Pull Up a Stool: On Creating Joe Merrick, the Pub Professor
đź“š Pull Up a Stool: On Creating Joe Merrick, the Pub Professor
George A. Evans | Sunday Reflections
If you'd told me a few years ago that one of my most beloved characters would be a pint-sipping physicist with a heart full of ghosts and a knack for explaining butterfly effects through cricket matches and FA Cup draws, I might've laughed into my bitter. But Joe—the heart of The Pub Professor series—arrived like a whisper through the fog. Quiet at first. Curious. A man out of place, and maybe out of time.
And just like that, he pulled up a stool in my imagination and never left.
🍺 The Man with One Foot in Two Worlds
At first glance, Joe's the kind of bloke you might overlook in a crowded pub. Worn jumper, thoughtful eyes, the sort who listens more than he speaks. But underneath that modest exterior lives a mind shaped by science and scarred by loss, a man constantly pulled between the past and the future—between what he knows and what he feels. That duality was always at the core of who I wanted Joe to be.
He's a physicist who explains quantum superposition not through chalkboard scribbles, but by using beer mats and pint glasses at The Sunny's well-worn tables. He's an academic who finds more truth in Phil's betting odds than in peer-reviewed journals. He balances his conversations with Linda at the "Thinker's Booth" with his discussions with Sara about theoretical physics at The Blue Boar. In many ways, Joe embodies the tension we all feel—between ambition and belonging, between logic and love.
Joe exists in a perpetual state of quantum superposition himself—both the man from 2024 with memories of a family he lost and the man building a new life in 1990 Nuneaton. This duality isn't just central to his character; it's the emotional engine that drives the entire series.
🍻 Why a Pub? Why 1990? Why Joe?
The setting of The Sunny came before Joe did, if I'm being honest. I've always been fascinated by the peculiar magic of pubs—how they collapse social boundaries, how stories spill out as freely as the beer. A pub is where strangers become mates, where wisdom hides in sarcasm, and where, if you're listening closely, you'll catch a glimpse of the universe between the clink of pint glasses.
The Sunny isn't just four walls and a bar—it's a living, breathing ecosystem. Big Tony with his arms "as thick as tree trunks," keeping order without ever raising his voice. Linda with her efficient movements behind the bar, her green eyes missing nothing. Mick and Gaz playing their eternal game of pool (which Gaz will inevitably lose). Gary "Gunner" Collins silently keeping watch, his hands occasionally shaking from Falklands memories. Phil creating increasingly elaborate betting schemes. These characters weren't just background color—they became the heart of what The Sunny represents: a microcosm of humanity with all its flaws, beauty, and unexpected moments of grace.
Setting it in 1990 wasn't just nostalgia (though believe me, there's a soft spot in my heart for The Stone Roses and FA Cup replays). That pre-digital world created space—literal and emotional—for slower conversations, handwritten notes, and the kind of deep, distracted thinking that Joe excels at. No distractions, no Google. Just one man trying to reconcile superconductivity with the human heart, surrounded by locals who mostly want to know what Gaz knocked over this time.
The jukebox playing "The Tide Is High" by Blondie while rain beats against the windows. The FA Cup Final between Manchester United and Crystal Palace ending in that stunning 3-3 draw. The local Morris dancers performing for May Day festivities. These specific cultural touchpoints weren't just period dressing—they became instruments for Joe to explain wave-particle duality, fractals, and chaos theory.
Joe arrived once I realized the story needed a bridge. Someone who could explain viral self-assembly patterns to Gaz using nothing but beer mats and peanuts. Someone clever enough to help a community fight against Malcolm Hargreaves' development plans, but lost enough to still wonder where he truly belongs. I've known people like Joe—mentors, friends, a few ghosts of myself if I'm being honest. He's not based on any one person, but he's stitched together from real conversations, quiet thinkers, and the kind of folks who only ever say what really matters when the pub's nearly empty.
That's the magic of pubs in the 1990s that I wanted to capture—they were universities of life where miners sat beside magistrates, where factory workers shared tables with office managers, where a pensioner might school you on local history between sips of bitter, where the classroom was a scratched wooden table sticky with decades of spilled stories. In those days before smartphones and social media, the pub was where knowledge transferred across seemingly impermeable social boundaries. Everyone had a life story worth telling, worth hearing—and Joe's just happened to include time travel.
What makes Joe special isn't just his scientific mind or his temporal displacement—it's that he recognizes the profound wisdom existing in places academics might overlook. He sees the elegance in Phil's betting system, the poetry in Big Tony's gruff pronouncements, the philosophy in Gunner's silences. He understands that sometimes the most profound truths are shared not in lecture halls, but in the comfortable pauses between rounds, when the jukebox has just clicked to the next track, and the evening stretches out with all its possibilities.
⏳ On Being "Out of Time"
Now, if you've read the series—or even just the prologue—you know there's more to Joe than meets the eye. He didn't just come to Nuneaton from another place. He came from another time entirely.
That displacement was never meant to make The Pub Professor a sci-fi tale. It was always a metaphor first: what happens when we find ourselves in places we don't quite fit? What do we see differently when we have knowledge others don't share? Joe isn't just out of step with Gaz, Phil, and Linda—he's out of step with time itself. And that disconnect lets us explore the weird, wonderful intersection where protein folding and human connection blur, where old flames meet new possibilities, and where every cricket match might be part of a timeline branching in two directions.
Joe's journal entries became the most intimate window into his experience—the only place where he could fully express his temporal displacement. Writing those entries, with their mix of scientific analysis and raw emotional honesty, often felt like the most authentic expression of who Joe truly is: a man of science grappling with the deeply unscientific experience of having his heart torn between two timelines.
The "glitch" that brought him back was deliberately unexplained. Was it quantum entanglement? A butterfly effect of his own making? Divine intervention? I wanted that mystery to remain, because ultimately, the how of Joe's displacement matters less than the why—the meaning he finds in his unexpected second chance at life.
❤️ The Love Triangle That Wasn't
When creating the relationships between Joe, Linda, and Sara, I wanted to avoid the typical love triangle tropes. This wasn't about two women fighting over one man—it was about two possible futures, two valid paths.
Linda represents roots, community, and belonging. Her practicality and warmth, her efficient movements behind the bar, her profound understanding of The Sunny's ecosystem all speak to a deep connection with place. When she kisses Joe after the football match in March, or when she tells him to "make sure you know what you're giving up," she's not just expressing romantic interest—she's offering him a home.
Sara, with her Cambridge-educated brilliance and ambition, represents intellectual connection and forward momentum. Her suggestion that Joe apply for positions in Manchester isn't selfishness—it's a genuine belief in his potential. When she works alongside him at NeuroDynamics or discusses superconductivity in his flat, she's offering him a future where his mind can truly soar.
Some readers have asked if Joe's near-death experience after Mick's attack was the turning point in his decision-making. Perhaps. That moment between life and death—that feeling of his heart literally stopping—forced Joe to confront what truly matters. But I think the seeds were planted much earlier, in quiet moments at The Sunny, in whispered conversations with The Vic, in the balance between The Sunny's worn comfort and Manchester's gleaming promise.
🧠Joe's Compass
At the core of Joe's journey is this question: Can knowledge alone guide us home?
He's brilliant, sure—but emotionally? A bit of a mess. His relationship with Linda simmers with all the tension of roads not taken. His bond with Sara reflects what he thought he wanted—someone who speaks his language—but creates its own complications. And then there's the community of The Sunny itself, pulling him back down to earth one betting scheme, one forklift certification, one FA Cup Final at a time.
What grounds Joe isn't science. It's connection. It's the realization that explaining how superconductors work doesn't mean much if you can't explain your own heart.
Joe's scientific explanations—from Rayleigh scattering to quantum entanglement to the Fibonacci sequence—were never just showing off. They were his way of making sense of a world that had become fundamentally nonsensical to him. When he explains bioluminescence to Gaz, he's really talking about finding light in darkness. When he discusses seismic waves with Phil, he's processing the pressure building in his own life.
Science became Joe's language for processing emotion—and paradoxically, his gateway to connecting with others who don't share his scientific background.
đź‘Ą The Supporting Cast: More Than Background Noise
While Joe remains the focal point, The Pub Professor series would be nothing without its supporting cast. Each character brings their own gravity to the story's orbit.
The Vic, with his quiet observations and surprising knowledge, became a sort of spiritual guide—not just for Joe, but for me as a writer. His small telescope and philosophical nature made him the perfect character to hint at deeper mysteries, to suggest that Joe's displacement might not be entirely unique.
Gunner's journey through PTSD after the Falklands War provided a different kind of displacement—a man physically present but mentally often elsewhere. His growing relationship with Trixie, his struggle to reconnect with his son Simon, all mirror aspects of Joe's own journey back to wholeness.
Mick's protective rage toward Joe after Linda's heartbreak wasn't just a plot device—it was a exploration of how love can express itself through violence as well as tenderness. The moment his fist connects with Joe's face in February set off a cascade of consequences that forced everyone in that community to reevaluate what they truly valued.
Dr. Westfield emerged as a more complex figure than I initially intended. Her interest in Joe's "anomalous knowledge patterns" and her hints about "other cases like yours" opened doors to storylines I hadn't originally planned—including the revelations about Reed's 72-hour displacement.
🔄 Final Call: Why Joe Still Matters
People often ask me if Joe is ever fully comfortable at The Sunny. The truth? I don't think he's meant to be. Joe is a character in motion, always one foot in Nuneaton and the other somewhere—or somewhen—else. But that's what makes him relatable. Because aren't we all a bit like that? Wondering if we've done enough, learned enough, loved enough?
He's a man searching for answers in a place that might be his home. And sometimes, those answers look like biogeography applied to community development. Sometimes, they look like cybernetic feedback loops explaining old friendships. And sometimes, they look like a perfect pint pulled by Linda while The Vic watches from his corner with that knowing smile.
Joe's temporal displacement might seem fantastical, but it reflects a universal experience—the feeling that we exist between worlds, between versions of ourselves. The constant negotiation between who we were, who we are, and who we might become.
In his journal, Joe writes: "I am both the man who left 2024 and the man who lives in 1990. The butterfly's wings have created two valid realities." Perhaps that's true for all of us—existing simultaneously across multiple possible versions of ourselves, our choices creating ripples we can never fully comprehend.
So next time you're at a pub, and someone starts explaining how information transfers across seemingly impermeable boundaries, listen a bit closer. You might just hear Joe, raising his glass, reminding you that the smallest things—the tiniest choices, the most unexpected connections—can have the biggest impact.
After all, that's what the butterfly effect is all about.
It all begins with a single flutter of wings.
Join the conversation about The Pub Professor series in the comments below or follow George on Goodreads for more Sunday reflections.
George A. Evans | Sunday Reflections
"I am both the man who left 2024 and the man who lives in 1990. The butterfly's wings have created two valid realities." — Joe Merrick
If you'd told me a few years ago that one of my most beloved characters would be a pint-sipping physicist with a heart full of ghosts and a knack for explaining butterfly effects through cricket matches and FA Cup draws, I might've laughed into my bitter. But Joe—the heart of The Pub Professor series—arrived like a whisper through the fog. Quiet at first. Curious. A man out of place, and maybe out of time.
And just like that, he pulled up a stool in my imagination and never left.
🍺 The Man with One Foot in Two Worlds
At first glance, Joe's the kind of bloke you might overlook in a crowded pub. Worn jumper, thoughtful eyes, the sort who listens more than he speaks. But underneath that modest exterior lives a mind shaped by science and scarred by loss, a man constantly pulled between the past and the future—between what he knows and what he feels. That duality was always at the core of who I wanted Joe to be.
He's a physicist who explains quantum superposition not through chalkboard scribbles, but by using beer mats and pint glasses at The Sunny's well-worn tables. He's an academic who finds more truth in Phil's betting odds than in peer-reviewed journals. He balances his conversations with Linda at the "Thinker's Booth" with his discussions with Sara about theoretical physics at The Blue Boar. In many ways, Joe embodies the tension we all feel—between ambition and belonging, between logic and love.
Joe exists in a perpetual state of quantum superposition himself—both the man from 2024 with memories of a family he lost and the man building a new life in 1990 Nuneaton. This duality isn't just central to his character; it's the emotional engine that drives the entire series.
🍻 Why a Pub? Why 1990? Why Joe?
The setting of The Sunny came before Joe did, if I'm being honest. I've always been fascinated by the peculiar magic of pubs—how they collapse social boundaries, how stories spill out as freely as the beer. A pub is where strangers become mates, where wisdom hides in sarcasm, and where, if you're listening closely, you'll catch a glimpse of the universe between the clink of pint glasses.
The Sunny isn't just four walls and a bar—it's a living, breathing ecosystem. Big Tony with his arms "as thick as tree trunks," keeping order without ever raising his voice. Linda with her efficient movements behind the bar, her green eyes missing nothing. Mick and Gaz playing their eternal game of pool (which Gaz will inevitably lose). Gary "Gunner" Collins silently keeping watch, his hands occasionally shaking from Falklands memories. Phil creating increasingly elaborate betting schemes. These characters weren't just background color—they became the heart of what The Sunny represents: a microcosm of humanity with all its flaws, beauty, and unexpected moments of grace.
That's the magic of pubs in the 1990s that I wanted to capture—they were universities of life where miners sat beside magistrates.
Setting it in 1990 wasn't just nostalgia (though believe me, there's a soft spot in my heart for The Stone Roses and FA Cup replays). That pre-digital world created space—literal and emotional—for slower conversations, handwritten notes, and the kind of deep, distracted thinking that Joe excels at. No distractions, no Google. Just one man trying to reconcile superconductivity with the human heart, surrounded by locals who mostly want to know what Gaz knocked over this time.
The jukebox playing "The Tide Is High" by Blondie while rain beats against the windows. The FA Cup Final between Manchester United and Crystal Palace ending in that stunning 3-3 draw. The local Morris dancers performing for May Day festivities. These specific cultural touchpoints weren't just period dressing—they became instruments for Joe to explain wave-particle duality, fractals, and chaos theory.
Joe arrived once I realized the story needed a bridge. Someone who could explain viral self-assembly patterns to Gaz using nothing but beer mats and peanuts. Someone clever enough to help a community fight against Malcolm Hargreaves' development plans, but lost enough to still wonder where he truly belongs. I've known people like Joe—mentors, friends, a few ghosts of myself if I'm being honest. He's not based on any one person, but he's stitched together from real conversations, quiet thinkers, and the kind of folks who only ever say what really matters when the pub's nearly empty.
That's the magic of pubs in the 1990s that I wanted to capture—they were universities of life where miners sat beside magistrates, where factory workers shared tables with office managers, where a pensioner might school you on local history between sips of bitter, where the classroom was a scratched wooden table sticky with decades of spilled stories. In those days before smartphones and social media, the pub was where knowledge transferred across seemingly impermeable social boundaries. Everyone had a life story worth telling, worth hearing—and Joe's just happened to include time travel.
What makes Joe special isn't just his scientific mind or his temporal displacement—it's that he recognizes the profound wisdom existing in places academics might overlook. He sees the elegance in Phil's betting system, the poetry in Big Tony's gruff pronouncements, the philosophy in Gunner's silences. He understands that sometimes the most profound truths are shared not in lecture halls, but in the comfortable pauses between rounds, when the jukebox has just clicked to the next track, and the evening stretches out with all its possibilities.
⏳ On Being "Out of Time"
Now, if you've read the series—or even just the prologue—you know there's more to Joe than meets the eye. He didn't just come to Nuneaton from another place. He came from another time entirely.
That displacement was never meant to make The Pub Professor a sci-fi tale. It was always a metaphor first: what happens when we find ourselves in places we don't quite fit? What do we see differently when we have knowledge others don't share? Joe isn't just out of step with Gaz, Phil, and Linda—he's out of step with time itself. And that disconnect lets us explore the weird, wonderful intersection where protein folding and human connection blur, where old flames meet new possibilities, and where every cricket match might be part of a timeline branching in two directions.
Joe's journal entries became the most intimate window into his experience—the only place where he could fully express his temporal displacement. Writing those entries, with their mix of scientific analysis and raw emotional honesty, often felt like the most authentic expression of who Joe truly is: a man of science grappling with the deeply unscientific experience of having his heart torn between two timelines.
The "glitch" that brought him back was deliberately unexplained. Was it quantum entanglement? A butterfly effect of his own making? Divine intervention? I wanted that mystery to remain, because ultimately, the how of Joe's displacement matters less than the why—the meaning he finds in his unexpected second chance at life.
❤️ The Love Triangle That Wasn't
When creating the relationships between Joe, Linda, and Sara, I wanted to avoid the typical love triangle tropes. This wasn't about two women fighting over one man—it was about two possible futures, two valid paths.
Linda represents roots, community, and belonging. Her practicality and warmth, her efficient movements behind the bar, her profound understanding of The Sunny's ecosystem all speak to a deep connection with place. When she kisses Joe after the football match in March, or when she tells him to "make sure you know what you're giving up," she's not just expressing romantic interest—she's offering him a home.
Sara, with her Cambridge-educated brilliance and ambition, represents intellectual connection and forward momentum. Her suggestion that Joe apply for positions in Manchester isn't selfishness—it's a genuine belief in his potential. When she works alongside him at NeuroDynamics or discusses superconductivity in his flat, she's offering him a future where his mind can truly soar.
The beauty of Joe's dilemma is that there's no wrong answer. Both women represent authentic, valuable aspects of who he is.
Some readers have asked if Joe's near-death experience after Mick's attack was the turning point in his decision-making. Perhaps. That moment between life and death—that feeling of his heart literally stopping—forced Joe to confront what truly matters. But I think the seeds were planted much earlier, in quiet moments at The Sunny, in whispered conversations with The Vic, in the balance between The Sunny's worn comfort and Manchester's gleaming promise.
🧠Joe's Compass
At the core of Joe's journey is this question: Can knowledge alone guide us home?
He's brilliant, sure—but emotionally? A bit of a mess. His relationship with Linda simmers with all the tension of roads not taken. His bond with Sara reflects what he thought he wanted—someone who speaks his language—but creates its own complications. And then there's the community of The Sunny itself, pulling him back down to earth one betting scheme, one forklift certification, one FA Cup Final at a time.
What grounds Joe isn't science. It's connection. It's the realization that explaining how superconductors work doesn't mean much if you can't explain your own heart.
Joe's scientific explanations—from Rayleigh scattering to quantum entanglement to the Fibonacci sequence—were never just showing off. They were his way of making sense of a world that had become fundamentally nonsensical to him. When he explains bioluminescence to Gaz, he's really talking about finding light in darkness. When he discusses seismic waves with Phil, he's processing the pressure building in his own life.
Science became Joe's language for processing emotion—and paradoxically, his gateway to connecting with others who don't share his scientific background.
đź‘Ą The Supporting Cast: More Than Background Noise
While Joe remains the focal point, The Pub Professor series would be nothing without its supporting cast. Each character brings their own gravity to the story's orbit.
The Vic, with his quiet observations and surprising knowledge, became a sort of spiritual guide—not just for Joe, but for me as a writer. His small telescope and philosophical nature made him the perfect character to hint at deeper mysteries, to suggest that Joe's displacement might not be entirely unique.
Gunner's journey through PTSD after the Falklands War provided a different kind of displacement—a man physically present but mentally often elsewhere. His growing relationship with Trixie, his struggle to reconnect with his son Simon, all mirror aspects of Joe's own journey back to wholeness.
Mick's protective rage toward Joe after Linda's heartbreak wasn't just a plot device—it was a exploration of how love can express itself through violence as well as tenderness. The moment his fist connects with Joe's face in February set off a cascade of consequences that forced everyone in that community to reevaluate what they truly valued.
Dr. Westfield emerged as a more complex figure than I initially intended. Her interest in Joe's "anomalous knowledge patterns" and her hints about "other cases like yours" opened doors to storylines I hadn't originally planned—including the revelations about Reed's 72-hour displacement.
🔄 Final Call: Why Joe Still Matters
People often ask me if Joe is ever fully comfortable at The Sunny. The truth? I don't think he's meant to be. Joe is a character in motion, always one foot in Nuneaton and the other somewhere—or somewhen—else. But that's what makes him relatable. Because aren't we all a bit like that? Wondering if we've done enough, learned enough, loved enough?
He's a man searching for answers in a place that might be his home. And sometimes, those answers look like biogeography applied to community development. Sometimes, they look like cybernetic feedback loops explaining old friendships. And sometimes, they look like a perfect pint pulled by Linda while The Vic watches from his corner with that knowing smile.
Joe's temporal displacement might seem fantastical, but it reflects a universal experience—the feeling that we exist between worlds, between versions of ourselves. The constant negotiation between who we were, who we are, and who we might become.
In his journal, Joe writes: "I am both the man who left 2024 and the man who lives in 1990. The butterfly's wings have created two valid realities." Perhaps that's true for all of us—existing simultaneously across multiple possible versions of ourselves, our choices creating ripples we can never fully comprehend.
So next time you're at a pub, and someone starts explaining how information transfers across seemingly impermeable boundaries, listen a bit closer. You might just hear Joe, raising his glass, reminding you that the smallest things—the tiniest choices, the most unexpected connections—can have the biggest impact.
After all, that's what the butterfly effect is all about.
It all begins with a single flutter of wings.
Join the conversation about The Pub Professor series in the comments below or follow George on Goodreads for more Sunday reflections.
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