The Royal Victoria Pavilion, Ramsgate
In the most prime imaginable bit of Ramsgate beach real estate, right on the sand, stands a handsome, turn-of-the-last-century building that had claimed for the longest amount of time, some years in neon, to be a casino. I’d never been allowed in as a kid. Then in the 90s it was leaning towards defunct, by the 00s it looked a bit haunted, then there was a fire, and wham, 2017, it turned into a Spoons. It had been trailed for a few months ahead, and I’d sworn off it; the living nightmare that was Brexit was only a few months old and Wetherspoon’s Tim Martin was one of its most gracelessly triumphant fuglemen. He could keep his (incredibly cheap) pints and his (superhumanly fast) nuggets.
I didn’t cave piecemeal – as soon as I set eyes on the Royal Victoria Pavilion, renovated, now the world’s largest Wetherspoon’s, I was overswept by its charm. Everything about it is perfect. The outdoor tables on to the beach are in a permanent sunspot. Inside, a green leather banquette that seats 13 is angled directly at a floor-to-ceiling window, on to the sunset. There’s a grand central staircase you can dance down in your Busby Berkeley dreams. I didn’t think my opinion of it could get any higher, then I went in for breakfast after going seal watching; wholesome, tasty, idyllic.
‘Everything about it is perfect’ … the Royal Victoria Pavilion. Photograph: Bax Walker/Alamy
Anyway, it was during the rule-of-six phase of Covid, I was there with the kids and meeting a family of four, so we were seven. The barman said we had to break it up, and I tried to persuade them that seven people is the same as six, indeed, if four are children, that’s effectively two adults, so there were only five of us. He insisted, so we made the kids go and sit somewhere else, but the guy said, “No, your households have to sit on separate tables.” We thought we could fix that by making the kids sit outdoors. We were really just messing about at this point to see the look of outrage on their little faces, when the barman said something no one’s ever said to me before: “You’re barred.”
I wasn’t even a punter in this pub, I was a superfan. I regularly sent pictures from the roof garden to friends, #ThanetRiviera. Before I could even scope out the enormity – was it a lifetime ban? A pandemic ban? Just a ban for tonight? – I was incapable of processing how a place as beloved as the Spoons was by me could even nudge up to the abyss of ending that relationship. I left my dog at home for these guys! I ate their ramen, even though their ramen blows. I would go into battle, write them a poem, I would do literally anything for this pub except obey a simple instruction.
Anyway, the lesson, kids – and heed this – is that the barman’s word is final. That’s it. No process, no second chances, no extenuating circumstances, no appeal. Final. It’s an awesome power, and quite an important residue of what we used to call the dignity of work. Final.
I was only barred for one night.