So what happened? Did the insurrection merely fizzle out or is all still alive and well?
In a bid to find out, I got in touch with a few contacts in the trade, eventually being given the phone number of a supposed ‘militant’.
During the course of a brief phone call, I was instructed to take the 15.45 train to Welshpool the following day and given assurances that someone would be there to meet me.
Large flakes of snow were falling as I stepped onto the platform of Welshpool train station. A man appeared, seemingly from nowhere and beckoned me to follow him.
Once in his car, he passed me a blindfold. “I’m sorry” he said, “you’re going to have to put this on. We can’t afford to take any chances”.
Somewhat reluctantly it must be said, I complied. During the course of the journey neither of us spoke and after what seemed an eternity, the vehicle came to a halt. A request for my blindfold to be removed was ignored.
We continued our journey on foot, crossing some fairly rough terrain before a shove in the back forced me to the ground. Someone barked out an order and the blindfold was removed. As my eyes slowly grew accustomed to the dim light, I began to take in my surroundings.
We were in a cave that much was clear, in the presence of what appeared to be a group of renegades and bandits. All were sitting around a camp fire and eyeing me with a great deal of suspicion, their hostility all too apparent.
More worryingly, they were brandishing a vast array of weapons. It was clear these guys meant business.
One particularly fearsome looking individual stepped forward. He wore an eye patch and had what appeared to be a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder.
He proceeded to pull out an exceedingly large knife which he looked at adoringly before glaring me in a manner which suggested I was about as welcome as Giles Thorley at an AGM of Punch shareholders.
“Who are you?” he hissed, “What do you want?”
His tone was menacing. Any confidence I had in retaining any meaningful control over my bodily functions dissipated there and then.
All sorts of possible scenarios involving the knife were going through my mind, none of them pleasant.
He stepped forward, the blade glinting in the light of the fire; “Errr........there’s no need for violence” I stammered. His expression left me in no doubt that my protestations had fallen on deaf ears.
It was clear this gentleman was about to do something which involved a great deal of pain. It didn’t take a genius to work out who the beneficiary would be.
Just as I felt myself succumbing to a bowel malfunction, an object in the background caught my eye. It was a dartboard!
Peering through the gloom, it was apparent that something had been nailed to it. As my eyes became accustomed to the murky light I suddenly realised what it was.
No surely not. It couldn’t be, could it?
Unless I was very much mistaken it was a picture of Brigid Simmonds!
The sense of relief was indescribable. I was amongst friends. These guys were on our side!
‘Oh God’, I thought to myself; ‘Thank you! Thank you! Oh God, thank you!’
I turned to my would be assailant with renewed confidence. “My name’s Bob” I said “and I want to be a militant”.
With the knife inches away from a particularly vulnerable part of my anatomy, the rebel leader paused. Then, to my immense relief, a big smile broke out across his face.
He picked me up and gave me a rib breaking bear hug before apologising profusely for his behaviour. Apparently, the group had received a tip off that I was a pubco spy.
His name was Che, former landlord of the White Horse in Doncaster. He’d been evicted from his pub for having the audacity to question why rent constituted 41% of his annual turnover.
Over a dinner of roasted sheep the remainder of the bandits introduced themselves. All were ex-pub landlords and each had a harrowing tale to tell. They’d taken to hiding out in the hills because of increased pubco surveillance.
They informed me that venturing out during daylight hours was not an option. “The pubcos track our every movement on satellites” Che explained, “even our e-mails and mobile phones are monitored”.
Another of the renegades told me that the pubcos had recently acquired drones; these were being used to detect illicit barrel deliveries.
As we sat there chatting, it occurred to me that these discussions would best be conducted with some drinks in our hands.
“It’s dark outside now”, I said “so why don’t we all go down the pub, get absolutely **** faced and talk about militancy?”
My suggestion was met with much head shaking. One of the group explained that the nearest pub had closed down several months earlier. The pubco had called late one evening to do a stock check and found a J20 that couldn’t be accounted for; the landlord hadn’t been seen since.
So, we contented ourselves with sitting around the fire and exchanging tales of pubco abuse. I savoured their hospitality, camaraderie and friendship. It reminded me of just how many wonderful people there were in this industry, all of whom deserved so much better.
As the evening wore on, I felt a growing sense of admiration and respect for these guys. Amidst all the tales of misfortune and woe it was clear they possessed a determination and solidarity that would not be easily broken; I found that immensely reassuring.
Eventually it was time for me to leave. As we hugged and said our farewells, the group asked me not to forget them.
“Tell your readers not to believe the pubco propaganda” said Che, “we’re not finished. The fight will go on for as long as it takes, we’ll never give up.”
“Do you have a message for Bob Neill, our community pubs minister?” I asked.
“Yeah” said Che, “tell him if he doesn’t do something to stop pubco abuse I’ll personally come down to Westminster and cut his b******* off.”
“I’ll tell him.” I replied, “I’m sure he’ll be glad of the feedback”.
I was driven back to Welshpool under the cover of darkness and caught my train to Birmingham. The journey gave me an opportunity to reflect on the day’s events.
One thing was clear; the commitment of Che and his followers wasn’t in doubt, their belief in the righteousness of their cause absolute. Continuing revelations of pubco abuse only served to stiffen their resolve.
Whilst the ‘rebels’ are hopelessly outgunned, they possess an indomitable spirit, one that won’t be broken easily. It is their greatest asset against a formidable ‘enemy’; one who possesses a seemingly infinite array of resources.
Critics of course would argue that those clamouring for reform produce a great deal of noise but little else. I would suggest that even if the net result of their endeavours amounts to nothing more than an elevation in noise levels their contribution remains invaluable.
After all, there appear to be a growing number of people out there urging us not to make a fuss or raise our voices. With all that ‘whingeing’ and ‘complaining’ going on someone might get the impression something’s wrong. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?
Noise draws attention to things, suggests something is seriously amiss; invariably resulting in heads turning, awkward questions being asked. Consequently, the long running campaign for reform has resulted in the drinks industry coming under scrutiny like never before.
Mainstream tabloids are finally peering into our world. Last year a piece in the Daily Mirror entitled ‘Tale of two exits from Enterprise Inns’ illustrated the extent to which the questionable standards prevalent within the drinks industry are being acknowledged in the wider public domain.
With MPs considering intervention, that momentum must be maintained. Noise is exactly what we need at the moment, lots of it.
The other evening a song entitled ‘Pump up the Volume’ by M.A.R.S. came on the radio. I recall thinking that it seemed a very appropriate theme tune for our cause.
Will it result in politicians finally getting on the dance floor and strutting their stuff to the funky beat of reform?
Only time will tell. One thing is for sure. Thanks to the tireless endeavours of people like Che and his band of rebels, none of them can be in any doubt as to what the real issues are.
The only question remaining is whether or not MPs have the courage to act.
Let us all pray that for once they do!
Viva la revolucion!