Let the good times roll.

Let the good times roll.

We always knew this day would arrive and indeed it has. It always seemed to have potential so this may be the opportunity to welcome everybody back to the land of milk and honey. Let the good times roll everybody. After a seemingly endless three month trauma we can now see the first signs of recovery. There you are.

It's the fourth day of July and to all you drinkers and revellers this is your day, a day devoted to your bibulous pleasure, a day of riotous bacchanalia, of clinking foaming pints of beer and ale, jumping onto tables, singing perhaps discordantly at the top of your voices, slapping your family and friends on the back in an excess of congratulation and soaking in saturnalia. Nobody deserves it more than us. You've been in denial since March, queued patiently outside all of those mega giant supermarkets, spoken perhaps with some difficulty through all of those medical masks and you've done it. Well done to you all.

And yet all the while there remains the very real and underlying concern that you could be tempted to overdo it today or this afternoon maybe this evening. After three months in the desert, the consumption of alcohol now feels like the ultimate indulgence and the danger is that we could go overboard. Now the question you may have to ask yourself is whether you really need to drink yourself into a wild stupor to the extent that by midnight even the late- night foxes in the neighbourhood may be desperate to avoid you.

There may be something called self- control, self- restraint or just plain and simple moderation. But after all these months of abstinence and frequent visits to either the supermarket or off licence, you'd be forgiven for flinging open those Wild West saloon doors and demanding a row of bourbons, twenty pints of the amber nectar, several hundred shorts and an endless requests for whisky after whisky, vodka after vodka and scotch after scotch. Wow, are we thirsty?

By this time tomorrow morning perhaps millions of weary and exhausted palates will be desperately craving cups and cups of black coffee, nursing a sore head and wishing they hadn't taken the trouble to traipse down to the local boozer. But not my family because we're teetotal and we don't mind admitting it. This is not to say that we're not partial to a drop of something sweet and refreshing but to those of you who just love the traditional decor of your local watering hole, that first drink will feel like nectar, an ambrosial delight, patience rewarded, the moment you've all been waiting for.

Back in medieval times of course nights in the local tavern were about as crazy and debauched as it was possible to be, full- blooded intoxication almost a nightly occurrence. You'd saunter up to the barman, insist on large tankards of mead before the court jesters would leap onto a creaking table and all hell would break loose. Suddenly, the whole of the drinking population would resort to the kind of dissolute behaviour that seemed to come as second nature to them.

Today though things may not be quite as outrageously silly as they were then but now Britain will think that, after all of those torturous trials and tribulations, those nights of private drinking in the comfort of their own homes will now be condemned to history. Now of course pubs have suddenly morphed into gastro bars, doubling up rapidly as Sunday food carveries where families tuck into their mouth waering roasts with salivating relish. Toby and Wetherspoon have now become the new drinking experience.

Now pubs have been joined by remarkably profitable wine bars in the City of London or the heart of the country. Some of the most celebrated of French, Australian and Italian wine labels have crept into our lives as a means of winding down after another stressful day at the office. But the drinking culture has always been synonymous with the British way of life as if it had never gone away.

Tonight though the chairs will be neatly taken down from dusty tables, a million dart boards will be cleaned and steamed, some will go straight for the dominoes and a vast majority will head straight for the snooker table. Soon the soft tapping of green, red, black and blue ball will resound around the whole of Britain's cities, villages, towns and sleepy hamlets. It'll be the sweetest noise the drinkers of Britain will have heard for ages. It will signify that normal life is back again.

Then by way of a treat, somebody will suggest that this could be the opportune moment for a night of glorious karaoke singing into microphones that keep crackling with unnecessary feedback. So all of your uncles, cousins, aunties and nieces you haven't seen since at least the end of the Second World War will step up onto the stage and declare that they have indeed found the road to Amarillo.

Since this is an extra special night the pub will now abandon itself to one of those ambitious local bands who just want to sing their hearts out for the delectation of all those people who have always remained loyal to them. It's bound to be a very convincing Led Zeppelin tribute group with all of those heavy rock vibes while next up is a Neil Diamond impersonator who keeps extolling the praises of Sweet Caroline.

Oh yes. Before we forget it should be pointed out that all of the barbers and hairdressers will also be allowed to open those doors for a much needed Mohican, plenty off the back and a considerable amount off the front. You found yourself wandering what your grandfather would have made of this all. This is not the way he would have wanted the world to be and he'd have lost a fortune in the last couple of months or so.

But he was still a very respectable East End barber who used to cut the hair of three 1966 World Cup winning heroes so he was always pleased to see all of his customers. A sturdy, strong willed and no nonsense character, he would probably have told us all to pull ourselves together and stop performing like a bunch of pathetic hypochondriacs or soppy malingerers and just go to bed. For him coronavirus may well have been just a very bad case of flu when we know of course that it isn't. Still, he was an excellent barber and you feel sure that he would have been looking forward to a day like today.

So there we are folks. It's another Saturday in the calendar year and Britain can finally let itself go. It's time to drink and drink to our hearts content, finally getting rid of all that thick thatch of hair on your head. Isn't life good and wonderful? It's time to re-discover something of those simple enjoyments that, overnight in March, were swept away from us because of some horrendous global disease. March has now become July and the rest of the year could take us into any direction it wants to. For most of us though 2020 still feels like the year that could have promised so much but then we woke up one morning and found that something had gone and deserted us. Of course we love life but there are too many haunting echoes and uncomfortable memories. Who cares let's drink!

Still, we all have each other and the families and friends that remain our foundation and rock are still here and time will of course be the great healer. Mind you if the Red Lion is packed to capacity tonight you maybe inclined to raise a toast and celebrate American Independence day. Mine's a burger and a glass of bourbon. Keep safe and well everybody. It's time to kick your legs in the air and dance. Yee ha!