During her 42 years in the licensed trade, including eight at The Coopers Tavern, Mandy Addis has called last orders more times than she could ever count. But on this final Saturday as Landlady, she’s doing it differently; quietly, with purpose, and in her own inimitable style.
“It’s time,” she says simply, her voice carrying the calm certainty of someone who knows exactly when to bow out. This decision hasn’t come easily, but it has been a long time coming.
The past few years have brought their fair share of challenges, both behind the bar and beyond it. While Mandy is private about the specifics, one thing is crystal clear: time with her family now outweighs the long hours and relentless pace of life at The Coopers.
“I haven’t cried yet,” she grins, raising an eyebrow. “Get a few vodkas in me later, though, and that might change.”
Although the pub doesn’t open until midday, Mandy and her partner Mark have been at it since ten. Mark is in the cellar, pulling beers through and making sure everything’s perfect. The bar serves the full Joules range, a handful of guest ales, and of course, their legendary best-seller: Bass.
“Flat Bass” is served from a stillage behind the bar and is a local icon. Despite being listed as a guest beer by the brewery, it’s been a permanent fixture at The Coopers for as long as anyone can remember. It’s the only pub in town where you can get it served this way, and people come from far and wide just to get a taste. Bass isn’t just a drink here, it’s part of the place’s very soul.
While Mark manages the beer, Mandy’s busy prepping cobs, putting in orders, and taking care of payroll. The place is immaculate, already swept and cleaned after closing last night. Running a pub is a hard gig.
Just before opening, Mandy’s ritual begins: a touch of makeup, her “warpaint,” and she’s ready to face the day.
Upbeat and full of laughs, Mandy’s outwardly as cheerful as ever; you’d never guess the emotions swirling underneath. I make a mental note: never play poker with her.
“People don’t come in here to hear about my problems,” she says, waving off a regular with a smile. “They come to forget theirs. My job’s to make them feel welcome.”
The pub is her stage, I suggest.
“Exactly. If you can’t do this with a smile, you’re in the wrong job.”
“The Gods,” the unique raised seating area next to the bar, and perched high up sit regulars Jason and Cathy and their cheeky French bulldog, Bentley. The two awkward steps have caught more than a few unsuspecting punters off guard after a pint or two. A card and a bouquet of flowers rest on the upturned barrel that serves as their table, the first of many from well-wishers throughout the day. Half a dozen former staff members will stop by to say their goodbyes and there’s been a lot of messages on Facebook. Mandy’s a local legend in her own right.
Today also marks her final football crowd. Burton Albion welcoming Luton Town, and groups of away fans are making a weekend of it. One supporter buys Mandy a drink, half a Green Monkey, her go-to. She doesn’t drink ale, but she knows it better than many that do. Later, he returns with his mates, all amazed at how cheap it is. One even wonders if he’s been undercharged: “Only £12.50? Did you take for the pork pie too?” Welcome to Burton, my friend.
Regulars Keith and Suzanne drop in, they live a few miles away in Barton but make the trek to Burton to drink at The Coopers.
“I’d never been in a pub on my own before,” Suzanne tells me. “But when Keith had heart surgery, he wanted a pint. I was told I could bring one in, so I came here. Mandy looked after me, didn’t even charge me. I’ve been a regular ever since.”
“It’s the little things,” Mandy agrees, a faraway look in her eyes. “It’s about knowing your customers. He’s a big fan of Slumbering Monk,” she adds, referring to popular copper-brown ale from Joules.
The Coopers Tavern is a legendary spot in Burton. If anyone asks for a recommendation in town and only has time for one pint, I always send them here. Recently featured in The Telegraph as a must-visit in Burton, a couple here from Uttoxeter who read this and made the trip today, and it won’t be their last.
Whilst doing a sweep for dirty glasses, someone asks if I’m the new landlord. I laugh and shake my head. Truth be told, I couldn’t do it, the long hours, the never-ending smiling, the patience required, it’s just not for me.
I watch Mandy handle an inappropriate comment from a customer with grace. He asks for a photo of her pouring his Bass, then follows it up with a crude remark. “That’s rude!” she says, her tone firm but unfazed. I step back just in case he ends up wearing the pint. But it’s done. No fuss. No drama. As always, Mandy handles it professionally, like Bass off a duck’s back.
The usual Saturday afternoon lull doesn’t arrive. The rain outside brings in more punters. I slip into the alley beside the pub to listen to the gentle drizzle on the plastic roof while eavesdropping on the smokers’ random conversations. The pork pies sell out. Someone spills a drink in the meeting room. Business as usual? Not quite as tonight, there’s a party for Mandy’s leaving.
To celebrate there’s a band on. The Hat Tricks squeeze into a corner and belt out classic rock ‘n’ roll tunes. Mandy’s family has gathered and her long-time friend Tania is here, her daughter Honor is serving tonight alongside Ken and Karl. It’s a night for celebration, but the undercurrent of sadness is palpable. Mandy’s leaving, but no one will forget her.
Later, Mandy and Mark finally sit down to eat in the flat upstairs. They’ve ordered a takeaway curry from Apne next door. “I’ll miss this,” she says, referring not to her chicken tikka masala but her life downstairs. “I love meeting people. It’s a great craic. Without sounding big-headed, I was born to do this. It’s not a career, it’s a calling. I was never going to get rich here.”
You could argue that Mandy has been richer than most could ever dream. She’s respected, loved, and will be forever remembered by a community she helped shape long after she calls time on her last day.
