The man who once declared that a pub should be a sanctuary from the modern world has died, leaving behind a legacy of beer mats, no-swearing policies and a rule that saw mobile phones confiscated at the door. John Mills, the former boss of a Midlands brewery, passed away at 81, marking the end of a certain breed of British publican. His pubs were not merely places to drink. They were refuges from the digital age, where a 'no phones' policy was enforced with the same rigour as a licensing law.
Mills, who ran the Oakham-based breweries and a chain of pubs, believed that the clatter of a phone or a dropped f-bomb shattered the communal spell. His establishments became known for their strict codes: no swearing, no phones, and a dress code that would have made a bank manager feel overdressed. Critics called it paternalistic, even oppressive. But regulars spoke of a rare social contract. In an era of open-plan offices and endless notifications, his pubs offered a space where conversation was the only currency.
His death has sparked a quiet mourning among those who remember a time when a pub was a second living room. Local historians note that Mills was part of a post-war generation of landlords who saw themselves as custodians of a 'third place' — a term sociologists use for spaces that are not home or work. Today, that third place is often a chain gastropub with Wi-Fi and a children's menu. Mills's approach feels like a museum piece, but a cherished one.
The social psychologist in me sees this as a stark reflection of how we have drifted. The ban on phones, for instance, was not just about etiquette. It was a statement about attention. Mills understood that a group of people staring at screens is not a community. It is a collection of individuals sharing a table. His pubs demanded engagement. You had to talk to the person next to you, even if it was just to ask for the salt.
And the swearing ban. That was more controversial. Some saw it as classist, a way to police the behaviour of working-class drinkers. Yet Mills argued it was about creating a space where women and older patrons felt comfortable. Whether you agree with his methods or not, he was addressing a real problem: the decline of pub-going among demographics that did not want to put up with rowdiness. In that sense, he was ahead of his time. Today, many pubs try to attract families and older customers with food and calm atmospheres. Mills just did it with rules.
The cultural shift here is enormous. Pubs are closing at a rate of 11 a week in Britain. Those that survive often resemble restaurants with a bar attached. The traditional boozer, with its worn carpets and unapologetically plain beer, is dying. Mills's pubs were a bulwark against that tide. They were not fancy. They served simple ales and crisps. But they were alive with conversation. 'The Bell' in Leicester, one of his flagships, was known for its Sunday lunch debates that lasted until the evening. No phones. No swearing. Just people.
His death feels like a full stop on a particular chapter of British social history. We will not see his like again, not because there are no authoritarian landlords, but because the conditions that made his approach work have evaporated. We are too addicted to our screens. Too prone to casual profanity. Too fragmented. Mills's pubs offered a kind of social discipline that now seems quaint, even absurd. But ask yourself: when was the last time you spent an entire evening in a pub without checking your phone? The answer might make you pour one out for John Mills.
