Grape times turn me to mush

THE FRIDAY THING: NOSTALGIA isn’t what it used to be - but occasionally a door to years gone by opens, releasing memories that delight rather than depress.

That’s exactly the case for me with news of the reopening of the Grapes in Yorkshire Street, a pub that was a home-from-home for Chronicle journalists, reporters and photographers for many years.

Under the watchful eye of landlord Reg, most days (and quite often nights) ended with a party for the scribes and snappers - sometimes to help put to one side a harrowing story of death or disaster.

For the young wannabes it was therapy: fun-packed, truly reflecting what it was like to be a reporter.

There was laughter, pranks and a brilliant camaraderie - often featuring the magnificent Norman, a very senior journalist who at the first sign of an argument would put a bar towel on his head and pass judgment on any behaviour that threatened to spoil the party.

Judge Norman is probably up there right, now passing judgment on us all. It was a brilliant way of taking heat out of any discussion that threatened to get out of order (and of judging whose turn it was to buy the next round, which was always the guilty party. Justice in a pot).

There were phone calls from girlfriends and wives, sometimes at the same time. One among us took a phone call from his wife who said: “I’ve got a friend of yours here. I think you should come and talk to her because she wants me to leave...”

Then there was the mad Welshman who had organised a, shall we say, liaison, in one of the upstairs rooms. In his haste to get upstairs he pulled the stair rail out of the wall and watched it clatter down the stairs. One of the gang had beaten him to it, having switched on the room’s bedside phone so the gang downstairs could hear every honeyed word and bedspring twang.

All those party to the Grapes get-togethers will remember Norman in his special chair, bar towel on his head, delivering verdicts on the sinners - especially those who claimed to have pockets too deep to reach and thus no money.

Guilty as charged, your honour...