When pubs outstay their location and end up on the edge of reality.

In Great Harwood there is a pub called The Victoria Hotel, but everyone knows it as Butcher Brig.

You find it by wandering through terraced, speed-bumped streets on the edge of town. Eventually you will find it at the end of a road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. In winter its windows glow in the mizzle. In the summer, its former bowling green provides the largest, greenest beer garden in Harwood. Inside, one saloon, two snugs and a pool room reveal that this pub was built to house many people all at once — and it was loved. The décor is outrageously Edwardian. The central horseshoe bar stands proud and able to serve all rooms simultaneously through the roomy lobby. At one time there must have been a constant flow of pints pulled from the brass-polished pumps. Now, one person behind the bar is all it needs, although the place is never totally empty. Owners have come and gone in recent years but lately the beer and the quality of them has stabilised. The current owners seem to want to do right by this stoic old gem, scrubbing it up to a demure sheen, and choosing more interesting cask for their eclectic patrons. Because there are locals who have always been here, and there are pool teams visiting, CAMRA branch meetings to be had, and there are people like me who come because the tilework is breathtaking.

The first time I walked into the Butcher, I couldn’t believe the pub was alive. It had all the hallmarks of a sadly boarded-up old inn: inconvenient location, oversized stature, difficult market. But here it was, fire on in the snug, the crack of a break shot muffled through the conversations of drinkers in the main saloon. Then I saw the tiles. Acres of cream and bulb-flowers on every inch of wall, delicately fitted to every corner, ornate and specifically made to curve over the arches of each doorway and up the stairs. This is why the pub is recognised by English Heritage, and Grade II listed. I have never seen anything like it.

Help me out!

Hello and thank you, first of all, for opening what is ostensibly a sales and marketing email.

I’m coming up to 300 zines sold and that’s amazing. But I can’t help but notice that I have 1000+ subscribers. Now. Tell me if I’m wrong — I do have dyscalculia — but that means quite a lot of you don’t have a copy of A Place To Be yet.

That’s cool! I mean, you might not want a physical piece of my heart and soul in your house. I can understand that.

If the reason is simply because you keep forgetting, please do me a favour and pick up a copy so that Pellicle can start planning to print its second zine project — the money we make from selling our merch, my zine, and from supporting Pellicle on Patreon all goes towards paying writers, illustrators and photographers. And yes, me.

You can buy A Place To Be online at the Pellicle shop.

You can also pick up a copy IRL at the following places:

• Rare Mags, Stockport

• DEYA Tap, Cheltenham

• Siren Tap Yard, Wokingham

• Lost & Grounded, Bristol

• Caps and Taps, London

Thanks for your undying support! You keep me writing!

Katie xox

Music from the 70s really hits the spot right now. For obvious reasons.

I said I’d write about some of my Tenerife adventures this week, but I’ve since been commissioned to write about the Island of Eternal Spring for Pellicle, so I’m going to change it up. Don’t worry, it’ll be worth the wait!

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I’ve noticed a distinct change in my listening habits this year. Background music, for me, has always been dub, big beat like The Crystal Method and late 90s/early 00s Prodigy, and progressive house. Stuff that rolls on and on, but, ideally, is unobtrusive enough to let me write without accidentally typing out lyrics or getting distracted by an outrageous sax solo.

Lately, I’ve needed something more nourishing. The daily news is a permanent shock to the system, and what is happening in and to our world is a constant ache. On a smaller scale too, communities are breaking apart, people care less about their individual accountability (I am convinced of this more and more every time I see more litter where there was none before, people being ruder to each other online for no good reason, the sheer amount of dog shit on the pavements…I’m not being funny, everything is getting worse in even the smallest ways) and count on withdrawing from society and living in ignorance to protect themselves. The most vulnerable people are scapegoated and bullied, and the poorest are getting poorer. We see US news all day every day, but comparing the UK to America as some sort of yardstick to prove we aren’t doing to badly is a farce. Everything is fucked.

So, what is there to do? You already know: write to your MPs, sign petitions. Speak loudly and clearly about the world you believe in, that you want to create. Correct and diminish hate speech whenever you hear it. We’re doing it, we’re trying. But it never feels enough.

We also need to feel personally able to keep doing this important work. Being exhausted and overwhelmed is not how you overthrow fascism and grow community.

What’s working for me right now is a long playlist full of songs from the 1960s and 70s, sung by people who really understand what it’s like to live in horrendous times of inequality and violence. Songs of war, poverty, the aching desire for a better world. Angry, sad voices singing beautifully about the reality of living through troubled, violent, turbulent times. I look to them for comfort. But I also ask them for ways to get through it. Their answers? Love. Desire. Sex. Faith. Songs written to venerate lovers (Take Yo’ Praise by Camille Yarbrough — what a song!) and celebrate family and friendships, deeply describing the importance of individual connection, especially during times like these. Heartbreak, and its sharp perspectives — personal problems thrown into the mix of larger issues. Songs written with Gospel in their hearts and hope in their souls. I’m no Christian, but I do believe in the strength that comes from having something to believe in. And I believe that things can be better, that people can be better, because Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Minnie Riperton and Bill Withers all believed it too, right through some of the hardest, harshest times of the 20th century; Black artists describing the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam War, revolution. I’m using them as my guides. They can explain it to me, give me an understanding over all the noise. Get me through this.

I understand that Spotify is a really bad way to share music but I wanted to make a playlist with some of my favourite songs mentioned and referred to in this article and I don’t know a better way of doing it. I hope it reignites your love for soul.

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I just wanted to let you know that I’m using Instagram more to promote my work and share memes/news. You can find me here. Give me a follow!

A little note to tell you what’s going on

I know it’s a Sunday, don’t panic, you’ve not accidentally bopped your head on the kitchen counter and found yourself in a daze midweek. I just wanted to send out a little note to say how much I’ve enjoyed sharing A Place To Be with everyone since it came out.

If you don’t know what I’m on about, A Place To Be is my zine, and Pellicle’s first print publication. It’s a collection of short stories (some call them “vignettes”, I will let you call them what you want) about drinking in liminal spaces — spaces I’ve been in myself, or that I invented in my head

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To share it, I’ve been travelling around the country to read from it aloud. I had no idea how much I’d enjoy this. I used to get stage fright at school, to the point where I gave up playing my musical instruments and fainted doing talks at the front of the class in English. I suppose the difference here is that I’m incredibly proud of the work I’ve put into A Place To Be, I know everything about it inside out because it’s something I created, and I’ve been very grateful to have audiences who ask the most interesting and thoughtful questions about zinemaking and the stories themselves. Thank you to The Crow in Sheffield and Kerroo Brewing in Port Erin, Isle of Man for hosting my first two events. They were brilliant, I loved doing them.

I’ve been writing this newsletter for going on 7 years now, and there are now 1000 of you receiving it directly into your inboxes. That is mindblowing to me. A Place To Be began life as a collection of stories written in this very newsletter — over the past year the project grew and changed, but it was The Gulp that led and inspired me to make my first solo published project. That means you are part of the zine. Thank you for being here!

If you haven’t got a copy of A Place To Be, please consider supporting my writing by treating yourself to one! You can pick one up here for £10 + postage.

I get commission from every zine sold, and each zine sold also supports Pellicle, the magazine I work for as assistant editor. If you’re not familiar with our independent writing on pub culture, beer, wine, cider and food, please have a read — it’ll be exactly what you’re looking for this afternoon.

My next A Place To Be events are coming up soon. Please come along if you can — they are free to attend and all are welcome. If you would like accessibility info or advice for either of them, please let me know and I’ll try to help as best I can.

• Thursday 3 April, 7pm — Runaway Brewery & Taproom, Stockport

• Saturday 12 April, 4pm — Caps and Taps, London

*You’ll be able to buy A Place To Be from me in person at both of these events*

Hope to see you soon!! xox

Eating on your own is great fun, so is watching the weather come in.

Peel is a lovely old historic town on the south side of the Isle of Man. Its castle is on the tidal island of St Patrick’s Isle, the causeway of Fenella Beach—the only way to get to the Viking fortress—is one of my favourite spots in the world. Instead of sand, it has queenie shells. Sometimes the sea is so large and wild in this tiny bay, the waves could crash above your head. On the night I arrived this trip, the Irish Sea was whipped up by the growing winds, a violent bar of black cloud striping above an orange sunset, lighting the tips of the grey, choppy waters in unusual, sunny shades of turquoise and gold. For days, the weather had been perfectly bright—cold, but resplendent, awakening thoughts of spring and polishing up old feelings of hope. Now, on my last evening of my trip away, the air was changing, some northwesterly storm was pushing into the sandy promenade, bringing hail with it. I stood as long as I could bear the windburn on my cheeks, then ducked into The Peveril, an Okells pub on the harbour where coal fires are tended obsessively by locals who still use Manx slang. I’m eyed up suspiciously, partly because I’m not from round here, but most likely because I’m clearly not wearing warm enough clothes. The friendly woman behind the bar tells me there are more seats in the lounge—the bar is full up with a regular post-work crowd of high-vis fisherman, workmen, and couples from the town. I recognise someone from a bus journey earlier in the week. It’s a small island.

Above the bar are two signs, one reads “Yessir” and the other “Hey Boy”, both Manx phrases I’ve heard surprisingly often on my trip. In the lounge, a teapot collection encircles the room, and a pool table stands unused, but worn. I sip my pint of Guinness (I didn’t fancy an Okells pale and their excellent Smoked Porter was all gone) and talk to a man across the room about Norton rotary engines and the Manx GP. Too soon, it’s time to go and eat. I realise I’m starving.

The Boat Yard is an award-winning restaurant that specialises in Manx seafood — that’s why it wins its awards. I have been a few times before, with Tom, but both times it was absolutely packed to the rafters. When I arrive at half past six on a cold, wet March Wednesday, I’m the only person there.

The menu is as fishy as I dreamed it would be, and while I’d normally order something picky or snacky or fried for a starter, I couldn’t think of anything nicer on such a cold night than a bowl of chowder. It came hot and creamy, filled with Manx kipper and mussels, and a healthy incorporation of curly parsley. Slurping it felt like warmth and health and happiness.

To drink, I had a glass of champagne. And then another. How incredibly off-putting of me, to ignore wine tasting regulations and all common decency, but I wanted some Champagne, so I had some. End of story. If you want to fight me about it, I‘ll meet you outside. Doing champagne by the glass is not ideal for any hospitality venue, and I apologised for being so awkward. Then I apologised for apologising. My lovely host was gregarious: “You deserve to have what you like,” she said. I wondered if had I been with other people she might not have added life coaching to my menu free of charge, but I appreciated it nonetheless. And anyway, I did like it very much, because it was rich and biscuity, with a squeeze of lemon sherbet.

My main was a lemon-buttery plaice, white and pure, served on a generous bed of sauteed samphire and scattered with plump and juicy queenies. Queenies, or queen scallops, are a Manx delicacy — voted the island’s national dish — and it was beautiful to enjoy them here as part of a dish, holding up their end of the bargain. Normally I’ve only ever eaten them as the start of the show, taking in their sweet, mellow fishiness. As the plaice’s supporting role, they added subtle depth to the butter-basted fish, layering up each white flake with a light sweetness reminiscent of langoustines. It felt luxurious to be eating this alone, and I congratulated myself, particularly whenever runners bobbed past the window and looked in. I’m in here, eating delicious fish. You’re out there, in the rain. I win.

I never get dessert, so let that be an indicator of how little I wanted to leave the table and this moment. I went for a pina colada panna cotta, and it was a blast of rum, coconut, and tart, zingy pineapple. Super fun, extremely good. Well done.

As I finished up, more couples came in to take their seats. Apparently there was a party later, which accounted for it being quiet early doors. What a relief — it seems as though people really do appreciate having this special place on their doorstep. I get up to pay and my host gives me a hug. I hope that it’s because she enjoyed chatting whenever she came over to my table, and not because she felt sorry for me for eating alone. I certainly didn’t. I loved every minute.

My Stuff

I’ve been having the best time on my zine tour, and I wanted to thank everybody who has come to one of my events so far. Your questions are always so thoughtful, and I’ve loved being able to share my stories out loud.

The next A Place To Be event is on Thursday 3 April at Runaway Brewery & Tap in Stockport. After that, I am heading to Caps and Tap in London on Saturday 16 April. I hope to see you there!

There are still zines for sale on the Pellicle website, and I will be selling them in person at my events. If you would like to sell them from your bar, tap room or shop, please let me know — I have wholesale prices ready to go.

See you soon I hope xox

I’m going to the Isle of Man to write. Wish me luck.

I’ve wanted to go on a writing retreat for years. The idea of luxurious time, spent somewhere other than my house, used to write, read and think. It makes me glow just thinking about it.

Then I saw how much they cost. And what they really entail. To make sure you feel like you’re getting your money’s worth, there are lots of activities organised for you, and workshops to attend. Sounds like university. There are group sessions to join in with. Sounds like my worst nightmare. There are friendly breakfasts and tea times where discussing your WIP with other retreaters is encouraged. Sounds like hell.

I’m not an unfriendly person. I smile and laugh and conduct myself politely. It’s only that after a lot of consideration I really don’t want to stay in a countryside cottage with a shared bathroom so that I can talk to strangers and drink tea in a communal dining room. So what do I want? When did I become such a curmudgeon?

First of all, the price of these sorts of writing getaways is incredibly prohibitive. Even if I did put it on the fuck-it credit card, I felt like there was something wrong about doing so — very few people can do this. I don’t want my writing to come from somewhere elitist, even if that only means being served cake every afternoon and not having to cook my meals for five days. Would my writing really benefit from a situation like this, I wondered? What difference would it make?

Behind every Renaissance Man is a woman doing the domestic labour. I realise paying for a retreat would be like having a wife for a week. In that respect, perhaps the cost is far lower than it should be. I really can’t foot that bill, however, so I decided to create my own retreat, one that I would actually enjoy.

My friends have let me use their house on the Isle of Man while they aren’t in it for the week. For six days, I’ll have a sea view and somewhere to work solely on my intended project, with all my favourite food and drink readily to hand because I’ll be catering for myself. I’ve planned walks in the hills and along the coast, and I’ve already decided what I’m ordering from the chippy on my first night. I’ll read my research notes and books in the pub, or in bed, and I’ll have a bunch of flowers on the table where I’m working. Perhaps most importantly, I will be the only person there. My telephone voice won’t come out, I won’t feel embarrassed about my progress or lack thereof. I won’t have to listen to people talk about their work when I’m trying hard to remember a good idea I had. No offence — I’m just here to work, you know?

Build your own retreat

• Pick a place that’s cheap to get to but has nice views and walks

• Choose accommodation with good WiFi or you’re screwing yourself before you get there

• Make sure you don’t have to drive yourself anywhere — thinking and reading on the bus is underrated working time

• Save up enough money to do one “fancy” food shop when you get there so your accom is well-stocked with all your favourite biscuits and pop and snackies

• Tidy up for 10 mins every morning before you work to avoid procrastination

• Set a daily goal or word count and stick to it

• When you don’t hit your goal or word count, roll it over to the next day so you don’t completely give up and go on a bender

• If this still isn’t working, build other types of accountability in, like sending a trusted friend or editor your MS at the end of the day, or calling Tom every evening to explain what you did with your day (me only)

• Book a meal for yourself on your last night to treat yourself for all your hard work

• Go outside every day to get some fresh air and let new ideas blow into your ears

• IMO working in a café is useless and distracting. Use getting a decent brew as an excuse for a break.

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A Place To Be zine event at Kerroo Brewing, Port Erin

This Saturday 8 March at 4pm I’ll be heading to Kerroo Brewing for their tap room’s 1st birthday party to do a reading and a Q+A session about making and writing my zine, A Place To Be.

There are two stories in the zine about places in the Isle of Man (or on the sea near it) and so I’m really looking forward to sharing these, and my love for the island, at such a special event.

If you’re on the island, or you can hop on the ferry, I hope you can make it!

Where to buy A Place To Be

You can still buy copies of my zine from the Pellicle shop, and there are now quite a lot of places you can pick one up too.

• Caps and Taps, London

• DEYA, Cheltenham

• Lost and Grounded, Bristol

• Rare Mags, Stockport

• Rivington Tap, Rivington

• Siren, Wokingham

Joining in with the newly re-awakened The Session beer bloggers prompt challenge

“The Session” is a monthly prompt-based writing challenge aimed at getting more people writing about beer. I couldn’t take part last month for the first edition of this newly revamped season, so I’ve made doubly sure I submitted something this time around.

Everyone is encouraged to join in. If you have time today, scribble down a couple of hundred words based on the topic and share it via the instructions here.

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I drink more at home than I used to, and that’s 100% down to budgetary requirements. I’ve got a lot of travelling to do this year which means trips to Manchester for afternoons on the booze have been stripped from the finance spreadsheet (a fully metaphorical spreadsheet you understand, money is more a concept based on vibes and hope in this house.) Instead I’ve found myself drinking at home when I’d normally be at the pub, becoming one of the people within that grey, faceless mass that are implored to Support Local. Use it or lose it. Well, I’m afraid I did lose it — have I mentioned recently that my bar closed down a couple years ago?

Sorry, I digress. What I mean, really, is that instead of buying overpriced pints of lager or Guinness by the round in pubs near me, I’ve been saving my pennies for one or two really good pub pints per weekend. This leaves Friday and Saturday nights free for watching old Alice in Chains concerts on YouTube and drinking bottles of beer we brought back from Cologne, or bottles I’ve had stored in the cupboard for a rainy day.

My favourite beer to drink in my living room while Layne Staley rips another vortex into my soul has been Reissdorf Kolsch (no surprises there) and Sobremesa’s stout. Full disclosure, Sobremesa sent me a box of their beers and ciders because I’m starting working with them next month (MONDAY???) but I was wholly impressed by the stark bitterness and depth of their Farmer’s Dark Ale. It’s an oatmeal stout made with their farmhouse yeast (go on their website, it’s really interesting) and during a time where everyone is complaining about the ubiquitousness of Guinness and wondering what’s next, it was refreshing. I don’t expect Sobremesa to become a global concern — they are too bothered about the environment and their lovely fruit orchard for all that — but I hope some of you try their beers after reading this. Or visit their tap room in Wales. Because while supporting local is important, the parroting of this phrase has stripped it a little of its intent. I’d rather support independent breweries and bars who are doing actual good in the world, and making great beer, than pouring my coppers into the tills of places I can only really see myself drinking San Miguel in.

Babies belong in pubs, IDST

This piece was originally written for Ferment, and published in issue 112: Love Your Pub in December 2024. You can sign up for their monthly beer club and magazine here.

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In he comes, round feet and chunky legs first, bursting through the front door of our local pub. Conversations halt mid-sentence, dogs look up from their sleepy carpet naps — the baby of the pub has arrived. There are many children that frequent this pub, but only one baby who commands the attention and respect of his people so totally. His ginger hair like lit birthday candles, his hands grasping and waving, he is the pub’s favourite patron, and this evening, everyone is blessed with his presence.

As his mum carries him to the bar, men of all ages gather around to tell him how well his toothypegs are getting on. He smiles beatifically at his audience, grinning gummily, the pearly-white objects of approval getting a real airing. Clever boy! Stunning boy! A group of birthday party celebrators in glittery blouses and smart shirts form a circle around him, taking it in turns to kiss his outstretched hands as though they are gilded in sovereigns and a figaro chain. At the bar he reaches chubby fingers out at other people’s pints, amazed by the shiny glass, the bubbles, or the beer inside. He is big for his age, but he’s nowhere near old enough for one of his own, no matter what he tells you in convincing baby dialect. He likes to chew the beer mats, so we have to hide them. He likes to grab the beers, so we have to keep hold of them. He wants to be a part of everything, and so we place him at the centre of this little universe, happily dancing in his seat to the tune of an entire pub full of people joining in to sing “Wind The Bobbin Up,” including three men stood at the bar who would ordinarily stay stoic and silent in the face of small talk.

There are people who think children shouldn’t be in pubs, but I couldn’t disagree more fervently. I think that not only should children be actively made to feel at home in pubs, people should take it upon themselves to show them how to use a pub properly—it takes a village. Pubs are unusual spaces in 2024, there’s nothing else like them in our society. They are places of enjoyment and relaxation, where strangers talk freely and the world of work is far away. People speak differently in pubs, they act differently too, and the sooner a little one can learn the implicit rules and manners of the public house, the better. The kids you don’t like in pubs are the ones who don’t know how to act in one — maybe they’re loud, or they “run around,” a common complaint from patrons which I rarely see happening in real life. It’s important to remember that nobody knows anything unless somebody takes the time to teach them. That pub goers expect children to sit silently in a corner while everyone else is having a grand old time is ridiculous. Get them involved in conversation, teach them how to play dominoes. The better they enjoy a pub thanks to your kindness, the more often their parents can visit and let their hair down a bit, and truly, that is the noblest deed.

The baby of the pub is one year old. He has been coming to the pub since he was old enough to be wrapped in a blanket. Because he’s been a regular for the entire first year of his life, he is treated as such. When he isn’t with us, people ask where he is and what he’s up to, as though he’s staying late at work, or he’s had to travel into the city. He isn’t our baby, I should point out. However, as close associates of his, we are often asked about his whereabouts, and told to pass on love, as though he will understand. Which, of course, he will. “Ah, lovely to hear from Gregg,” he’ll burble from his car seat. “Glad he’s doing alright.” There’s a wholesome friendliness that baby pubgoers elicit from almost everybody in the room, and I have to say, I take full advantage of it for my own benefit too. Even when I am without a baby sidekick, just saying his name gets me on everyone’s good side. I immediately have friends to talk to, and some cute common ground to discuss. Faces soften and anecdotes about his chubby cheeks are shared. It makes me wonder what else could possibly get people connecting like this. Pub dogs are great, but I’ve never seen one revered as a Don, as blessed as a saint, and with so many people eager to discuss them at length — their weight, height, how many words they can say (okay, the last one is unfair for the dog in this comparison, but you understand.) Perhaps I’ve been going to the wrong pubs.

I have photographs of him high-fiving random visitors to the pub, and of him taking early steps on the classic pub carpet. He will happily sit on my knee and wave across the bar at his fans—people I have seen for years in this pub but have never spoken to before. He claps his hands at the sight of a pint, even though none of us taught him this. It’s always funny, every single time. He enjoys the busy atmosphere and the twinkling fairy lights, the knick-knacks and the attention. I’m quite jealous of his pub experiences, since every single visit is a perfect one. He’s only ever felt love and cosiness here. As a child I also loved visiting pubs on occasion, but sometimes it was a drag. On quiet days I sat silent and as still as possible, possibly colouring in, or sipping lemonade through a straw, while the adults talked about boring adult things and time seemed to slow to a stop. Later I would be commended on my behaviour, for being such a good, quiet girl. There are many people who still believe this is how children should behave. I disagree. Some of the best conversations I have are with the kids I know. I’m glad the baby of the pub is never expected to blend into the wallpaper.

The baby of the pub is growing up in a world where the pub is a normal part of his life. It’s teaching him to treat the pub as a natural meeting place, rather than a posh restaurant or an illicit drinking den. He’s being taught to enjoy hanging out here. And why shouldn’t he? This was our favourite place long before he was born, and now it is his. It’s a pleasure and an honour to teach him the ways of our local pub, and as he grows we’ll have new milestones to celebrate — his first packet of Scampi Fries, his first lime and soda, the first time he flips a beermat. One day he’ll be getting the rounds in and teaching his friends how to properly order at the bar—what a thought! To bring our youngsters into the pub is to raise a new generation of pub-lovers, and help secure the future of our pubs. It’s essential and difficult work, carrying a cute baby around so everyone can get a cuddle, but somebody has to do it.

Other Stuff

• Ghostly Archive — recipes from the grave. Literally.

• The beauty and importance and comfort of fictional food, from Serviette Magazine

• A closer look at Titus Kaphar’s “Enough About You” (2016)

My Stuff

I’m heading to Stockport on Thursday 20th to pack and post the pre-ordered zines you’ve all ordered. There are nearly 200 of them! So thank you very much, I’ve never been happier to be so busy with envelope stuffing.

To get in on Thursday’s big postage day, you can still order your copy from the Pellicle site.

And I need one of you rich wine people to buy it for us

When I first visited L’Etiquette, the night ended with me and a fellow “wine person” drinking pink pét nat from the bottle on the banks of the seine.

I wrote about my experiences there for Pellicle — it was my first journey abroad after the pandemic, and I was deeply troubled, as I’m sure everybody was at that time. However, in L’Etiquette, owners Hervé and Elaine were steady hands at the rudder, bringing me in and pressing glasses of delicious natural wine into my hands. It was an important time to remember that life existed before Covid-19, and it would exist afterwards too. The grapes that made my wine grew before any of this had happened, of course, and I was in another country, no longer restricted to my house in the bleak heatwave of 2020.

I’m not alone. L’Etiquette means a lot to a great deal of people. It’s enviable position on a cobbled road just moments from Notre Dam on the Isle de Cité makes it a perfect place to visit on your tourist walking route, and it’s always busy, with fold-up tables and chairs spilling out over the pavement and into the street. Reason one why this wine bar needs to be snapped up quickly.

Not just by anyone. I want to run it with you, fictional rich group of fellow natural wine fans. And I’m going to tell you why I deserve to be brought in to help run such a beautiful little wine bar in the heart of Paris.

1. I really “get” the vibe here. There’s something underground and punky about the place — not in a James Watt way, in a genuinely subversive way, the way only a truly, authentic alternative person can be. Hervé and Elaine aren’t different to be contrarian. They are different because they just are. And I love that, and I can carry on that legacy.

2. I’m fun, and I know how to get excited about old rocks and roots lying around a shop.

3. Every single wine in the shop is worth waxing extremely lyrical about, and I’m not afraid to go entirely galactic with my descriptions and tasting notes.

4. I’ve had the full Hervé sulphur talk and understand it. I breathed in the rock and everything.

5. As a northern English person with an un-pin-downable accent that dresses like a 12 year old nu-metal boy, I can be an oddity that brings influencers over the river to call us a “hidden gem”.

6. Hervé gave me a corkscrew and I put it in my cabin luggage without thinking about it. I was stopped and searched for so long at Paris Charles de Gaulle I nearly missed my flight. When they took out the waiter’s friend, which had a sharp little knife on it too, of course, I said “oh sorry, I’m a sommelier” and the security guard went “Oh. A sommelier? Okay” and let me go pack my things back up and be on my way. I feel like this is a relevant story but I can’t remember why.

7. I love serving customers. I’m actually really good at it.

8. I love putting on events.

9. I’m really great at making friends with winemakers, because I’m happy to help with all the shitty winery jobs nobody else wants to do. Read: GRAFTER.

10. I might have no money to invest in the project, but you’ve never met someone who can happily live on less. Read: WILL NOT EMBEZZLE. WOULDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT.

11. You can be the experts if you like, and swan around in red pants talking about volatile acidity, and I’ll do the stock counting, service and comms; as long as I can choose the playlists. Read: ZERO EGO. NO POWER GRABS. GREAT TUNES.

I hope this information has been useful to you, and to anyone I may have convinced, please email me directly to discuss our plans moving forward.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Bisous bisous, Katie xox

Other Stuff

• I really liked how many women were involved in making SevenFiftyDaily’s 16 breakout wines of 2024

• The city of Bangkok is a beautiful, mad place that I think about all the time. This piece by new writer to Pellicle Joey Leskin on indie beer in Thailand is based around the Chao Phraya river

• The story of locals from Bury St Edmunds who lament the closing of Greene King’s brewery there — shared because they mention missing the smell often, and that’s something I also care about

Who’s shuffled these?

In the corner of the New Inn, I deal cards. I’ve never been a master card player, but I’ve married into a family who take cards very seriously — don’t touch the discarded pile like that, keep your eyes on your own. I have a pack in my bag all the time, and we have our favourites. Mine, bought on the ferry back from the Isle of Man. Tom’s a pack of “standard “air cushion” Bicycle cards, the type poker players prefer. I’ve always wanted to shuffle like a croupier, but I’ve never actually practiced or tried. Story of my life.

We play Rummy. I have no memory for any of the other rules, despite my father in law trying to teach me Stop The Cab every few months. At high school, I used to play a game called shithead in the common room, we doubled the pack so the games would last forever, dragging on into lessons we should have gone to. These are some of my favourite school memories.

We bought a cribbage peg board, but I don’t know how to use it. I’ve seen people play it in the pub, but it seems like a lot of counting. I don’t like to count. I play cards the way I do everything in life — match the colours and shapes, bluff, act on the spur of the moment. It’s a part of my drinking experience, not the main focus of my attention. I would be terrible at Blackjack. I’d just keep hitting. Give me more cards. I want to see what the next one is. I passed my target a long time ago, but I’m still waiting for the King of Spades.