Dr. Dobb's Journal August 2003
"The Cloud...will roll out its [WiFi] services to 1,000 sites (all pubs) by the beginning of July and 3,000 sites by the end of the year."
—John Leyden, The Register
The Fool & Bard stands in the middle of a row of houses, indistinguishable from its neighbors but for a meter-square wooden sign, thrust out at right angles to the façade, displaying the name and logo of this traditional public house. The windows, modestly curtained and frosted, give no hint of what might be going on inside, and since we've never been to this part of England, we can only speculate...
"Evenin', Harry," the host greets the latest arrival, drawing his guest's regular brew before Harry reaches the bar. "How's yer mum?"
"Scrub the chit-chat, Doc, what's this rubbish about your putting in WiFi?"
Doc, the publican, host, and owner of the Fool & Bard, shrugs with near-Gallic insouciance. "Ah, some punter come in floggin' the gear. I thought I'd take a flutter on it."
"Doc, you're a wally. You haven't got a telly in here, you've asked the lads to leave off bringing in their bloody mobile phones, and yet you fall for some dodgy punter's spiel and it's right, cheers, ta, thanks mate, and a hundred quid later, you're the proud owner of a Wi bloody Fi network. Brilliant."
Another of the regulars who has stared at the two of them throughout this exchange now blinks rapidly and asks, "Here now, what're the two of you on about? What's this hi-fi business then?"
A fourth voice joins the chorus, as the slender woman at the near end of the bar explains, "It's WiFi, Beans. Bog standard wireless networking, presumably with a distributed Internet connection. It's smashing that Doc's put it in, really. Any crisps behind the bar, Doc?"
"Right, Libby," Doc answers, setting them up. "Starters to be had, too, if you feel a bit peckish later on."
"Thanks, Doc. And another pint? And something for yourself?"
"Thanks, Libby," Doc says as he draws her pint. "I'll have a half later."
"I'll take another as well," Beans says, "if you'd be so kind, Doc."
Harry puffs up like a blowfish and snatches a crisp in a stroppy manner. "Bollocks. Soon we'll be up to our knickers in bloody computer boffins."
"Steady on," Libby, a bit of a boffin herself, puts a chill in her voice. "No need to get shirty about it."
"But there is, Libby," Harry says, blushing prettily at his own rudeness. "I can see you're chuffed about it, but this is the sort of thing that can knock the social order of this establishment all pear shaped."
"Give over, Harry. That's just your typical Luddite whinging, isn't it? You hear the word 'digital' and you get all gobsmacked and cause a kerfuffle."
"That's as may be," Harry fumes, "but the essence of the pub experience is social interaction."
"Then if you ask me," Beans puts in, "this wye fie thing is working brilliantly."
Libby looks at Beans with new interest. He has never struck her as particularly technical before. "How so, Beans?"
"Well, it's got you two engaging in a bit of social interaction, innit?"
"That's not the bloody point," Harry snaps. "Do you want to see this place chock-a-block with dossers buying fizzy drinks and nattering about their hard drives? A pub isn't just a place to get beer and grub; you can get the beer at an off-license and the grub at a take-away. But you can't get the camaraderie anywhere else. I come here to share something precious with me mates."
"Sod off. You come here to start a row."
After a deep breath, Harry realizes that he is on the verge of exceeding the limits of civil discourse as they are understood at the Fool & Bard. "I think," he says carefully, "that it must be my round."
This goes down well, as do the beers that Doc draws for all the regulars and puts on Harry's tab, this being what Harry means by "my round."
Around 11:00, Doc announces "Time, ladies and gentlemen, please," and there is a general rush to the bar to put in last-call drink orders. Harry, Beans, and Libby continue to debate the merits of WiFi in the pub; nobody pays any attention to the wireless base station on the wall or the computer on the table strategically placed under the dart board; and you and I quietly take our leave of the Fool & Bard—for now.
Michael Swaine
editor-at-large
mike@swaine.com