No Place Like Home

They say your home's your castle, but they're wrong. At best your home's a fort, or a little outpost. Your pub is your castle. And with that in mind let me tell you, this city has more than its fair share of amazing castles.

The Golden Lion isn't my local, but I use it as a football pub, particularly when England are playing. There are several reasons for this, chiefly the great selection of ales and the friendly crowd that frequent the place. In contrast to places like The Friary and Walkabout (before it closed), the Lion attracts an older, more chilled-out audience than the lager-swilling lads in the chain pubs who tend to get fractious about your club loyalty and the way you looked at their lass a few minutes ago. You still get some good, mostly friendly banter with the blokes in the Lion, but with a greatly reduced probability of getting glassed, which makes it a worthwhile boozer in my humble opinion.

After a hard day working on a new short story, I was ready for a bit of footy to take my mind off things, even if I was a touch apprehensive about our national team's return to competitive play after the South African debacle. Off across town I toddled, reaching the Lion just in time. Around the walls of the place, there are plenty of reminders of the pub's principal claim to fame; the Pendle Witches were reputed to have taken their last drink there before being escorted up the hill and hanged. Personally I'm a bit sceptical about this, as historical records suggest that the witches were hanged at the castle rather than up on Golgotha, but I don't bear a grudge against the pub for drumming up a bit of trade. Besides, there's aomething wonderfully surreal about watching the football surrounded by witch-memorabilia.

Wearing an Albion shirt I got the usual measure of friendly stick ("Ehhhhh, you're a brave man wearin' that!"; "Adrian Chiles has been having a good game, mate!") but as always, the national team took priority. For the first hour, even in spite of Defoe's third-minute goal, there wasn't a lot to get excited about. For long stretches England didn't get out of first gear, squandering chances and losing possession too easily, but during the second half things finally clicked into place, and we were treated to a 4-0 win. As always, the match was brightened up by swapping anecdotes with the different supporters around - Everton, Blackpool, Preston, Man City, Morecambe, even Huddersfield - about matches in days gone by, and those stories came quickly and freely with the aid of a few pints of bitter.

This is what I mean when I say your pub is your castle. It's garrisoned by a large force of good folks with tales to tell, and by staff who are dedicated to serving your noble self for however long you spend within those mighty walls. Stick a moat and a drawbridge out front, and I'd withstand a siege in this place any day.