It wasn't big. Or clever. But, while we don't condone it to today's youth, we adolescents of yesteryear all tried tasting a teen tipple. Or two.
South Yorkshire taverns were the secret sanctuary of our fathers and forebears, made all the more appealing to us under-agers by their alcohol-infused mystery, here soundtracked by Sham 69's "we're going down the pub" '78 Hurry Up Harry anthem and accompanied by nostalgic nod to bygone illegal imbibing classic scams, many of which will ring a last order's bell with revelers of a certain vintage.
Illicit pub and club admission was a rite of passage, such entry often blocked by bruiser of a bouncer, built like a brick outhouse.
So, from bum fluff to back doors, fake ID to flash attire, we devised military precision means, many and varied, to try make it to the bar and back before being betrayed by our bumbling behaviour.