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Surrounded by Sweeney-era office blocks, the Newton Arms reflects a bygone era: no picture windows, no scuffed-floor makeovers and absolutely no gimmicks. You almost expect Jack and George to breeze in, slap a pack of Dillies on the bar and order two whiskies, large ones.
Prices, while perhaps not pre-Thatcher, are certainly reasonable: no meal’s more than a fiver, whether liver and onions, chicken curry, jacket potatoes or other anti-gastropub fare. White-shirted, tie-wearing staff pour pints of John Smith’s, Courage, Adnams and San Miguel, amid mounted scenes of horse-racing and Ireland. It’s the kind of place your dad might have taken you for your first shandy.