Why the dive bar still kicks harder than most of the industry knows what to do with.

London's after-dark identity is collapsing in slow motion. Bristol's freakshow hasn't disappeared, but the walls are closing in.

You only get each day once. You don’t get to re-run the tape. You don’t get a do-over. Stop waiting. Stop saving the good whiskey for the right occasion.

You don’t go to a bar because you’re thirsty—you go searching. For escape, connection, or simply somewhere else to be.

Seventeen years ago, I opened a bar in what felt like a graveyard. Nine dead units on the street. One pub on life support. No promises, no blueprint — just a working-class bloke with a decent instinct for a pint and a high tolerance for risk.