“It dates back to the 1770s. That floor is the original. These carpets have only recently come in… probably last hundred years.”
I’m interviewing Dave Hobden, who is very liberal with the word ‘recently’, on his final day before retirement after eight years as landlord of the Greatest Pub in England. Just twenty-six doors down from John Redwood’s constituency office, and a four minute stroll from the local food bank (who gave out 1,571 three-day emergency food supplies to people in crisis last year), stood the The Metropolitan pub. Wokingham, to allow a little context, is one of the country’s wealthiest boroughs and often pops up in Best Places To Live lists.
I’ve mourned there; I’ve celebrated there. I met my soulmate in that pub
“This was a regular haunt for my grandfather, who only lived six doors away. My mother used to drink in this pub, my father used to drink in it,” Dave told me. “The style of the pub hasn’t changed at all”.
Split into the traditional public and saloon bars, The Metropolitan was adorned with plush blue seating lining the walls; inclusively facing inwards to invite conversation. A weathered darts board hung precariously close to a TV screen which showed football and Steven Seagal films on a seemingly endless loop. The ancient jukebox was nestled within a cosy crevice, opposite the fireplace. The toilets, which were outside, forever reeked of a receding pissy tide. The (generously named) garden was made up of a few paving slabs and a couple of old benches. And I adored it.
Everyone has a favourite pub, with which you retain a ridiculous emotional attachment. For me, The Met was alive with memories; of friends past and present, of many boozy Christmas Eves, of some of the best and funniest nights. I’ve mourned there; I’ve celebrated there. I’ve had arguments (or rather discussions) in a pre and post twitter world with actual human beings (remember them?). I’ve sung Marvin Gaye at the Saturday night karaoke more often and more terribly than is necessary to list or even mention. I met my soulmate in that pub.
A weathered darts board hung precariously close to a TV screen which showed football and Steven Seagal films on a seemingly endless loop
Pubs are, according to CAMRA, closing at a rate of twenty seven per week. Why is that? A lack of support from the breweries? According to Dave, “the rent is astronomical, the prices that they charge you [for alcohol] are astronomical. This is just a basic pub, and you do need the food to go with it these days. Soon you’re not even gonna see these types of pubs around. There’re a lot of rumours floating about that The Met is gonna be a wine bar.”