In the very early 80s, whenever my parents were fed up of me (which was often, I hear), I got given to my grandad to be entertained. Salt of the earth, my grandad. A forklift driver in a wallpaper factory. Apparently never had an accident, despite rarely being sober enough to walk the streets legally. Anyway, during these occasions I was usually taken somewhere that was explained to my four-year-old self as "Grandad's special pub".
When I was older, I worked out the official name for this place was Galgate Working Men's Club. All I knew at the time was it had a snooker table (which I was never allowed near), a cellar underneath which the floor was audibly hollow (which I was never allowed near), and a noisy and colourful fruit machine (which for some reason I was allowed near). Of course, I was only allowed five 10ps to play with, and as my capacity for fizzy pop and scampi fries was limited, I reckon any surplus winnings went to Grandad's next pint.
When I got a little bit older, I was no longer invited to Grandad's Special Pub. Perhaps I was more tolerable to be around for my parents, or perhaps they didn't want me "corrupted" by the alleged malign influences there. I usually heard my Nan ranting about someone called Maurice Ryecroft who apparently led Grandad astray (though, to be honest, I think he needed precious little leading) and, worse, had a dog that worried the local sheep. After that, I was only taken to the more salubrious environs of the Green Dragon, the local Yates & Jackson pub. Though always outside with my pop and crisps. This was the 1980s after all.
My Grandad is long gone. As is his Special Pub. And presumably Maurice Ryecroft and his dog also. There are, I hear, working men's clubs still going, but as their milieu is in terminal decline it won't be long before they're gone too.
Perhaps the "working man" in the old sense of the word no longer exists.
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