The Fox and Vic had been good to Phil Bartle; for the past five years the punters came in numbers not seen since old man Bailey had run the place, and that was way before the days of Thatcherism. There was a new housing estate located nearby awash with young couples, retirees and the odd single mom out on the pull on a Saturday night, and Phil's little corner alehouse was the perfect place to spend an hour or two away from the hustle and bustle of home life. There was also a good passing trade of blue collar workers from the nearby factories, though traffic only really picked up when Sharon was pulling pints in-between her college tutorials. There was something about the buxom blonde the men found appealing, and it certainly wasn't the size of the head she left on a glass of Amberley Bitter.
But like all long-standing businesses, The Fox and Vic was having a bit of rough trot of late, thanks in part to the downturn in the economy, and local competition in the form of a refurbished up-market bar that had recently opened its doors. It would of course be no match for Phil's well-established icon; the Victorian built pub had passed through umpteen hands over the years before Phil took over as the most recent vendor, and a European style bar with its synthesized music and polyester furniture was but a flash-in-the-pan when compared to what local residents affectionately named "The Vic". An all-over renovation might buy a glistening mirror bar and a sliding ladder able to reach the top shelf product ten feet up (and didn't the lads love that when the female bar staff were given an order for a Midori Sour Spritz), but you couldn't replicate the 80's veneer and beer-stained carpet that went with Phil Bartle's territory. The good times would return, of that there was no doubt, but for now a fledging pound and glitzy competition was making for a slow return to form.