09/02/2026
The year’s 1995.
You’re a pub kid from the estate.
You’ve been dragged along so Dad can have “just the couple”
(which is never just a couple).
Mum said, “Keep an eye on ’em.”
So now you’re part of the furniture.
You’re not on pints.
You’re on a pint glass of Coke that’s 90% ice.
Orange juice if they’re feeling flush.
Or a glass bottle of Panda Pop if the bar’s got some in.
You’re allowed near the pool table,
but only to “mind the cues”
and definitely not to touch the felt with sticky hands.
You build towers out of beer mats.
Little estates of your own.
Tower blocks.
Flats.
Entire communities that won’t make it past closing time.
There’s always snacks.
Scampi Fries.
Cheese & Onion crisps in blue packets.
Dry roasted nuts that make you cough but you pretend you like.
You drift about.
In and out of conversations.
Through clouds of smoke so thick you could chew it.
You start collecting empty glasses.
Two at a time if you’re feeling strong.
The bar staff call you “treacle” or “love”
and slide you a packet of crisps for your hard work.
The pub smells like stale lager, Embassy ci******es, and someone’s overpowering aftershave they got for Christmas.
Big green ashtrays on every table.
All overflowing like tiny volcanoes.
The fruit machine is your PlayStation.
You stare at the lights.
The symbols.
The sounds.
Certain if you watch long enough, you’ll crack the code and become rich.
The dads are roaring.
Proper belly laughs.
Arguing about football like it’s politics.
Talking absolute nonsense with full confidence.
You hear words you’re not allowed to say.
Stories you’re not meant to know.
You don’t get all of it —
but you get the rhythm of it.
The warmth in it.
No one asks who you belong to.
They already know.
You’re our kid.
You get slipped a quid for crisps.
50p for the machine (that you’re not allowed to use… but do anyway).
Some old fella does a coin-behind-your-ear trick
while his cigarette ash hangs on for dear life.
It gets late.
Your eyes go heavy.
You curl up in the booth under Dad’s coat.
Sticky table.
Warm jacket.
Muffled laughter around you.
And everyone respects it.
They still shout across the pub like they’re hailing a bus,
but near you, voices drop.
Footsteps soften.
No one moves you.
No one complains.
You’re safe.
You’re known.
You belong to the room, and the room belongs to you.
And for a kid from the estate in 1995 —
Life’s proper good
