The news broke here this morning and an outpouring of love has washed over facebook like a tidal wave of appreciation, gratitude and support.
For those not in the know- The Tudor House Hotel aka The Tudor (or more commonly round our way t'Tudor) is a public house in the centre of Wigan.
Sorry, was a public house.
For Mr Miller, Mrs Miller and Russ the younger have closed the doors to my favourite tavern somewhat unceremoniously.
I awoke today to notifications galore to find it would be no more, like discovering I'd lost a limb in my sleep.
In fact a more apt analogy would be finding out that someone I know and love has died.
Some of you may find this a tad glib or overly sentimental.
Well fuck you. You didn't know the Tudor like I did!
This pub, it's patrons and owners, it's insides and outs, it's availability, diversity, history and legends have filled some of the best parts of my 19 years of going there.
It wasn't my local, or what you might call my haunt. It was my pub.
MY pub.
Not in the ownership sense of the word but in the way one talks about a town or team.
Or a love.
It's the one and only place I meant when I said "Lets go to the pub."
When I was just a few months south of proper I first hacked my way through the throng of drinkers to it's tiny bar and got myself a glass of wine.
It's graffiti covered walls, old nunnery cubicles, battered piano and eclectic jukebox reflected it's clientele like a mirror.
"We are you," it seemed to say as it grabbed you by the scruff and whispered in your ear, "So don't be a dick!"
Then it smiled and bear hugged you with the warmth of the horde of customers that filled it to capacity.
This was where I went with my college friends, and where I made new friends. MAN ALIVE did I make new friends. Endlessly. More than through any other life events I've ever had, it has continued to provide me with chums of varying degrees of closeness for so long I wonder where I'll ever find new ones.
Even friends I have brought from far afield have loved the place. I brought my mates from uni there one night when they came to stay over at mine and we had a whale of a time, naturellement.
A year or so later when they returned for another stay their first question was "When are we headed to the Tudor?"
I lovingly referred to the place as a black hole as there was no escaping it's gravitational pull.
Aside from the usual/new/entertaining company that was always to be found there, or the simple fact that my formative drinking/cultural/past-time years were spent there, it housed a vast array of Wigan's live perfomance scenes. There's nary a single person I know that would come under the banner of performer (poets, writers, musicians, DJs) that haven't at some point dipped their performance toes in the welcoming balmy waters of the Tudor.
On an even more personal note, speaking of live acts, it was the very birthplace of PICO.
The spongey sod of mine was first conceived of to perform at a special Christmas gig and was born into being on their stage. He was met well by the forgiving and no-doubt booze filled crowd. Two years later he came back and received similar bouts of applause.
So on he went to perform up and down the country, dragging me with him along the way.
A couple of years back he returned once more to the place which bore him to do PICO's Perplexing Pub P-Quiz for a few months.
To do those gigs in the place I'd grown to be so comfortable in over the years was an absolute delight, but to have been given the opportunity and support by the Millers in the first place was heartwarming and has allowed me to build a level of confidence I had never had before.
I will never be able to thank them enough for this or repay them for what they have given me.
Hopefully this little love letter will go some way towards that.
Over the years it has had several make-overs, expanding it's insides and outs, improving it's lights and sounds and looks ten fold.
But it never stopped being what it stayed true to being- the beating heart of our social life.
It was just where we always went.
As my good friend Jon has repeatedly said today: "It was always 'Back to base'."
It was our hub, our home from home, our safe haven, the first and last port of call. If you were headed to Manchester you met there before you went and headed there after returning on the last train.
I've done the same when going on and then returning from holiday.
I've taken dates and girlfriends there.
I've seen relationships begin, thrive or die within those walls.
I know people who proposed there.
I wouldn't be shocked to hear that nights spent in there resulted in many new family members being made.
I've spent Christmases, New Years and birthdays a-plenty in it's snug. From simple drinks to presents exchanges to full blown parties of every shade, size and fancy dress type.
Days- nay months, have been spent in the deep dark morning hours till well beyond any feasible closing time, whittling away borrowed consciousness from tomorrow's time whilst wringing out the last glorious drops of a great night.
We've all drunk the green drink.
It wasn't so much the building as it was the atmosphere and the attitude of those that ran and populated the Tudor that made it such a great place. In my meagre speck of existence on Earth I've never found somewhere as welcoming and comfortable to spend my time, outside of the places I've lived in.
I'm certain many many hundreds of others can say the same.
And that's what makes me sad.
It's gone now and not with a bang, not with a big good bye or a final blow out.
That's what I think makes it feel like a death.
We didn't get a chance to say goodbye.
I found myself thinking "If only I'd have known it was the final night, I'd have gone for a drink last night..."
I never really told the Tudor that I loved it.
Well I did. I fucking LOVED that place!
You hear me Tudor:
I FUCKING LOVED YOU!
Yes I'll go to other places to drink or meet friends but it'll never be the way it was when we spent our time in your loving bosom.
But I suppose we're all the better for having been there, having lived and loved and lost in a place that gave us so much. Friends and time and booze.
So yeah, there is sadness at the passing of a place widely regarded as so much more than a pub or venue. But the people that were there learned not to be a wanker just cos you're drinking, or that you can be a dick to your mates as long as they're dicks back, that barstaff can be friends too, that love can be shown by being helped into a taxi, that "Come on time to get the fuck out of my pub I hate you all." is one of the best ways to be told "Goodnight."
To the Millers I wish you a fond goodnight, God knows there's fewer landlords that have ever existed that deserve retirement more than Big Russ.
All the best.
The bell has rung.
The jukebox is off.
The Tudor is dead-
Long live The Tudor!
