Stand tall, I tell myself. Shoulders straight. Elbows out. Be strong. Stay alert. Look out for enemies.

I am about to engage in battle. I am about to go to the bar on a Friday night.

It is packed with at least 50 punters, crammed in like Japanese commuters on the 8.20 to Tokyo. No one talks. Everyone stares straight ahead, pretending not to look in the mirror.

People jostle for position, like footballers at a corner kick. No one gives an inch. The bar scene is like war, with shooters instead of shooting. Ahead, everyone wants to speak to the poor, overworked bar staff. They are in demand. They are the celebrities.

Large men bellow and bark orders. Smaller men are more subtle: they attempt eye contact, or flimsy conversation. The weary barmaid will not listen. One man waves a tenner in front of her face, as if his capacity to pay was in doubt. She ignores him, steadily serving in turn.

Eventually, the girl in front gets served. My spirits lift. It's my turn next.

"Two halves of Carling," she says. A nice quick round. Excellent. "And two Smirnoff Ices," she continues. "And two blue Aftershock. And a hot chocolate."

And a what?

A hot chocolate? This is a drinking barn, love, not a ski chalet. Read the rules.

Eventually, whipped cream and all, her order is complete. It must be my turn next. I've been here ten minutes.

"Hey!" shouts the large man behind me, who has been in the queue for five minutes. "I've been here half an hour." He jabs his watch, menacingly, to prove his point. The poor barmaid, terrified by the leering, drunken Talking Clock, serves him. Flipping heck. I should have brought a book.

It must by my turn next. I attempt eye contact and flimsy conversation. Miraculously, it works. She takes my order.

"Three pints of lager, please," I say.

"Not a problem," she replies. Why would it be a problem, I think. This is a pub. Pouring drinks is what's supposed to happen. I'm the one who's had the bloody problem, getting here in the first place.

As she pours my drinks, without problem, I get a tap on the shoulder. It's a lad who used to go to my school. Or maybe I used to play football against him. Or maybe - in fact, probably - I don't know him from Adam.

He starts shovelling pound coins into my hand. "Get us two pints of Stella, will you mate? And a large white wine. Cheers." I shovel the pound coins back. "Sorry mate," I say, even though he is manifestly not my mate. "I've already paid."

Then I lie again. "The queue's not too bad. You'll be served in no time." With that, I grab my drinks and leave. My shoulders relax, my guard drops.

I return to my friends and present the drinks. "Where are the crisps?" they ask.

I advise my friends it would be quicker to grow, peel, and fry their own potatoes. But I know I'll be back at the bar soon. All aboard the 8.20 to Tokyo.