Christmas is over for another year (a source of regret only to the criminally insane) and the decorations have been packed away. Within the space of a fortnight, New Year’s resolutions have been made, broken and conveniently forgotten. Dumb-bells and rowing machines have been consigned to the box room; the diet books are slid back onto the bookshelf, between the other works of fiction. What were we thinking of?

We should know by now not to try and give up all our bad habits at once. Certainly not at New Year, a time when the body craves stodgy comfort food and maybe three months of hibernation. Instead of losing a few pounds, or giving up the weed for good, we just get depressed at our own lack of willpower - a state of mind that’s hard to shift, what with the days being so short and dreary. Never mind, we can have another crack at self-improvement next year.

It’s games night in the Flag: a convivial evening that gives regulars the chance to display their prowess at darts and dominoes, pool and cards. Old Ted, finding crown green bowling too strenuous these days, is a stalward of the dominos team. The only time in recent memory that he missed a game was during last year’s floods. And that was only because he couldn’t get the outboard motor started. Yes, that’s how keen he is.

The Flag has been Ted’s local for more than half a century. He’s seen more landlords come and go than the Queen has seen prime ministers. Old habits die hard. He hawks up a throatful of catarrh and expectorates expertly, depositing a ball of phlegm at the exact spot on the carpet where the spittoon would have been, had this been Coronation year.

The fire is banked up, and the ale flows freely: a fine state of affairs for the regulars, who think that beer is more important than fresh air. There’s real ale bus-lane at the bar. The landlord serves lager drinkers when he’s good and ready, and if they keep waving their glasses at him, he won’t serve them at all. On the rare occasions that a customer asks for something non-alcoholic, the whole pub goes quiet. For a few seconds it becomes a Bateman cartoon: ‘The man who walked into the Flag and ordered orange juice’. "I don’t drink", the man says: a concept as alien to the guys propping up the bar as sticking needles in their eyes.

It’s a conversation stopper alright. When a man says "I don't drink", what can he possibly mean? That he doesn’t socialise? That he doesn’t intake liquids? That he tries to drink... but ends up spilling it? How does he cope with the aching void that alcohol fills so effectively? What kind of man walks into a pub, only to destroy the ambience with an ostentatious display of puritanism? He’ll get a small glass of gloopy juice and pay about £2 for the privilege. He’ll be wise not to quibble about the price; people have been thrown out for less ("You... out"... "But why? I don't remember doing anything wrong." "If you can't fucking remember, that just makes it worse. Piss off"). Ripping off a teetotaler answers all these questions, and the hubbub of conversation can begin again.

The landlord surveys his grubby little empire with grim satisfaction, as he gives the scotch eggs a light dusting. Hygiene is not a high priority here; a regime of benign neglect gives the Flag an earthy charm. Good pubs don't get to be good by being designed; they get to be good by a process that takes years of drinking, talking amiable bollocks and general wear and tear: something you can't just recreate on a drawing board. Good pubs evolve...

It’s strangely reassuring to hear the clacking of pool balls, the riffling of cards and the random percussion of dominoes being slapped onto the table. There are knocking noises - like a friendly poltergeist - whenever a player can’t go, and a triumphal flourish as the last tile goes down. Dominoes: our weekly reaffirmation that life could be worse.

Darts, on the other hand, is a more hazardous affair. You wonder who first had the idea of recreating indoors the noble sport of archery. Dispensing with longbows, reducing the arrows to a size that can be gripped between thumb and forefinger, and hanging the target on the wall. What a brainwave! And - best of all - encouraging the participants to drink beer while they play. In a sane world, darts players would be isolated in a padded room, where the only people at risk of injury would be each other. Throwing sharpened missiles in a crowded, smokey bar seems like a recipe for disaster. In any other context, the building would soon be surrounded by armed police, shouting terse instructions through loudhailers.