I saw a film few weeks ago called the Purge. It is about an annual event in America when domestic law and order is suspended for a day and it becomes legal for society to exact revenge upon itself. Marauding feral mobs descend upon erstwhile peaceful neighbourhoods and ransack properties. The British Pub Trade has a very similar tradition; it is called Father’s Day.

Hardened drinkers abandon the pubs for a day and barricade themselves in the safety of their homes for the day whilst herds of children, hopelessly shepherded by bewildered adults, run around restaurants, overturning tables, spilling drinks, banging heads, spilling blood and embarking on food fights on a scale last witnessed at Henry VIII’s divorce party.

I personally witnessed the offspring of Wayne and Waynetta, little Tyson and Beyoncé running in and out of the toilet playing their favourite new game of Oscar and Reeva. It was truly Amazing how quickly little Tyrone could zoom under those tables on his knees.
The path from the doorway to the bar was like the road out of Beirut with wheelchairs and Zimmer frames carefully negotiating a route through abandoned prams and overturned pushchairs.

Normal menus are suspended for the day in favour of easy to chew fish pies, ice creams and jellies to meet the particular needs of those once a year visitors at both extremes of the age spectrum. Beer taps stand idle as tea pots fight for table space with Britvic Pineapple and Charlie Chalk liquid bubbly gum.
Just like the purge, a klaxon on sounds to mark the end of the event. Any unaccompanied children found in pubs after 7p.m may be legally sold into slavery or sent up chimneys.

Emergency cleaning crews are brought in from Sporting Stadia and Rentokil work through the night to restore the ravaged hostelries to some semblance of normality.

The tills are checked, the damages deducted and collective sighs are heaved as normal service is resumed………………well at least until Mother’s Day.

By Les Murphy