In 1946, George Orwell wrote an essay entitled The Moon Under Water. In it, he outlines his 10 criteria for the perfect town pub for a London readership still in the grip of rationing and economic depression. 

As an erstwhile teacher, he would doubtless have understood the toll taken on educators everywhere by the prolonged lack of exposure to beer-taps and gin-balloons we have experienced in recent times. 

So, in the spirit of Orwell, let’s ask: what makes the perfect teacher pub?

I invite you to visit The Blazer Arms. It is less than 10 minutes’ walk from the school gates to its entrance on a riverfront terrace, a brick-faced Georgian edifice with a smattering of picnic tables stretching down to the water in front of its bay windows. 

The origins of its name are somewhat opaque - depending on who you believe, the landlord’s great-grandfather either married into a family of teachers or had an amorous affair with a local Divinity mistress - but its proximity to a range of schools and apparent invisibility to students have made it the teachers’ local of choice for as long as anyone can remember.

What makes the perfect teacher pub? 

Upon entering the narrow front door, one is immediately struck by the pub’s age. The proprietors have treated modern interior décor as a pernicious conspiracy since before years began with a 2, so the tables, chairs and carpets are all robust, unobtrusive and reassuringly worn. 

The walls are decorated with framed clippings, photographs and ties from local schools, dating back at least a century, leading more grizzled (or sozzled) staff to bewail the decline in standards in the intervening years. 

The front saloon extends on either side of the groaning central bar, meaning it is almost always possible to find a table just large enough for everyone to squeeze round (although the seats by the two fires are particularly prized in winter). Here, teachers pull apart the triumphs and disasters of the profession over a steady stream of very reasonably priced pints from the local brewery, always served in handled pint glasses, as well as a few craft options selected by the landlord’s son and a wine list that has developed considerably in the past few years. 

For those not satisfied by the scotch eggs and vegan sausage rolls on the bar, the food menu makes no secret of the fact that the best pub food is just school dinners for grown-ups: there is always a choice of fresh sandwiches (with fries included, not extra), a couple of pies, a warming soup, and fish and chips on Fridays. Condiments are served in bottles, never in sachets.

It’s in the back bar that the quieter, more reflective crowd settles. A motley collection of low-slung sofas and reassuringly squashy armchairs abut tables, stools and the antique coal-scuttle for the modest fire. Some more solitary teachers occasionally stop here on weeknights, especially during the colder months, to sift through stacks of student work. 

The room’s amenities make this a pleasure, not a chore: the pewter tankard on the mantelpiece has a rotating cast of pink, purple and red pens, and neatly filed mark schemes sit at one end of the oak bookcase in the corner of the room. 

This bookcase has become a local legend. It is traditional for gap-year students working at the pub to leave annotated copies of their set texts and textbooks there as a testament to their teachers and, over the years, it has filled up with all manner of texts long since jettisoned by the syllabus.

A well-trodden playlist of 1980s power ballads

Speaking of which, a word about the pub staff. Just as in a school, relationships are at the heart of a pub’s atmosphere, and bar staff react to the embellished and overblown anecdotes of student antics with amused disinterest. From behind the bar, they develop a bird’s-eye view of the internecine politics of the staffroom, and are careful to alert loose-lipped drinkers when they are at risk of saying something that could get them in hot water with the senior leadership team. 

Beyond the honey-coloured stone of the back bar, the doors open up to a wisteria-clad garden stretching back into the shade of willows and birches. It acts as a sun-trap in the summer, and the landlord can often be found behind the expansive barbecue on Friday evenings. Naturally, the smokers’ snug off to one side of the garden has a hand-painted label dubbing it “the bike shed”. 

The garden is also the preferred haunt of the toddlers and younger children that parents sometimes have in tow, largely because of the slide and swings on the far side of the garden but also because of the occasional visiting duck that waddles its way up the side passage from the riverbank. 

Children who behave politely on the swings are apt to be given a discreet pint of lemonade and lime. Conversely, adults who behave politely with their pints are apt to be given a discreet go on the swings.

In one of the pub’s few concessions to modernity, the old coach-house at the far end of the garden has recently been converted to a sort of function room, with shuffleboard on one side and a skittle alley on the other. By the end of particularly raucous Fridays, though, both of these joys have been eschewed by an enthusiastic crowd of trainees and NQTs demanding music and dancing. 

It is at this point that the head of geography, feigning reluctance, sets himself up at the sound system to run through his well-trodden playlist of 1980s power ballads, before handing over to the taciturn science technician for his EDM megamix. 

The frivolities often continue well past closing time and the last train into town, but when they do, a steady stream of cabs is on hand to roll the revellers home.

As discerning readers will have realised by now, The Blazer Arms is much too perfect to exist anywhere except in one’s imagination. If, however, you know of a pub that boasts a particularly perfect set-up for teachers, I would be delighted to hear of it.

Will Yates is deputy raising standards leader (sixth form) at Barnhill Community High School, in West London