THE BAR DECOR WAREHOUSE CONSPIRACY THEORY

Thirty years ago, in the days when a bar was something you put across your back door at night, the British drank in Pubs. Pubs all served warm, flat beer (Babycham for the ladies), looked like the Rovers Return but tattier, and smelled of Brut, Woodbines, wet dogs and wetter bar towels.

That was before the revolution.

In the late ’80s, a cunning entrepreneur filled a warehouse with woodworm-riddled ploughs, old cider jugs and rusty hoes. He then offloaded them all on impressionable pub landlords who bought into the concept that their takings would rocket if their boozer looked like it’d been refurbed by the Wurzels. In the ’90s he cleaned out Ikea and flogged its wares at a massive mark-up to a new generation of All Bar Slugs. That same twisted genius repeated his trick in the Noughties with knackered brown sofas, mismatched pew chairs, ’70s velour lampshades and taupe emulsion.

Today, Bar Interior Warehouse Magnate has topped up his pension fund riding the Shoreditch Industrial Chic wave – sandblasted walls, enormous extractor-duct pipes, canteen tables and an authentic echoing ambience.

Speeding headlong towards the Teens, it’s clear this conspiracy of bar beautification lunacy isn’t ending any time soon. So what does BIWM have lined up for the new decade?

Look around. The factories are closing, the call centres are taking over – it’s all about the service industry. BIWM will capture the Zeitgeist with the Post-Industrial Bar: essentially a licensed branch of HSBC, you’ll perch on Herman Miller chairs at snap-fit desks surrounded by posters listing interest rates. Expect huge queues at the bar – most tills close at the busiest times. There’s also the danger Halifax Howard the bespectacled teller/barman will leap on the counter and belt out a show tune in an irritatingly perky fashion.

Slipstreaming the ’80s fashion revival, BIWM is stocking up on Lamborghini mirrors and Athena prints of scantily clad women riding black panthers. You’ll lounge on beanbags and polyester sofas emblazoned with migraine-inducing geometric patterns, and order a pint of Hofmeister or a Mateus Rosé to an Ultravox soundtrack (though it’s rather more Viennetta than Vienna).

Coming soon: Latvian Interrogation Cell Chic. As the slammer door clangs behind you, settle onto a bedbug-infested cot as you select from exotic tipples such as bootleg potato vodka martinis, aftershave daiquiris and boot-polish-residue shooters. Ask for the gents and a Stasi-uniformed barman will bark directions to a bucket in the corner. Just don’t ask about the lock-in – you could be here for some time.

The Gym Bar will draw time-conscious health freaks: it’s the Fitness First Freehouse, where all spirits come with a Lucozade Sport mixer. Don’t look for chairs – there are only spinning machines and treadmills. We hope you enjoy MTV: it’s on 24/7, blaring out from the screen covering the entire back wall. Still, it’ll distract you from the overwhelming aroma of Deep Heat and Lynx.

Ice Bars? So last decade. The Scott-Shackleton Saloon is a scale replica of a pioneer-era Antarctic hut. Within the packing-crate walls all furnishings have sealskin covers, the dress code demands fur-lined hoods and frosted beards (particularly for women), while the kitchen knocks up horsemeat biltong and husky carpaccio platters. What not to say when nipping out for a cigarette: “I am just going outside… I may be some time.”

And BIWM’s final gambit? Reykjavík Chic. Well, they were having a clearout…