Pay up, pay up and play the game

With society becoming increasingly litigious, Daily Telegraph pubs writer Adam Edwards anticipates with trepidation the antics of the bar-room lawyers

Pub sport has long since moved on from the philosophy of "it matters not that you won or lost, but how you played the game".

That charming view was eclipsed many years ago by the cry "we wuz robbed". Now there is an additional element to the pub diversion ­ civil law.

Last month pub quiz contestant David Crane was sued for libel by the quiz host Tony Barclay. Crane missed out on a £210 prize at the King's Arms in Bedford after Quiz Master Barclay made a mistake when he read out the winning answer.

Crane claimed the mistake was deliberate and accused Barclay of cheating. Barclay denied it, sued Crane and won £5,000 damages plus costs.

This is worrying news for public houses as it may well have set a legal precedent for competitors to sue those who oversee or have any input into a game or sport, however trivial.

Are referees in Sunday League Pub Football, for example, going to go to the law when they are accused, as they usually are, of being visually challenged and born out of wedlock?

Will the umpire of a pub cricket game now sue the landlord of a pub whose players questioned the low quality of his mental faculties and bracketed him with Oedipus after an iffy lbw decision?

And nearer to home will landlords now need to check the quality of the dart flights in the empty Hamlet cigar tin for fear a player will sue because the publican gave the opponent the better arrows?

Or will he find himself in court if he fails to tell visiting customers that the pool table lists towards the cigarette machine (a fact that has always helped home performances)?

The next logical step will be for the chubby game player who looks as if he might have enjoyed one too many pub pies to take legal action against the pie provider and those regulars who slandered him by asking, "who ate all the pies?".

If the law is going to be used to settle trivial pursuits there is no telling where it will end. It will be a legal quagmire for licensees and, of course, a nightmare for their customers.

Don't even think of asking me into the saloon bar for a swift half and a game of dominoes anymore, at least not without the accompaniment of my "brief".

Last-gasp saloon

The witch-hunt against smokers has had a peculiar side effect ­ the roll-up is no longer the prerogative of the working man. In the best gastro-pubs and the smartest bars one can now see the cool dudes of both sexes and all persuasions pulling out a green Rizla paper and spooling it around a slug of rolling tobacco.

The fashioning of the amateur smoke started with the 1994 movie Pulp Fiction when John Travolta smoked one in Jack Rabbit Slim's bar and grill.

Now, in Mariners Rock, for example, the Cornish pub in the resort of Rock, patronised by Princes William and Harry, the cigarette machine only sells Marlboro Lights or cigarette packets containing Golden Virginia tobacco and papers.

It is obvious that if, and when, the new Draconian anti-smoking laws come into being, the roll-up will become ubiquitous. It is quicker and cheaper to have a surreptitious nicotine shot from a skinny hand-rolled cigarette than it is to secretly pull on a king-sized gasper.

I have no doubt that the capital's fashion set will soon be designing smart holders and secret pockets for their chic hand-rolling customers.

Meanwhile, landlords should fill their corridors with ashtrays ­ one can easily get a couple of legal pulls on a roll-up between the bar and the gents.

No rifling matter

I was pleasantly surprised to be asked to a swanky caviar and vodka party during the festive season.

There were lashings of Iranian Sevruga, in a large blue tin featuring a silver sturgeon, with blinis and crème fraîche, surrounded by sliced onion and chopped hard-boiled egg.

When all the guests were holding an appetiser of caviar and a small shot glass my host, a wealthy arms dealer, prepared for the toast by turning to the table behind him.

There he opened the crude gunmetal oblong-shaped wooden box with rope handles, heavy latches and black military writing on the outside. It was a present from an American colleague.

Inside was an actual-size Kalashnikov AK47 automatic rifle, made of glass and full of neat vodka.

With a single smooth movement my host pulled it out and started shooting the booze into the guests' glasses like a terrorist possessed.

Binge drinking? Forget it. That's kids' stuff ­ this was machine-gun gargling.