I’ll never apologise for being a historical romantic. Perhaps it’s because my 21st century reality isn’t anywhere near what I dreamed or wanted it to be. I long for a time of streets not ruined by the car and where blokes (not ‘guys’), like my Grandad, went to the boozer wearing a flat cap, braces and suits. Not surrounded by Buggies and prams in the pub they were likely smoking Woodbines or Players and doffing their hats to ladies they passed in the streets. War heroes to a man.

I read something recently which was difficult to accept because it’s how I feel regularly. It said: ‘The past is as elusive a dream as the future. Always distorted, always yearned for, and always seen as better days. It keeps us from the truth of the present and the pain of reality. It’s seen as something beautiful, something irrevocable and somewhere that will always be better than where we are now’. Its hard to ignore this. Probably because I didn’t experience how good it was or might have been. I wish I could have drank in pubs like this. Evolution mean I never will.

However, we need to make the most of what we’ve got. Thinking positively there are still some great places now,  they’re just... different. They cater to modern standards and tastes, with different clientele, and it’s ultimately a culture that perhaps I don’t belong in. Maybe I’m a dinosaur or belligerent relic clinging to a long forgotten rose-tinted past. But I’ll never make excuses for desiring it.

I’m certain that when we look back in 40 years time there won’t be any romance in the way our generation lived. I can’t imagine there will be nostalgic television dramas made about spending hours on WhatsApp or watching Netflix, but in my black tie and waistcoat, sporting a pocket watch in homage to those who came before me, at least I had my own private good times in the boozers.

But there is always an itch I can’t quite scratch. I hope I’m not alone?