My first attempt at going to The Bull didn’t go well. I’d been wandering around trying to find a pub that wasn’t packed on a Sunday afternoon and I found one; it was The Bull. It was deserted; I wasn’t even sure it was open. I cautiously approached the doors and peered in, seeing fridges filled with bottles of Becks and a couple of dead-eyed staff staring out, their blank stares seemingly willing me to come in and give their day and their lives some meaning. The place had all the charm of a branch of Foxtons, and if things are so bad that you’re looking to me to give the place some life then frankly the battle is already lost.

I never read Tintin as a child as Tintin was quite obviously for the squares, for children whose parents made you take your shoes off at the door, who wouldn’t let you watch Your Mother Wouldn’t Like It and who owned a BBC Micro. I read Asterix instead. I was pretty uncool, but at least I knew it and was making an effort to improve myself.