The first time I went out drinking we ended up in the upstairs room of a pub in Jesmond, Newcastle. The room was huge, the full length and width of the building, it had padded benches around the walls and dozens of small round tables with chairs. You pressed a button on the wall and a waiter would come with a towel over his arm, take your order and then come back with a round tray loaded with glasses of McEwan’s Best Scotch, very dark and with a cream-coloured head. It was a place for serious drinking and had the kind of territorial atmosphere where you didn’t dare look at anybody else’s pint, let alone their face. You kept quiet, kept your eyes doon and minded your own business.
At about the same time on a trip up the coast towards Holy Island we went into a pub and my Mum asked for a half of lager. The barman replied: “Sorry Pet, nay lager – wa divven’t get many ladies in here!”