Yes your pub needs you, but do you really need it?

The bloke was old, grey and possibly talking to himself. It was late, near last orders and the bar was otherwise empty.

The only customers were this guy, me and a couple of mates who'd popped in for a post five-a-side swifty.

(First rule of keeping fit, always have a pint to work off any form of exercise.)

There's the barman, obviously; feigning indifference pretty convincingly and not bothering with the clover atop my Guinness. Genius, he is not.

So I do that 'three-pint-carry' lift and am just about to set off when I realise the old fella is talking to me.

"In my day," he began as I wondered whether my half turn had enough degrees of separation for me to escape. " . . . the weights and measures people would check that beer, dead simple."

I glanced at my thirsty team mates. One is in his 50s with a dodgy ticker, the other is ginger. Best not keep them waiting. But I'm hooked by the old boy and don't want to appear rude, especially as he's about to demonstrate an old-school bar trick with a half-pint glass.

Putting the upturned glass into his pint, he clearly separates the water from the alcohol.

Abracadabra.

"See that," he said triumphantly without spilling a drop, "That's how you know; full pint. No half measures."

Genuinely impressed, I made it back to the lads and spent five minutes failing miserably to recreate the magic.

The old chap had by now retreated to the galvanised steel of the smoking shelter outside and took great delight in pressing his face against the window to laugh at my messy efforts.Genius I'm not, either.

At that, the bell clanged, the bar-stool magician banged on the window one last time and then disappeared in a puff of smoke, coughing as he went.

Thus, the pub was deserted bar us and, with the TV muted, we began to ponder what we were doing there at all.

We could easily have gone to one of our nearby abodes and enjoyed nicer furniture, cleaner toilets and cheaper beer. We might even have turned the telly up.

And yet we chose to drive further, pay more and sit less comfortably. Why? Logically, it makes no sense.

But there's something about 'going to the pub' that still carries an instinctive appeal for blokes of a certain age.

Whether it's just getting away from the 'other half' or putting the world to rights with a total stranger, wonky bar stools keep the Likely Lads spirit alive in all of us.

True, these days the blazered-up Al Murrays of this world have been replaced with an inbetweener and the decor in some places resembles a homeless hostel, but The Pub clings on as part of our British way of life.

For how much longer though?

The law means many are paying for the privilege of smoking behind the bike shed, literally, and even a cheap round of drinks sets you back four times more than you'd pay in Tesco.

So your local needs you – but do you need it?

Well, when it's battered, boarded-up and about to be bought by builders, you'll have your answer.

No centre of community life, no meeting place, no break from the norm, no Sunday lunchtime haven, no hub, no pub. And wherever and whenever that happens, a little bit of the glue that holds Britain together will disappear forever; people will become more insular, more isolated, more alone.

The clock is ticking and pubs need help from Mr Cameron, Mr Osborne, Mr Big Brewery and Mr Joe Average.

They need tax breaks, investment, higher standards, cheaper prices and more old boys doing bar tricks.

But most of all, they need time gentlemen, please.

Read Keith Harrison first in your Weekend Shropshire Star