20/03/2026
Our good friends Ben Bowler & Katy Knowles wrote this. Totally sums up the bar
"The Cutty Sark Nights
The Cutty Sark didn’t run like a normal bar. It ran like Mark and Becky—which meant it ran on its own rules.
Monday to Wednesday belonged to Mark. Shorter tempers, earlier kitchen closures, and a general sense that if you ordered food at the wrong moment… you were taking a risk. Thursday to Sunday was Becky’s domain—laughter, full plates, and the kind of warmth that made strangers feel like regulars within minutes. And every single day, without fail, the doors shut at 17:00.
“Closing time,” Mark would bark, clapping his hands once. “Drinks down. Off you f**k.”
Becky, on her days, softened it. “Alright lovely people, last sips please—see you tomorrow!”
Same rule. Very different delivery.
If you walked in on a Monday, you knew what you were getting. Mark behind the bar, Luton Town scarf hanging proudly, and a mood that could swing depending on absolutely anything. “Kitchen open?” someone would ask. Mark would glance up. “Yeah… for now.” And that for now meant everything. Because when he’d had enough—too many questions, too much noise, someone catching him on the wrong side of the day—“That’s it. Kitchen’s shut.” No arguing. No debate. Just Mark.
Then Thursday would roll around and everything changed. Becky behind the bar, music a little brighter, the whole place lighter somehow. “You back again!” she’d say, genuinely buzzing to see you. And people always came back.
By now, you weren’t just customers. You walked in and Mark would look up. “Oh. You lot again.” But he was already reaching for your drinks—that was his version of a welcome.
Ben usually hung back a bit at first—quiet, observant, covered in tattoos that said more than he ever would. But mention Luton Town and that was it. Him and Mark clicked instantly. “Finally, someone who knows what they’re talking about,” Mark would say, which was basically a glowing review. And then there was Katy. A nurse, calm and capable, the kind of person who dealt with real life while the rest of you were on holiday. Mark, of course, had given her a nickname. “Alright, Lucy Letby,” he’d say without hesitation. Becky would shoot him a look every time. “Mark, don’t be awful.” He’d just shrug. “She knows I’m joking.” And Katy would laugh, because if Mark was winding you up, it meant you were in.
The best afternoons were the Luton games. Mark would actually leave the bar—Pepsi or coffee in hand—and sit with you, eyes locked on the screen. “Come on you Hatters…” he’d mutter. Every missed pass: “F**king hell…” Every bad decision: “What the f**k was that?!” Ben right there with him, just as invested. You’d laugh. They wouldn’t. Not properly. Not until Luton scored. Then, just for a second—grins. Quick, rare, real. “About time,” Mark would say, taking a sip.
But nothing beat curry night. Every holiday, no exceptions. One night where the Cutty Sark didn’t matter and it was just the four of you out together. Mark would complain the whole way in—“Too busy… too loud… why’s it always packed?”—then order the same thing, eat every bite, and stay longer than he ever planned. Becky would be laughing, pulling everyone into conversation. Katy relaxed, Ben more at ease than he ever was at the start of the trip. And Mark, between mouthfuls and muttered complaints, joining in. “You remember that bloke… ketchup on everything?” You’d all laugh. Even him.
It stopped being just a bar a long time ago. It was the routine—Mark’s moods, Becky’s warmth, Ben’s quiet loyalty, Katy taking everything in her stride. The early closes, the football, the curry nights. The kind of place that felt the same every year in the best possible way.
And when it was time to leave, it was always the same. “See you next year!” Becky would say, already smiling about it. Mark would nod. “Yeah… don’t be strangers.” Which, for him, said everything.
And as you walked away, you already knew—you’d be back. Same table. Same people. Same Cutty Sark. Exactly how it should be."
