The fluorescent blue jukebox looks like a hideously kitsch spaceship that has just landed in the Old Ale Emporium. It has replaced its older, more classic predecessor which was always seeping the melancholic voice of ColdPlay’s Chris Martins.

Jukebox V2 has mad bolts of lightening sketched on the sides and belts out songs with tacky, self assuredness whilst emitting artificial orbs of blue and white light. Jukebox V1 was red. I preferred the red one.

The jukebox isn’t the only piece of pub paraphernalia that has been upgraded. The early 90s ‘box-set’ TV which was loosely attached to the wall has been devoured by a 42 inch PLASMA SCREEN.

The old TV used to be rigged up to the pubs sound system and its audio would kick in once the jukebox had run out of credit. Often the owners would forget that the volume was turned up to the maximum and when the TV took over the sound system, whatever was on would blast across the pub. On Sunday evenings – international nature documentary day – the horrific sound of animals mauling themselves would oft shred the relaxed ambience.

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It may seem like we’re doing nothing, but our service is so fast we’re always finished” reads a rather corny, but appropriate sign behind the bar.

“Are your opening hours going to be extended?” I ask the dopey looking barman slowly eking out my pint. I’m in my girlfriend’s local and it’s a typical old man’s pub littered with weathered knickknacks, mismatched wooden chairs and tables and an assortment of drunks hovering over their pints. It is run down, but comfortable; the kind of place you can hold a hazy drunken conversation without it being interrupted by intrusive, glossy waiters and blaring, crap music.

“An extension?” he asks lethargically.

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