Being serious about real ale, I used to walk far and wide to pubs – one had a rock and roll vibe and was frequented by teddy boys, another, out by one of those big green gas storage tanks, had stunning etched glass and folk jams. But my favourite was over towards Chapeltown, past all the back to backs that were just being demolished. Just at this time the Yorkshire Ripper was at large so the walk was a risk, but the Roscoe was a big pull with its live Irish jam sessions. There were lots of characters amongst the very varied clientele – students, professionals, labourers, social workers, a prostitute and her pimp – all regulars. The music was often led by John H, who sang, or by Pascal D, on accordion, and whose son Austin played the bhoran. Anyone could come along and join in, maybe the tin whistle, spoons, the guitar or the fiddle, but mostly guests would sing. Biddie had a voice like toast and honey and knew all the Irish folk songs popularised by the Dubliners and others. There was a strong republican sympathy amongst the regulars and one time when Mrs M sang a song about John F Kennedy, I know not why, but the tension was palpable until PD called out “Long life to you Mrs M” and under his breath, “She doesn’t know what she’s singing” and the tension was relieved. It was a Tetley pub ( 14p/pint for the bitter) but the landlord also served the best Guinness in Leeds. Somehow it had a hint of whisky to the palate. Talking of which, one regular was old Danny, one of those rare personages with charisma. Charisma is hard to define but Danny had it. Everyone loved him. He spoke fondly of the poteen he used to make and swore it tasted best if cooked over peat. One time for his birthday I couldn’t think what to give as I knew others had already offered lighters, whisky, cigarettes – what was left? – so I gave a small hamper – this would have been a very acceptable gift in the South but oh dear he was mortally offended. The sort of gauche mistake the Railway children made when trying to please Bernard Cribbens, the railway porter, in the film.

I regret that pubs are closing left right and centre. They were great social mixers. The Roscoe fell needlessly to a proposed ring road and the New Roscoe is now gone too.

I had a beau who lived in Chapeltown. He was stopped several times as he fitted the description of the ripper and his voice matched the tape recording that had been sent to police, supposedly by the ripper himself, taunting them. A Leeds lecturer, Jack Windsor Lewis spent a lot of time liaising with police about the accent but all to no avail as it turned out to be a hoax and the murders continued. Did it stop us going out? I don’t think it did to any large extent but I certainly tried to walk in company if possible. Old Danny offered to walk me home more than once but I don’t think his legs would have made it.