Auld Vinny’s birthday party was really just an excuse for Maz to reduce the draughts to 90p a pint and get the punters in the door. Over the previous two months, the pub had been partially revamped by the brewery to resemble an olde worlde inn. The idea was to target families who would come for a quiet Sunday shandy and a scampi basket meal. The pool table, pinball and fruit machines had been removed and replaced with a no-smoking section, sepia photographs, and low lighting. Maz had tried to tell the powers-that-be that no amount of interior design and classical music could possibly change the make-up of the Scrap Inn. Mr and Mrs White-collar, their two-point-four children and golden retriever would not dream of parking their Audi family saloon within hiking distance of the pub for fear of returning to find out the parts had been auctioned by the local kids, piece by piece, to the scrap metal yard across the street. Maz had been offended that her regulars were not considered worthy enough to drink the brewery’s beer, paid for with their hard-earned cash or social.
