MY column the other week about ending up in rough pubs by accident, obviously struck a chord.

Apparently, an unattended dog is always a dead giveaway that a pub is rough. Especially, if it’s drinking Guinness out of an old ashtray.

In my younger days, a mate of mine called Les acted as a guide to rough pubs.

Les had an extensive back catalogue of ones to avoid, although his references were often outdated.

Conversations with Les at the bar rarely deviated from the following.

Les: Where y’off ? (He always said “y’off. I suppose you is quite a long word.) Me: Such and such.

Les: (Looking disturbed): Wouldn’t drink in there if I were you.

Me: Why?

Les: It’s rough! Rough pub. Rough as hell - dog rough!

Me: Is it?

Les: Yeah! Lad once got his nose bust/ jaw ‘brock’ /glassed etc.

Me: Right… If you pressed Les on finer details, he’d be nebulous.

Les: When was this? Ooh, I dunno. Sixties...Seventies.

Les worked in a motorbike shop and always seemed to be going to the TT Races.

If he wasn’t going to the TT, he’d just come back from them.

He met his eventual wife, Bev, on the Isle of Man and moved over. Les and Bev were joined at the hip but they didn’t have any children.

All Les would say on the issue, was: “It’s me tadpoles. They swim the wrong way.”

He was a regular in lots of pubs and only joined the darts team after working out it meant free chips on Tuesday nights.

‘Last man’ Les would regularly get thrashed but accepted the punishment in return for free chips.

Whenever you got into his car, instead of turning down the volume, he would ramp it up and force you to focus on certain guitar riffs as he sang along.

I once went to turn it down and his eyes narrowed, and he said coldly: “Never touch another man’s volume.”

It’s a maxim I’ve lived by ever since.