Two pints of lager and a packet of crisps, Dave

GENEALOGISTS have discovered that David Cameron and Al Murray, the Pub Landlord, are distant cousins. Both are descended from the Victorian novelist William Makepeace Thackeray, best known for Vanity Fair. This got me wondering what might have happened if fate had taken a different course. What if Murray had gone into politics and Cameron had embarked on a career in the licensed trade? We’ve got a pretty good idea what a Pub Landlord premiership would look like, thanks to Nigel Farage. But what kind of Pub Landlord would the Prime Minister make?

AFTErNOON, SIr. Welcome to the Coalition Arms. Shake my hand. The name’s Cameron, but you can call me Dave. All my regulars do. Beautiful British name, Dave. Just like the other half, Sam. Dave and Sam. Beautiful British names.

That’s Sam, as in Samantha, not as in Sam. Wouldn’t want you getting the wrong impression. Not that I’ve anything against it, mind you. Far from it.

In my humble opinion, same- sex marriage is the best thing since John Smith’s smooth bitter. We’ve just opened a gay bar in the old tap room.

If you’re that way inclined, you’ll find it down the corridor, past the chillax zone and next to the nappy- changing facilities in the gents’ toilets. And we’ve just started a transgender night, every other Tuesday.

Now then, what can I get you? White wine, or a fruit-based drink? Perhaps a pint of Old Peculier for the little lady?

We don’t go in for traditional stereotypes here, pal. Most of our gentleman regulars favour a dry white wine, especially our crisp, fair-trade Sauvignon Blanc from the Sudan.

Either that, or a sparkling mineral water from the North Pole. There’s a lot of spare water in the Arctic Circle these days, what with the melting of the polar ice caps. An old school chum of mine has just set up a bottling plant in Lapland.

Of course, we do our best to combat climate change here at the Coalition Arms. You may have noticed the stateof-the-art wind turbine on our roof. And the solar panels.

Unfortunately they’re not working right now, because of the gale-force winds and the flooding, so we’re on an emergency wood-fired generator. If the lights go out, as they do quite often these days, please don’t panic.

FrANkLY, all this green crap is a complete waste of time and costs a fortune, but the second- home, Guardianreading crowd like it and they spend a lot of money in here of a weekend. So, that’s a quinoa- infused cocktail for you and a pint of wallop for the little lady. That’ll put hairs on your chest, madam.

And why not? If a woman wants hairs on her chest, good luck to her, I say. Or anywhere else for that matter.

Depilation is just another form of male chauvinist oppression, that’s what I’ve always said. If a lady wants to go out for a drink wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini, even though she’s got more body hair than Dave Lee Travis, that’s entirely her own affair. She’ll be very welcome in here. My gaff, my rules! I’m sorry, here’s me rabbiting on and I haven’t asked your names. Mustapha and Nefertiti? Beautiful British names.

And what do you do, sir? Midwife, eh? That’s marvellous, a proper man’s job.

And the little lady? Don’t tell me, let me guess. Chief executive of a Footsie 100 company? Thought so, got it in one. Sam was a professional woman in her own right, too, until she gave it up when we took over this pub.

She helps out lunchtimes when my assistant bar manager, young Clegg, is on a day off or throws a sickie, which is increasingly often.

You just can’t get the staff these days. Still, it’s not for ever.

We don’t expect to be here more than five years. Sam also supervises the food. We specialise in organic, ethically sourced, healthy fare. Low fat, low sodium, low carb, high prices. We’ve got a dedicated vegan menu and only use ingredients grown in our own pub garden.

Unfortunately, we’re buying frozen veg from Iceland at the moment, because the garden has been under water since Christmas.

Do you know, we had a geezer the other day asking for pub grub. I think he was from the Police Federation.

I told him: we don’t do pub grub. Pub grub’s for plebs, not sophisticated modern metrosexuals. Grubs is what birds eat. The feathered kind, I mean. I’d never call a little lady a ‘bird’.

I barred him on the spot. We don’t want his type in here. My gaff, my rules! If we didn’t have rules, where would we be? France!

And just look at France today. Seventy-five per cent top rate tax, President Hollande spending all his time chasing skirt.

He turned up here yesterday for a pub lunch with the Prime Minister, Al Murray. I barred both of them.

No wonder the French are all moving to Britain in droves. We’re packed out with Froggies when the rugby’s on the big screen. They can’t get enough of Sam’s five-grain baguette and artisan Camembert.

It’s not just the Frogs, either. Don’t get me started on immigration. They come over here, they take our jobs. Good luck to them, I say. The more immigrants, the better.

I’d far rather employ a hardworking plumber from Eastern Europe than some of the workshy cowboys we’ve had over the years. No wonder the country’s flooded.

We’ve got a lovely Albanian woman comes in to do the ironing. Sam draws the line at ironing and I don’t blame her. Bukuroshe, she’s called. Beautiful British name. Well, it is now, anyway.

Can I top you up, sir? How about something a little stronger? Absinthe, perhaps?

OH, YOU’rE driving. Probably very wise, sir. But if I may be permitted a suggestion, why not take a bike next time? You’ll find a Boris bike docking station outside the front door. That way you can drink as much as you like and save the planet on the way home.

Just the bill? Certainly, here you are. I’m sorry, sir, we don’t take euros, just good old- fashioned English pounds. Not even from our French clientele. That’s just the way it is. My gaff, my rules! Well, not entirely my rules, if I’m honest. Most of them come from Brussels these days, but I’ve had a word with the LVA and we are hoping to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement with our European suppliers in the very near future.

Who’s next? You, the elderly couple. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Name’s Cameron, but you can call me Dave. And you are?

Charles and Camilla. Camilla and Charles. Beautiful British names. And what can I get you?

So that’s a pint of Dirty Monkey for you, Camilla, and a large Glenhoddle chaser. And what’ll Charles have — fruit-based drink or dry white wine? Better make it a fruit-based drink if he’s driving the helicopter.

Look, I’m afraid you can’t smoke in here, Camilla. I know, it’s my gaff and if they were my rules you could smoke like the Flying Scotsman. They’ll be stopping us smoking in our own cars next.

Darts? Sorry, no darts. Elf’n’safety. They’ve started sending undercover inspectors to check up and I can’t afford the fines.

It’s not always easy to spot them, because they wear hi-viz jackets to blend in with everyone else.

And what do you do? Pull the other one, Chas. If you’re the heir to the throne, then I’m the Prime Minister.

Cheers!