On a recent weekend visit to the market town of Lewes, my wife set about investigating the various antique and bric-a-brac shops. Thoughtfully she found a friendly pub to occupy me while she browsed. 

The front bar of the Brewers Arms was quiet, cosy and carpeted. I fetched myself a pint of Harvey’s, spread my newspapers across the table and appraised my fellow drinkers. 

Six balding blokes in their 50s and 60s sat nearby. They wore a selection of check shirts, trainers, jeans and shorts, and were engaged in the kind of conversation familiar to mature men all over the land.

‘I visited a few pubs in Seaford last week.’

‘Some nice boozers in Seaford, Pete. I mean you start straight away with the Railway.’

‘And the Cinque Ports, of course.’

‘And then there’s that place with the pool table. You don’t see a pool table so often nowadays.’

‘Have you ever noticed there’s no pub on the seafront at Seaford? There’s the Wellington – that’s set back. The King’s Head – set back. And the Old Boot – set back. Interesting, ain’t it?’

No one wanted to pursue the issue of the Seaford seafront pubs, and the discussion drifted onto the likely fortunes of Tottenham Hotspur this season, the quality of dancing at Mick Jagger’s 80th birthday party and the relative merits of different potato formats. 

My wife has given up asking me what I chat about with my male friends. She’s accustomed to hearing that there were no personal updates or emotional disclosures; no frank exchanges or heart-to-hearts - just meandering reflections, incidental observations and well rehearsed anecdotes. 

I’m aware that this is probably our roundabout way of navigating our emotions; of signalling our states of mind; of confirming our friendship. It’s meaningful trivia.

One of the group stopped the Bar Manager as he passed by collecting glasses.

‘Dave, I hear you’ve had some Summer Lightning in your cellar. Now Summer Lightning goes down so easy. One or two is never enough.’

‘All gone, Des. Sorry.’

‘You’re gonna have to put me on speed dial for the next time you get some in. Summer Lightning is a lovely drop of stuff.’

‘Sure, Des. It’s definitely popular. I’ve been thinking of getting in Winter Lightning too.’

It struck me at this point that the best brands sit comfortably in our everyday conversation. For all the loud pronouncements and bravura gestures of many modern upstarts, the brands that endure do so by more moderate means: by becoming familiar friends, reliable acquaintances, integral to the cultural landscape. They embed themselves within our meaningful trivia.

‘Squeeze another one in, anyone?’

‘Oh, go on, Pete, I’ll keep you company.’

‘You know it makes sense.’

‘Two pints of Harvey’s please, Dave.’

 
'Well, I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
Because falling in love just makes me blue.
Well, the music plays and you display your heart for me to see.
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.

Well, the room is crowded, people everywhere,
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well, if you sit down with this old clown, I’ll take that frown and break it.
Before the evening's gone away, I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.’

Tom Waits, ‘I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You’

No. 437