I'll have a pint, a packet of crisps and an earful of abuse The rude pub landlord is such a staple of British folklore that it can be hard to remember he's not so celebrated abroad. Those used to the ersatz bonhomie of "Have a nice day!" service culture can find a cantankerous publican challenging. I was drinking with friends of diverse nationalities recently when several remarked at the blunt manner of the bar staff. "That's nothing," I told the group. "My father was a publican and he would follow last orders by shouting, 'Bugger off, the lot of you!" " A Swede asked: "But didn't people stop coming?" It's true, the fainthearted peeled away, but plenty became regulars precisely because they relished the theatre of insults. In Britain many drinkers regard the challenge of taming a belligerent landlord as a pleasure second only to drinking his ale. Which helps explain why so many stalwart customers of my parents" old pub, The Fox and Hounds at Toys Hill, reunited in Kent on Sunday to mark the 45 years since my Fawlty-like father first glowered behind the bar, and the 10 since my late mother left. Around 50 Fox regulars, plus a pack of Pellings, gathered at the home of the former editor of the Sevenoaks Chronicle to exchange treasured memories of brusque exchanges. A former headmaster recalled the winter evening when a courting couple came into the pub. The man strode up to the counter and said to my father: "I'd like to make love in front of that fire." My father replied: "Rather you didn't; there are 600 acres of National Trust woodland outside our front door if you want to do that sort of thing." Another local remembered the man who stood drumming his fingers on the bar counter while my father and a racing chum conducted a lengthy analysis of the next day's Derby. The drumming grew louder. My father turned. "I can see you," he barked, "and I will serve you when I have finished my conversation, but if you tap my counter again you can leave this pub now and never return." These new stories garnished the old ones: the time dad advanced on a gang of Hell's Angels with his loaded shotgun, shouting to my mother for more ammunition; the old ladies bawled out for asking for coffee - even though there was a sign outside saying "coffee served" (it never was); the huge spider floating in a tankard that my father insisted wasn't there. Had he been cosy and polite, there would have been no tales to tell, and no reunion. As far as I know, nobody tried to breast-feed an infant in my father's presence. Had they done so, I imagine they would have been shot on the spot. Attitudes have softened since his day, but figures published by Unicef in 2008 show that only 35 per cent of babies in the UK are exclusively breast-fed at one week and a mere 3 per cent at five months. Clearly, the swaths of research proposing that your baby will be healthier for latching on to mummy have little effect. Happily for lactation militants, a new tactic is at hand. Oxford researchers have found that women who breast-feed are slimmer - I repeat, "slimmer" - for the rest of their lives than those who don't. There's also some stuff about the practice reducing heart disease, diabetes and cancer, but let's not worry about that. Tell every new mum she'll have a figure like Kate Moss if she uses her chest as nature intended, and breast-feeding rates will soar. Help is at hand for rural party-throwers who want to dance till dawn without irking their neighbours. I was at a wedding in Northumberland two weeks ago where, on the stroke of midnight, revellers were handed a "silent disco" set of wireless headphones. The playlist was then broadcast straight to the headsets. All you could see was 80 people gurning and grooving in utter silence. It looked like a gang of zombies being attacked by killer bees. You have been warned.