I’m a traitor to Britain – I can’t stand pubs

My student flat was an absolute dive – it had stains on the carpet, washing up in the sink and the shower was only ever freezing or scalding.

It was an absolute cliché, but I loved it there

I had spent the first eighteen years of my life living with my parents, so to me it was a palace. 

Albeit a palace without a working thermostat.

But there was one thing I had to contend with – it was the dream house to party in before the pub. Which, normally, plenty of young people would be fine with.

However, I was that rare species of Brit who hated the pub – and I know that makes me a traitor.

Growing up, I had always been sensitive to noise; then in my late twenties I found out I was autistic, and everything finally made sense. I understood why I struggled to make friends as a kid. 

I found it easier to hold conversations when I spoke to people about my niche interests but, unfortunately, there weren’t any kids at my school in the early 2000s who were as intrigued as I was by French American artist, chess player, and inventor Marcel Duchamp.

That changed when I started my English degree at The University of Portsmouth. My course mates were all pretentious nerds – I had found my people. For the first time in my life, I had friends who I really liked spending time with. 

They had watched the same artsy films I had, and listened to the same obscure bands. I was thrilled to have found them.

The only problem was, they liked going to the pub.

Although I loved my new life, I felt at odds with the pub drinking culture of the time. Going to a crowded space with people who talk over each other, with loud background music and occasional impromptu group singing was my idea of hell.

I also didn’t drink at the time. 

Being autistic, I was so deathly afraid of losing control and saying the wrong thing or acting weird, that I stayed sober for my entire degree. 

The irony being that there is nothing which singles you out as strange more than being a British student who’s teetotal.

So, whenever my friends would suggest the pub, I would delay them in our student house.

It was my favourite part – the ‘pre-drink’ before the storm. Which tells you a lot about British drinking culture when we can, with a straight face, allude that drinking alcohol at home doesn’t count – ‘oh we’re not drinking, this is just pre-drinks’. 

They would get shop-bought drinks and play our Nintendo Gamecube – which was an outdated console even for the time, but it has the best version of MarioKart and you can fight me if you disagree.

Funnily enough, pre-drinks were my accessible, quiet space – not what people picture when they think of accommodations for autistic people but our quiet lounge and a pint glass of store-bought cola was what worked for me.

Every weekend, and some weeknights, I would prolong pre-drinks as long as possible until eventually my friends would insist that we go to the noisy pub, and I would have to choose between having a draining evening full of noise and discomfort or staying at home on my own.

It was easy at first – cooking oven pizzas or pouring them new drinks before they could protest – but soon I had to get creative.

On one occasion I suggested that we explore the loft of our student flat, an activity which made pre-drinks last for hours and remarkably resulted in no injuries, despite it requiring us balancing on a beam and investigating a handful of strange photos.

At one point an authentic shisha pipe came into my possession, and I realised it was going to be an excellent tool for making pre-drinks go on for that little bit longer. We’d been using it for maybe ten minutes when I had accidentally knocked it over and burnt the carpet.

Often the things which can make the world more accessible for autistic people are free and easy to do. This one cost me my entire house deposit. 

Now that I’m in my 30s, I am revisiting and re-evaluating many things which I dismissed when I was young and pubs are one of those. 

I realised it wasn’t the pubs I hated, it was the noise, sweat and smell coupled with the unpredictability of drunks. I do drink alcohol now– as I got older, I realised I was no longer afraid of people seeing the real me after a couple of rosés.

As I sat in a quiet country pub recently – a far cry from the pints of snakebite and shouting I knew pubs to be as a student – I worked on my latest book. 

There were sheep grazing outside, a log fire crackled, and I snacked on some very upmarket crisps.

I couldn’t help but think to myself – ‘this is even better than pre-drinks’.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

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