Comment from the article below:
I question the premise of this query because I would contend that by my definition Proper Pubs are next to impossible to find even in the UK and Ireland.
As a minimum a Proper Pub has:
• A Public Bar and a Saloon Bar with engraved glass in their doors.
• In the Public Bar, a dartboard with the stuffing coming out and a one-armed bandit.
• Also in the Public Bar a black and white TV with muffled sound that, depending on the time, absolutely must be tuned either to Coronation Street or to a third division football match being played on what looks like a ploughed field, in which the score is always 0–0.
• A low wooden beam bearing a sign reading “Duck or Grouse” in the corridor to the back door that gives access via the car park to the concrete gents’ toilet block, which can be smelled distinctly from the pub if the wind is West-Northwest, yet is so far away (through driving sleet if the wind is West-Northwest, which it usually is) that it’s essential to predict when you’ll need to go at least 15 minutes ahead.
If you and a companion enter the Saloon Bar (strongly recommended for strangers) and order a pint of bitter and a half of lager, the landlord (whom, you’ll notice, the locals all address as Roger because that’s always his name) will never fail to ask in a simultaneously wheedling and disapproving tone whether it’s a lady’s glass for the lager. The lager will be fizzy, the beer will be flat.
The lighting will be uncomfortably bright even though some of the bulbs in the wall lights are out and the shades are shrouded in dust. Seating will be at scratched wobbly dark-varnished tables round the edges of the room – the velour-covered banquettes at one side will have sagged so that you feel like a small child when you reach up for your drink, and at the other side the rackety bentwood chairs with no lumbar support will be exactly the right height to make it only just impossible to get your knees under the table.
Four tinny speakers ranged round the ceiling will be playing Matt Monro’s greatest hits just loudly enough to be annoying, unless it’s Christmas, when they’ll be playing Matt Monro’s Christmas album.
The only food on offer will be salt and vinegar crisps, an obscure brand you’ve never heard of, plus salted peanuts and possibly pork scratchings.
But if you’re ill-advised enough to go into the Public Bar, once your eyes get accustomed to the fug you’ll probably find just three locals in – two elderly gents in flat caps sitting in front of their pints of mild and a younger moody-looking one in a T-shirt with bulging biceps and bad tattoos who’s playing the bandit and chain smoking Woodbines. They’ll all stop talking and stare as you enter, and as you stand at the bar you’ll feel their eyes boring into the back of your head.
As you wait to be served, you may look up and notice the decor, which is mostly brown, grey and filth, with sepia-toned group framed photos of unidentifiable ancient football teams on the walls beneath a gloss-painted ceiling that might once have been cream but is now several shades of nicotine.
When you take your pint and go to sit down at one of the small round tables marked with numerous cigarette burns (due to the absence of the souvenir ashtrays appropriated by a rugby team several years ago) one of the senior patrons will say, “Can’t sit there pal. That’s Brian’s seat, that is.” If you apologise and ask where Brian is, the other one will say, “‘E’ll ‘ave bin dead two year come Easter.” If you then say you’re sorry to hear that, without looking round the young one will say, “’E were a mean old bastard anyways.” The other two will look meaningfully at each-other and nod silently.
As soon as you can you’ll make an excuse and leave. Your clothes will smell for days.
Ah, that’s a Proper Pub; but where are they now?