I believe it was George Orwell who created a mythical perfect pub, called the Moon under Water. It's got a different name but for the last 18 years or so, we have been lucky enough to live opposite what we, and many others, think is the perfect pub. Actually luck doesn't come into it - that's why we bought the house. But nothing lasts for ever and the landlord, who has been in post for an astonishing 36 years, is retiring in a couple of weeks. Today we bade farewell to the bloke who does the food, which includes the legendary - and award winning - black pudding sandwich. Yes it's  a black day for black pudding.

What is it about the English pub that is so special? Dr Johnson's assertion that "nothing has yet been devised by man which has given so much please to so many as a pub" still holds true. But the pub is under threat from all sides. Since we've been here, we have seen many local hostelries close. It's been a tough road, trying to survive the drink-driving laws, the smoking ban, competition from other leisure pursuits (although which other pursuits beat going to the pub is beyond me) and increases in taxes. But probably the biggest problem has been the rise in property prices which makes pubs worth more as houses or development sites than as pubs. 

Luckily, our local will survive, at least for the time being and we wish the new tenants well, whilst putting them under enormous pressure not to ruin the place with nasty lager and boil-in-the-bag food (lamb shank? Run for your lives!) But why on earth can the government not recognise the national importance of something which is now more quintessentially English (note - not British - pubs in Scotland and Wales are not usually quite the same thing) than any other institution and do more to protect it? You can see from the list of threats above that most of them are, like most evils in the world, government-made. So it is within the government's power to do something about it.

One concludes that in most areas of life, governments do more harm than good. I'm looking out for a small idyllic land with no government. I'll bet there'll be some good pubs and that you'll be able to smoke in them. (And if there is any bloody lamb shank, it'll be slow cooked on an open fire, probably by a team of local virgins who will also roll you a cigar on their thighs. Sorry, I'm getting carried away.)  If not, I will open one. All suggestions welcome. But for now, it's a question of the landlord is dead, long live the landlord...and mines a pint of bitter!