What a way to run a business

Licensed trade writer PHIL DIXON is fearful that other pubcos will feel compelled to follow the lead set by Provence and take the no-tie-high-rent route to letting problem pubs

Will all passengers for Malaysian Airlines flight number... I am still looking for a book to buy in the Heathrow newsagents. Suddenly I see it and, in a Meldrewesque manner, I announce to the beloved one: 'I can't believe it! Somebody has lasted 12 months!'

'What on earth are you on about?'

'Someone has actually survived against all expectations with a new pub company. Look. There it is - A Year in Provence.'

'Phil, are you as thick as you look? It's about...'

'I know, it's Peter Mayle's saga about the cold wind of the Rhane valley living in the South of France, soon to be out as a film by Ridley Scott, no less.'

'So what are you talking about then?'

'Oh, it's just some new pubco (Provence) that usually buys the pubs no one wants.

'Often they're closed. They then re-let them on hefty rents, guarantee even more ambitious returns and auction them for a massive profit, all in a matter of weeks.'

'So?'

'It's not sustainable unless two plus two really equals seven. Mind you, the key player has made millions out of it.'

'And it is that simple?'

'Appears so.'

'Then why didn't you think of it? You are as thick as you look.'

What is interesting about the Provence deal is indeed the simplicity of the offer. A rent of several hundred pounds per week with the incentive of freedom from the tie. All bolstered by some ridiculous claim that each pub is a 'goldmine'. A boarded-up, run-down, closed, estate pub a 'goldmine'?

Whatever happened to the Trade Descriptions Act? Compare this approach with that of most of the major pub-owning companies who have been keen to reintroduce or maintain full ties. Provence is not the only one. Agreements at the low turnover end of the industry are now being increasingly offered, completely free of any purchasing obligations, in order that the business may possibly survive.

Provence does indeed pose a quandary. How many estate directors will be keen to sell an unviable pub only to see Paul J Kiely make a hundred thousand on it in a very short space of time? It may all end in tears but it is still, for respected RICS members, potentially embarrassing to offload a pub for what appears to be less than it's worth. So how will this conundrum be dealt with by the pubcos? Some years ago, Jennings had an issue with 'the land that time forgot' (otherwise known as West Cumbria). The normal tenanted model was simply unworkable in low sales pubs, so the brewery created a completely separate company to let the pubs on bespoke terms. Will we see such a development among our more established players? I feel that, as long as the likes of Provence are in the market, we may well do.

I didn't miss Saigon

Just over 30 years ago I idealistically, and perhaps naively, sent a telegram to the victorious North Vietnamese forces on the fall of Saigon (30/04/1975). Over Christmas, I finally got around to paying a visit.

Saigon has always had a reputation for hard drinking, sleaze and debauchery (no, that's not why I went). However, solely in the pursuit of knowledge, I decided to visit one of the more notorious postwar watering holes - the Apocalypse Now bar.

I found myself crossing the road with a gentleman from Leeds (I can read T-shirts).

'Have you been to the War Museum?' I inquired.

'Aye, but we got a better armouries one in Leeds.'

'Some of the buildings are quite stunning. Look at the old Hotel de Ville over there.'

'Oh, I thought that were town hall.'

'Yes. It was.'

'Not as impressive as the one we have in Leeds.'

'Did you see the football ground on the way in?' (He nodded.)

'At least the Saigon team play in their top division.' Touche.

I made my way into the bar, full of attractive local women. While the beloved one was trying to work out the cocktail compositions in line with the latest GI diet, a waft of strong perfume drifted into my vicinity, emanating from a cosmetically enhanced waitress wearing a very skimpy blue and white top. It was the sort of scent my grandfather would have instantly compared to a 'Turkish brothel' - which always confused me, as the furthest he had been from Barnsley was Morecambe.

'What you have?' she requested.

'Carlsberg please.'

'You no have Carlsberg.'

'OK. How about a Tiger beer?'

'You no have Tiger beer (pointing at the menu). You have this one.'

'Now look here. I have not travelled thousands of miles to drink...' It was then that I noticed the brand/logo contained within her exotic blue and white attire - Foster's Draught.

Abba's Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A man after midnight) hit the speakers. I looked around at the array of women prepared to sell their bodies for a comparative pittance. I remembered I was writing for a family (brewery) newspaper and that I had signed the BII's code of conduct. I looked apologetically at the lady, made my excuses and... stated quite firmly: 'No, thank you. I'll stick to the Carlsberg.'

The bottle that cools

That's not to say I haven't been known to sink the odd pint of Amber Nectar or three, especially when playing or watching cricket.

There is definitely something about cold lager and hot climates. San Miguel tastes great on the Costa del Sol, a cold bottle of Kingfisher is sumptuous on a beach in Goa, and Steinlager is nearly enjoyable taking in the sights of Kiwiland.

One of my favourite stories refers to George Curzon before he became Viceroy of India and Foreign Secretary. One day, on a hot torrid plain near Mastuj (north-west frontier), in the distance his party spotted a lone rider galloping furiously across the unforgiving terrain. The horse drew up and the rider, Curzon's Indian manservant, dismounted. As he reached into his robes, the parched and thirsty Curzon said but one word, and that word was 'beer', a bottle of slightly warm, finest Burton Bass being instantly produced. (Curzon: a Most Superior Person - Kenneth Rose, published by Papermac.)

phildixoncmbii@aol.com