Hospitality is a trade of missing people — the lifers are gone, the new generation won’t stay, but the magic still lingers.

In Spain, bars feel like living rooms, not battlegrounds. While Britain polices nightlife with taxes and paranoia, Spain thrives on trust, community, and relaxed hospitality. Here’s why the Spanish get it—and we don’t.

Hospitality is a proper job. It’s one of the most proper jobs there is. But somewhere along the way, this country forgot that.

Hospitality doesn’t run on mission statements or bitters. It runs on people—beautiful, flawed, erratic, wildly lovable people.

You spend half your life trying to build something that feels real — a place with heartbeat, a bit of chaos, a bit of smoke and sweat and character — and then you stumble across a Reddit thread where a bunch of keyboard anthropologists are dissecting your soul like it’s a lab rat.

World Famous Dive Bars is buying Good Chemistry Brewing — doubling down on Bristol beer culture when others are selling out. Real beer, real people, no bullshit.

World Famous Dive Bars has agreed to acquire Bristol brewery Good Chemistry Brewing, bringing one of the city’s best-known independent breweries into the World Famous family.

We don’t stock local beer because it’s trendy, or because someone told us it’s “the right thing to do.” We’re not interested in playing community theatre. We f*ck with local brewers because they give a shit in a world that mostly doesn’t.

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.