Chris Maclean: don't Ron, Ron!

This morning I was visited by an old boy called Ron Brown. His nickname is 'Close 'em Down' Brown on account of the number of licensed premises which, after he has worked there a short period, either close or change ownership.

Ron is one of thousands of people who, while working in a mundane, hum-drum job in London, dream of the opportunity of running their own little country pub. The wonderful 'roses around the door' illusion can be irresistible. It certainly was for Ron.

In the 90s Ron received his redundancy cheque and, with his family, moved from London to Kent. To the idyllic country pub. An exquisite isolated pub with a fantastic reputation and unequalled history. This was a food-led freehouse with great pedigree.

Ron had worked in the college bar. Mavis, his wife, had some catering experience. But I don't think it prepared them for the physical rigour of running their own pub.

Within months interest rates hit a new high and it was with luck, more than judgement, that they stayed afloat. But it was almost from that point that the dream was broken. Ill health, interest rates, foot and mouth all contributed to the demise.

Ron eventually sold it, for a ridiculously low price, and left licking his wounds. He wasn't bankrupt but he had looked into that abyss.

Since then Ron has pottered around in various bar jobs. He was pretty useless. There would be beer on the floor. Mess everwhere. He worked for me for a time, until I moved, and while he brought in his own style of clientele, he really wasn't up to the task.

Ron had the dream but, in realising it, it almost destroyed him. He still hankers for a job though. Still aspires to be mine host.

It saddens me that there are still licensees who think they can stand at the bar with their mates and somehow things magically get done.

There are far too many Rons out there and they still keep coming.