entry the smell hits you like a nerve gas. It’s not an individual smell but rather a fusion of unsavoury odours. You don’t quite realise at first what this interesting blend could be, but after a while you can see that ancient varnish on the walls combines with clouds of smoke, spilled beer and sweat, which might be coming from the barman, Chris. He doesn’t welcome you in, just assumes you’re a member, and his Shrek-like expression changes to disbelief when you admit you’ve left your membership card at home, again. Having pulled us our pints he slams them on the bar.

Before grabbing the glass I stare blindly into the drink and wonder how long this has been sitting in its barrel waiting to be served. There are no bubbles, no head and, as I discover, no taste. But there’s no going back now. Chris is already staring blankly at the old Sanyo TV. He mumbles a price for the drinks without looking in our direction. You can almost see his brain working at a withered pace before he takes the change. He turns, revealing a stain on his back that looks like it could be growing before our eyes. Opening the till, he drops in the change as quickly as he can and continues watching Eastenders.

The snooker hall isn’t very big but it holds 12 tables and nearly every one is occupied when we enter at eight o clock. Excluding the clink of snooker balls hitting pockets and the odd murmur of disappointment, the hall is silent. I grab a cue and begin setting up our first frame on the last free table.

The ledge where our drinks sit seems like it could fall apart at any minute. So many pints have been spilled here that the plastic coating is beginning to bend, making our glasses stand at an angle. The ash tray is unable to sit in its holder properly due to generation after generation continuing to push their burning tobacco harder and harder into its deteriorating innards. This shelf has probably been breaking away for the last ten years, its sides battered with more Marlboro burns than it can take - yet it could never tell the difference between lights and silvers. They all did the same damage.

To my left a young man of about 20 years of age stands holding a Mayfair Smooth while his opponent continues to pot blacks and reds, making his score almost out of reach. To my right is the older generation. They mutter about the recent football match and though they continue to play their pace is slow and their attitude more casual.

As I’m not the greatest snooker player in the world I’m here to practice and get better. Technology can’t help me here. There are no infa red targets or computer assisted cues. In this snooker hall there is no need for modern gadgets. In the reality of the modern world, here is where the age-old games survive.

I take sip of my beer wishing that I had bought a bottle and continue to stare around the room. By the bar is a rack of fruit machines chained to the wall. A youth in his late teens seems to be onto a winning streak. The lights flash along with the music and it’s not long before you can hear the sound of falling coins. His face smirks as he takes another drag on his cigarette and returns to the bar for another drink. After buying his pint he continues to play the fruit machine, insisting on losing the money he just won. His hands, racked with cheap golden rings, keep slamming the plastic buttons until eventually they return to the pockets from which they came grabbing yet more pound coins.

It’s as if the machine has turned its back on him, and he knows it. He makes a move, but only one step to the left, to try his luck on the next machine. This cycle continues for half an hour and by then all the machines are taken up. Four fruit machines each with a matching teenager who looks like he’s come from a cloning experiment. They’re all wearing sportswear with high brand logos, trainers and gold chains big enough to anchor a ship. They don’t play snooker here but sit smoking cigarettes and playing the machines in the hope of winning the two hundred pounds on offer. One day it will happen. The machine might take pity on the kid that has been visiting for years. The story of the day he won the jackpot will be told and re-told so many times that the jackpot would double without him even knowing. But the sequels are forgotten. The days and months he spends trying to re-live that day are something of a misplaced memory.

The snooker hall, though it maybe a little run down and in need of some attention, has gained a character that modern technology fails to achieve. It may have stains on the walls and broken tiles on the floor but this all adds to its individuality. It’s true that modern technology might find its place here one day but what use will it have? They have all they need here now, without spending money on new gadgets.

By the time we finish our game the lights have gone out above all but a couple of other tables. It’s not an expensive night, but it still keeps us occupied and away from the technology influenced world on the outside. It’s rare to find a place like this among all the new swanky developments. Lets hope it can stay the way it is.

Matt Challis is studying Journalism

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Pub Talk

Community In The Lager

—Adam Hall

The area in which I live is somewhat unembellished. The sheer lack of commodities ensures that people who visit must be on their way somewhere else. But those who live here seem determined to stay.

A focal point is The Duke; a modest pub a measly two minute walk from my home. On the many occasions I've attended it's clear that the pub is considerably less profitable than others from the underwhelming amount of people found inside on any day of the week. But this seems only to fortify its ambition, since the raw but wholesome attitude the pub managers adopt is more than respectable, and the punters are clearly appreciative and at the same time apathetic.

Before ordering I look around the room at other people's drinks. There's an abundance of lager, with the odd wine or spirit dotted about. Fosters and Stella are the most popular here, one for its simplicity, the other for its association with masculinity.

Mick is gravely-voiced and big enough to do damage, but benevolent underneath. His small talk is always welcoming. Of course he does drink a lot; Stella and Fosters if I'm not mistaken. I'm fairly certain the latter is only a substitute, though, since Stella's popularity often leaves the taps dry a few hours into the night.

After our quick chat he heads back over to his crowd of friends singing along to the jukebox, as I wonder to my usual seat right next to the television. This spot is dimly lit and the shelving underneath the mirror has a tendency to dig into the back of my neck. Perhaps that’s why it's often empty, but it is a good point from which to view the scene.

Mick’s group is a male-dominated quartet, but the presence of one female – who I think is Mick's partner – perhaps keeps tongues bitten. They are not without their laughs, though. Jokes come in quick succession, and after each is complete every person reaches for a drink as if to freshen up for the next anecdote. Four 20 packs of B&H Gold lie on the table, each adjacent to its owner. There's a sort of chain reaction after the first person lights a cigarette and soon enough every one else has one wedged between their index and middle finger. They are rarely smoked, though. More often than not the conversation interferes and the cigarettes burn away to a cylinder of drooping ash. The pub is small and so fills with smoke quite quickly, but considering only a handful of the pub's visitors don't smoke, the atmosphere is never an issue.

I contribute by lighting up a Lucky Strike Silver. I can see behind a portion of the bar from here and the wine fridge gathers my attention with a white light. It's rarely depleted, even only a little, and the smooth, shiny black door seals imply little usage in comparison to the bottled beers. It might just be new. They aren't any standard-sized bottles of wine, only the miniature single-glass servings, perhaps to maximize the speed at which bar staff can operate. There are one or two empties on the bar, but most seem to localise around the pool table where some other students come to play a few games. Their stays are short and they always tend to keep to themselves. It's a casual affair at best.

The bar lady blocks my view as she walks around the bar to give the pumps a quick wiping and empty the drip trays. The final pump is John Smith’s, but there's very little of it to clean. Like the wines it gets very little custom, but it's never taken out because of how highly rated it is by the small number of people that drink it.

Old couple Sue and Andy are devoted fans of John Smiths. Although Andy has it straight from the tap, Sue seems to mix it with several other lagers. They sit on the sofa close to the entrance where Andy helps organise Karaoke a couple of times a week. Although this reduces seating, the punters are more than happy to stand when the music is playing and the locals sing a song or two. It's usually the guys who are up first. They'll stand in a row with their arms around each other belting a classic Beatles or Frank Sinatra song, laughing in between lyric prompts. Their wavering voices are a clear indication of their alcohol intake, but the smiles on their faces shows it just might be helping.

Barman Chris sits on the side of the bar drinking a half pint before walking around the room gathering glasses. I'm quite astonished by just how much has been consumed. Tables are littered with empty pint glasses, packets of Walkers crisps folded into little triangles, and all floating on a river of spilt beer atop the table. Contained chaos occurs on in this pub, but it's not chaos in the aggressive sense of the word that current media would have you believe; but one of thriving community. When the pub has a DJ or Karaoke on, there is a constant buzz of conversation in the air. Endless sounds of chinking glasses and opening tills underly laughter, and although many drink almost inconceivable amounts, there is never even a semblance of volatility.

The consequences of 'binge' drinking can be dire sometimes, but looking around The Duke, I start to think that alcohol is not just a chance to feel different, but sometimes represents community.

Adam Hall is studying Journalism

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