Health and safety regulations might not signal the actual death of civilisation, but they certainly reduce our enjoyment of it. The recent case of an official from the HSE ordering a Dublin pub to refuse its customers entry if accompanied by their dogs is a prime example. Apparently there’s a rule about dogs not being allowed in places where food is served, unless they’re guide or “companion” dogs.
This raises many questions. When is a pet dog not a companion? Why is a guide dog deemed hygienically acceptable in the presence of a packet of crisps but any other type of dog poses a risk? Healthwise, what’s the difference? Is it that companion dogs magically shed less hair than other types? How is it that the wagging tails of non-guide dogs pose a threat to life and limb only if there are peanuts on the premises? Has anyone ever seen any kind of a canine jump on to a bar and lift its leg into a bowl of microwaved soup?
Do dogs get drunk, become abusive, sell drugs or shoot people in pubs? I feel no safer knowing that our four-legged friends aren’t welcome any more. Granted, not everyone likes dogs. Some people are afraid of them. Neither position poses a health or safety “issue”, however. Taking care of your customers and having consideration towards others is one thing; that’s normal. Complying with the noxious, box-ticking requirements of insurance companies and bureaucratic health organisations is another matter entirely. That’s done at the expense of our human quirks and foibles, for the benefit of those who devise tedious ways to deaden our spirits, in the name of health and safety.
I have no qualms about sounding like the grumpy old fart I undoubtedly am. In fact, I rejoice that my youth happened at a time when freedom was still fashionable. Now that we’re no longer allowed to do silly things like ride motorbikes without wearing crash helmets I realise how lucky I was to have experienced so many small pleasures before they were outlawed. I can still feel the liberating sensation of biking around lazy country roads with the summer breeze in my hair. Of course it’s safer to wear a helmet but it’s also hot, sticky and unpleasant. Nowadays when the open road beckons I find I’m not in the mood to go and boil my own head while I’m at it. So that’s the end of that.
During my childhood in London’s Swinging Sixties, my grandmother – who ruled the roost – hired an ancient, pipe-smoking neighbour, one slightly crocked John Oakes, to walk our large, slobbery English bulldog whenever the family was away. Bulldogs are gentle, affectionate and massively heavy beasts. More of a roadblock than a dog, ours loathed exercise and couldn’t jump up on anything if he tried.
Because of these physical shortcomings my father named him after Scobie Breasley, the greatest champion jockey of his day. Doddery John and cumbersome Scobie soon developed a bond. Always delighted to see each other, their walks up on Hampstead Heath became a daily routine whether the family was in situ or not. For years I’d lobbied without success to be allowed to walk Scobie myself. Finally the glory day came when John didn’t show up and I was deemed able to handle our pet colossus on my own, at the tender age of 12.
Off we set for the heath, which was only a wee bit up the road. Problems arose immediately when, not more than 10 yards from the house, we passed our nearest pub and Scobie slammed on the brakes, refusing to budge another inch. No amount of ordering, tugging or pleading on my part could make him change his mind. He clearly wasn’t interested in going anywhere near the heath. While wondering what to do next, the pub door opened and Scobie seized his opportunity to bolt straight in, dragging me behind him. To my astonishment the entire bar cheered a hearty welcome while Gladys, the blind landlady, shouted from behind her counter, “Allo, Scobie love, I’ll just get your beer for you now. Where’s John today?” With movements that were suspiciously well practised, she kindly set a plate of ale down on the floor for Scobie to slurp at gustily. No money was exchanged.
I was given my first lemonade shandy and a plug of pipe tobacco to pass on to John who, I discovered, never took the dog for a walk at all. He preferred to smoke a lot while drinking pints and watching Scobie spray beer everywhere. It seemed like a civilised arrangement that suited everyone, so their secret remained safe with me and with blind Gladys.
Nowadays we’d be had up on numerous charges: smoking, underage drinking, non-guide dog status, non-payment, beer being consumed out of a plate on the floor, etc. Pub life really has gone to the dogs.
Kate O’Toole is an actress and recovering Facebook addict
