THAT FRIDAY FEELING

I GREW up in a pub. There was no jukebox and wine came in a box with a spout.

There were three rooms – the top room, the bottom room, and the snug – and two coal fires.

Music tended to be Lena Martell mixed up with a bit of Ghost Riders In The Sky and a pinch of easy listening from the ’50s and ’60s.

It was big news when someone asked for the latest Neil Diamond, I can tell you.

My house, for that’s what it was, was cold and old-fashioned. It was also welcoming, warm and without grandeur or prejudice.

Funerals were held there. Wakes shut down the street. On rugby international days Mam Jones would do hot dogs.

It would take two fellas to carry the big telly from the living-room to the bottom room, and we’d all cwtch up in front of it in a haze of “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaales!”, beer and onions.

We didn’t do food, but did toy with pasties for a bit. We didn’t do themed nights, but the pickled onion competition was a blast.

“Proper” swearing was frowned upon and if anybody got a bit big for their work boots, my mother would roll out some line about her tipping more beer over her pinny than they’d ever drink in her bar, and they’d leave shamed and ultimately all the better for it when sobered up.

We knew what people drank. We knew what glass they liked, which “World’s Best Day” tankard.

Orders never altered either. If they did, a metaphorical needle would tear across the record, heads would turn and questions would be asked.

The Castle, if you’ll allow my predictable laziness, was a fortress of sorts, a community hub built on old-fashioned values and whisky fumes.

It didn’t so much move with the times as do a begrudging shoulder shrug, take what it needed to survive, then go back to standing still. What it wasn’t was Wetherspoons. Now, don’t get me wrong – I LOVE a Wetherspoons.

Not so long ago I treated Mam Jones and my friend Hiya Love to a VERY fancy and VERY expensive few nights at a five-star hotel in Chester.

Oh, they loved their rooms and their marble bathrooms, and the fact chairs reclined at the press of a button.

But the menu brought them out in hives. So we did what any Welshie “abroad” does when in doubt and hungry, find a ’Spoons because – and you WILL have said this, I guarantee it – you know what you’re getting, see.

Things are changing there too, as you can now order from your seat via an app. Yeah, serious.

It works simply: you tell the app where you’re sitting, what food and/or drink you’re after, and the bar staff pick up the request and bring it to your table.

I can’t help but think The Castle did it all first, though.

Not with an app, but with familiarity. And never doing onions outside a Wales game.