Disgruntled drinkers have been invited to band together in a revolutionary organisation that could change politics forever: The National Association of Grumpy Clubs.
The very British revolt is being organised by Stephen Potten, the president of the UK’s first official Grumpy Club. Grumpy HQ is the 300-year-old Bishop Blaize pub in Romsey, Hampshire.
Mr Potten, 57, wants pubs all over Britain to form their own grumpy clubs, and liaise with him by writing to the Bishop Blaize in Winchester Road. He said: “There is a plot in this country to stop people talking. Pubs, post offices, corner shops – all places where people talk, all going. Pubs are closing every day, post offices vanishing in their thousands, corner shops disappearing because of supermarkets.
“It’s to ensure people have nowhere to communicate, so they can brainwash you into doing whatever you are told.” He added: “Pubs should have grumpy hours. Well, they’re banning happy hours. We’re all middle class binge drinkers now, apparently.
“And another thing, people have smoked in pubs for centuries. Now they ban it…”
“And another thing” is, naturally, the official Grumpy Club motto.
The Bishop Blaize Grumpy Club, meeting every Tuesday, was formed when regulars realised just how grumpy they were. Mr Potten explained: “Not so long ago, if you asked someone for their view, they wouldn’t have one.
“After the last disastrous ten years, though, everybody voices opinions. They are so fed up with being the butt of everything and having to pay for it through their taxes.”
Occasionally assisted by (brave) guest speakers, the club has tackled big issues: Gordon Brown, the death penalty, Gordon Brown (“sadly not during the death penalty debate,”), beer prices, Gordon Brown (“well, he’s disastrous isn’t he?”). And grated cheese.
The press found Mr Potten on his Grumpy Box, railing against the evils of improperly served dairy produce. El Presidente – as he is known in the pub – stood on a soap box bearing a picture of one of the few men he truly admires: Grumpy, out of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
Mournfully surveying his audience - Big Ray, the brewery technician, Dapper Don, the marketing director, and 20 other regulars – he warned: “And another thing: grated cheese. I asked for a cheese sandwich this lunchtime. It came with grated cheese. More went on the floor than in my bleedin’ mouth…”
His cheery greeting over, he signaled the start of the debate, on the topic: The Trouble with the Media. Taking turns to hold the sacred 'poisoned chalice’ - actually a key fob inscribed "Everyone’s entitled to my opinion" – the regulars mounted the Grumpy Box and fulminated.
With the assistance of Messrs Ringwood Best and Adnams Explorer, there was little hesitation, much deviation. “Everyone harps on about fuel prices,” Neil Sheppard, 32, a tree surgeon, declared. “What about the price of beer?” “He doesn’t know whether to drink or drive,” observed Stuart 'Macca McCormick, 45.
Eventually, it was sort of concluded that the media destroys winners, makes the nation dumber, and “You’re all talking bloody nonsense.” (Mr Sheppard again.)
For a Grumpy Club, there seemed a lot of laughter.
Mr Potten’s sunken eyes suggested a life dedicated to genial cantankerousness. He tried insisting he doesn’t delight in being grumpy, but confessed: “I love this country. Abroad, you know it’s going to be sunny every day. Here, you can open the window and think: 'Jesus, there’s frost on the car - in May.’”
Mr Potten, an ex-teacher who started an export business when 'modern’ thinking diverged from his robust approach to classroom discipline, would have liked the wealth to form his own political party: “The Majority Party, for the 90 per cent who pay for everything through taxes.” Instead, he hopes the National Association of Grumpy Clubs can build on, but change, British tradition.
“We have a tradition of moaning, but fixing nothing. If we were French, we would be marching in the streets.”
When the formal debate ended in the Bishop Blaize, informal discussion continued. The whole pub was soon deep in conversation, managing directors bantering with delivery drivers. Mr Potten would have smiled at all he surveyed – but he had to stomp outside to smoke. He muttered: “And another thing: why are they so determined to stop us smoking or drinking?”
Grumble noted, cigarette lit, he added: “There’s a complete mix in there. All talking. By moaning, you create a community. They offer advice: 'Don’t use him, he charges a fortune. See the bloke down the road.’ People help each other. It’s great.” The corners of Mr Potten’s mouth engaged in curious upwards twitching. The President of the Grumpy Club remembered who he was. The mouth drooped to its default position.
“And another thing…”
So that's it - so we just need to sort out what time The Royal Oak's Grumpy Hour is going to be - hosted, naturally, by Pip.
We'll let you know!
