ABBOTT'S BITTER

There was fierce competition for the pub. A property company had brought the big old place hoping to turn it into housing but their plans had been opposed by the locals, some not without influence with the planning officer. It was a Grade 11 listed building right in the middle of the village and only a few miles from the centre of Bath. It was a rambling place with six letable bedrooms and room to create more; space for a fifty cover restaurant and the kitchen to match, a large car park and the “beer garden.”

Rather than sell it, the property company decided to find a good tenant for the place. They wanted their new tenant to turn the old fashioned country pub into something a bit special so placed the job in the hands of a couple of local agents. During the search for new incumbents, the business ticked over with a relief landlord and his wife just about satisfying the meagre local needs. It was what could be called “a drinker’s pub” with good ale and cider, spirits if required and a bar snack menu with things like chicken and chips or ploughmen’s with the butter served up in mini sized sachets so that customers were always asking for more butter please. The owners had visions of increasing the turn over from £200,00 a year to more like £800,000. They wanted somebody with flair to turn the place from “ a bed and breakfast pub with grub” into “a gastro-pub with style and comfortable bedrooms.” The property company was looking for somebody with money to invest in a serious makeover for the place. Low “key money” proposed at £40,000 and an annual rental of 10% of turnover and a twenty-four year lease made the place quite an attractive proposition. Even in times when more pubs were closing down than opening up, the Drover’s Inn was an opportunity for someone with a bit of flair and hard work to turn a very useful shilling. The agents had plenty of interest and a short list was drawn up of those thought to be most suitable candidates.

The Abbott’s had set their hearts on getting the place. It had long been their ambition to find a run down pub and turn it into a place people would want to visit, a place where good food sat easily along side warm hospitality. The Abbott’s could do it. Their enthusiasm and personal good taste would more than make up for their lack of experience. They were an outgoing couple with a wide circle of friends, all of whom would certainly patronise their new venture. The fact that Mr Abbott worked for a brewery must be to their advantage. They planned what they would do with the Drover’s Inn, how they would changed the décor, extend the bar, completely refurbish the bedrooms, gut and replace the kitchen and restyle the beer garden. They drew up their elaborate plans and went to see their bank manager who agreed that he’d lend them the money, £200,000, provided that they could give a personal guarantee and their property as security against the loan. The Abbott’s didn’t mind that in the slightest. They were keen as mustard and spent every hour planning what they would do. They prepared menus and selected fine wines for the new list. They planned a launch party, decided who they’d invite. They talked about the chef they were going to take on. Someone recommended one who was very good and they went to see him and offered him the job at £30,000 a year with accommodation of course. The talked to an architect and got him to do some preliminary drawings of the proposed changes. They went to their accountant and with him prepared the financial models that showed them and the bank manager and the property company that they could make a profitable go of it. They kept their wage bill at less than 22% of turnover, their GP averaged 60% and even if it dipped to below 55%, the bottom line still looked good. They prepared a very professional presentation to the agents and the property company, a ten paged document with lots of words, figure and images that would reassure the landlord’s that the Abbott’s were absolutely idea candidates for the business.

It went right to the wire. Second interviews were arranged and the Abbott’s found themselves in the last two. They didn’t sleep much the night before the final interview. They had put everything they could into getting the deal. The property company couldn’t decide right away and the agents were divided about who should get the lease. After re-appraising everything they had heard and seen a decision had to be made and phone calls made.

“We’re very pleased to be able to tell you that you’ve got the lease for the Drover’s Inn. There’s a letter in the post confirming the detail.” The agent’s PA told an excited Mr Abbott on the phone on the Thursday night. The Abbott’s were as chuffed as nuts. They celebrated by opening on of Mr Abbott’s fine old wines, went to bed as pleased as punch and made love like they hadn’t for several months. The following morning Mr Abbott quit his job as a senior manager at the brewery. They met for lunch at the Priory, Bath’s finest and splashed out.

“Maybe one day, our place will have a reputation like this.” Mrs Abbott whispered to her husband over coffee.

On Monday morning the post arrived and with it a letter from the property company as promised. The Abbott’s could tell it was from them by the slogan on the outside of the envelope “ putting property & people first.” Mr Abbott opened the white envelope more as a formality than anything else that evening. They both knew what would be typed inside. Or thought they did.
It was a very close call but the other contender just had the edge because of his relevant experience. The Abbott’s were dumfounded. They simply couldn’t believe their eyes. There must be some mistake, some awful cock up. After all that, they hadn’t been given the Drover’s Inn to run as their own or had they? What the hell was going on?

“But the agent?” said Mrs Abbott to her bewildered husband.

Mr Abbott was on the telephone to the agent first thing on Tuesday morning.

“I am so sorry Mr Abbott,” said the agent. “It seems that there must have been an administrative error and we telephoned you last Friday and mistakenly gave you the wrong news. The letter you received is correct.”

There was absolutely nothing that the Abbott’s could do about it. They wrote a letter to the agent with a copy to the property company expressing their displeasure and demanding some recompense. They never received a reply. They rang a lawyer friend but he said that in his opinion basically mistakes like those were unfortunate but not worth going to law over.
The Abbott’s brooded over their misfortune. Mr Abbott tried unsuccessfully to get his job back, had to work out his notice then leave as planned.

When the new successful applicant took over the pub and pulled his first pint, nearly all the men that joined him that evening including the directors of the property company and their agents ended up in hospital having their stomach’s pumped. Most were OK, but three died from the poison that had been put into the barrels of beer that in truth should have been named Abbott’s bitter.