The College Bar

The College Bar
The bar was the centre of our lives. Thirty feet long and made of shiny mahogany gleaming like a strip of burnished copper. Its swan necked brass taps wore labels; Bass, Guinness, London Pride, as familiar to us as the names of our friends. We had real pint glasses not plastic beakers and if sipped prudently one lasted an hour or more.
How to meet girls? What courage it took to break the invisible barrier that divided us from the girls sitting at tables! (never at the bar.)
"Hello I saw you at the Dylan Thomas lecture this afternoon."
"Never went there...shove off !"

Or; "Would you like to come over and have a drink with us?"
"I'd die first."

Still the game went on and some of us got better at it.

Then there were the furry intellectuals who wore beards and tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows. They huddled together at one end or at a distant table where the brave ones blatantly smoked pot in meerschaum pipes, inviting "the plebs" to shop them. We never did.
Did we fight? Never.
Did we argue? Always. The positions never changed, the Marxists turned a blind eye to the Stalin purges; The Yank beaters forgot their scholarships from East Coast universities and we all moaned about our "Grants" which were never enough. Imagine! Money from the State to keep us at university!
The smoky comfort of the College Bar wrapped us like a friendly old coat which we loved even though it smelt of tobacco and spilt beer. We belonged, we felt safe.
The Hard Life began next year, so drink up.