The vibe in all was, and is, peculiarly similar, with the manager cum barman cum security operative often wearing a short sleeve shirt with a clip-on tie (now, as then, a big fashion no-no) as they eye you accusingly as you made your way through the wooden entrance doors which could do with a lick of WD40. Like sniffer dogs, they could tell in an instant if you were a member, past or present, even if your membership had lapsed 35 years ago, as you order a pint before raving to your assembled guests, all sitting around a rickety, stained wood, round table with a leg on the way out, as to how the round only cost £4.16 for four pints! For the first time in humankind, the participants are actively arguing over whose round it is next before realising that the cheap beer alone will not be enough for them to become regulars as the atmosphere in such dens is often lacking.
The pool table which still takes twenty pence pieces is a boon! Before you realise that the cues were last maintained when Ray Reardon was at his peak and the tips haven’t seen chalk since WW2. Your feet stick to the floor as you make your way across the bar area to the toilets which still have a picture of Linda Lusardi adorning the wall before noticing the tap has rusted solid and there is a distinct absence of hand gel. On your way back to the round table, now having been ‘fixed’ with a couple of makeshift beermats under the wobbly leg, you hit your head on a shrimp net (if it’s a fisherman’s club) or.
