“You haven’t heard of this pub? Why would you?”

A few years ago, a neighbour was telling me about her new job in a local bar a bus ride away. Despite a tough childhood marked by the transient nature of care homes and foster parents, kindness was her default setting and I found her bluntness – which jarred with some of the other people in the street – easy to read.

I rectified my mistake and took the 171 to Catford only to discover that I was not the only person to enjoy her company and she was firmly embedded in the community, woven into the tapestry of this pub’s framework. I’d never seen her laughing so much.

A few months later, I was awoken late at night by loud music from her flat and had to knock at the door. When she answered she apologised, turned the music down and revealed she had been blowing off steam as the pub was now closed leaving her unemployed.

Eventually, I saw her again at her new place of work but this job of delivering leaflets caused her no merriment and her downcast appearance was a stark contrast to when I saw her behind the bar that time. She also told me that the whole experience was sullied by having to chase the pub company for wages and that she had to leave before saying goodbye properly to the customers.

When pubs close it’s obvious that everyone in the community loses out and I, like others, have written about the loss of social cohesion this causes. But the pain it can inflict on hospitality workers that find themselves jobless often isn’t talked about especially if some of these employees, like my neighbour, find themselves out of pocket.

And this loss of livelihood can be on an industrial scale, with workers at Brewdog owed £490,000 in wages, which the administrator claims it can’t afford to pay. When such news stories are read often the response is: “I’m boycotting that company” but that does little to help the workers affected. (A better response would be to support organisations, such as Unite or the Brewery Workers Union, that protect workers’ rights.)

Because as much as I love pubs, I’m not sure I extend that adoration to the large companies that own many of them. In fact, many of these pubcos see themselves more as property firms than custodians and would sell any asset – especially community ones – quickly if they could be developed into a block of flats.

And these companies get to control the narrative, with their PR teams sending statements to organisations and writers engaged in thoughtless churnalism. The recently sacked worker with unpaid wages owed won’t care too much when a suit at HQ is proud to be driving “the next chapter of growth”.

Some people even argue that if a pub closes another ‘better’ one can replace it in whatever development is constructed but if you want to know how difficult it is to open a pub in a new build, then you can read about Bouldr Bar in Thamesmead, South East London, which has battled pedantic authorities who seem to care little about social cohesion (or common sense). 

To counter the doom and gloom, a friend and I have decided to head into the eye of the storm and visit as many pubs that have announced their imminent closing. We drink the last pints and tip the servers – we would love for you to join us in this bittersweet pursuit.

Because we always need to be reminded of the plight of those who have served us so well especially if they are facing some tough times ahead.