09/02/2026
The year is 1995.
You’re a pub kid.
You’ve been taken along so Dad doesn’t miss out.
Simple as that.
You’re not drinking, obviously.
You’re on tomato juice.
Orange juice.
Or one of those tiny glass bottles of Coke that feels special because it’s glass.
You’re allowed to play pool.
But only with the white ball.
Which is fine, because you weren’t aiming anyway.
You make pyramids out of beer mats.
Little structures.
Bridges.
Things that definitely won’t survive last orders.
There are snacks.
Scampi fries.
Golden Wonder crisps.
Dry roasted nuts that feel far too adult for you but you eat them anyway.
You potter.
You wander.
You feel useful.
You start taking empty glasses back to the bar.
Not because anyone asked you to, but because you can.
The place smells like stale beer, smoke, farts, and Brut aftershave.
Big green ashtrays everywhere.
All of them full.
The only screen in the pub is the fruit machine.
You stand there memorising the lights.
The order.
The patterns.
Like it’s sacred information.
The dads are loud.
Big belly laughs.
Friendly shouting.
You’re hearing stories and opinions that eight year olds definitely shouldn’t be hearing.
You don’t understand half of it.
But you understand the tone.
No one’s asking,
“Whose kid is this?”
Everyone knows.
Everyone’s watching you.
You’re slipped a quid here.
50p there.
An old boy shows you a magic trick,
but you’re distracted by how long his cigarette ash is getting before it drops.
It’s getting late.
You curl up in a booth under Dad’s coat.
Just for a bit.
And that’s respected.
People lower their voices when they walk past.
They still shout like Welsh opera singers from the other side of the room, but near you, they’re careful.
No judgement.
No questions.
Just warmth.
Belonging.
And the feeling that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Life is good.
