To put such a sign at a pub entrance could be considered the commercial equivalent of placing a shotgun under the chin and blasting your brains out.

But there it is in gilt capitals on a bold red sign outside The Volunteer Canteen pub, in Waterloo. There is a post-script underneath which emphasises that there is PLENTY of good traditional beer to be had.

And, indeed, there is at this marvellous little boozer tucked away in Waterloo, a convenient goalie's drop kick away from the station one way, with the balmy sand dunes t'uther.

This time, Yours Truly was accompanied by Lady Penelope of Pensby.

She's a demure creature of Wirral- bred style and elegance who doesn't take kindly to leering Scouse Beer Monsters mouthing "yer all right, gerl?" while simultaneously breathing clouds of cheese-and-onion crisps- tainted-Cains-fumes over her delicately coiffed blonde hair.

So I had to be on my best behaviour.

The 1827 building has been a pub since 1871, though the date above the door states 1924, which may refer to the last time it had a refurbishment.

Lovers of the modern-day trend to smother old alehouses in chrome and laminate will fall into a horrified faint at such a stubborn allegiance to the past, but such details are heaven to traditionalists. It still has its spartan public bar for real men who like to stand and frown upon such nancy boy traits as sitting down, while the cosy lounge has ye olde bell pushes to attract a drinks waiter. What's so unusual about that, you might say?

Well, in this instance, the Volly - like its "sister" pub, the wonderful Crow's Nest - is one of the few which still has that old-fashioned indulgence table service.

When we visited on a mid- Wednesday afternoon, which anywhere else is usually quiet before the post work rush, the place was already buzzing.

And flitting between the tables was the lovely Stephanie, dispensing foaming pints to clusters of the Crosby Crew, who have stalwarts of Deuchars IPA, Black Sheep and Tetleys to choose from, along with an ever- changing guest beer. For Dave Miller, who runs the pub with licensees Mark and Nicola Crump, this facility is the foam on this perfect pint of a community pub that allegedly takes its name from the time when it served pints to thirsty Army volunteers from the former drill hall next door.

He admits it's been a steep learning curve in his six-month first-time stint as manager, but, as a regular of over 20 years' standing, he's enjoying his new role on the other side of the bar.

"It's a dream come true to be involved with something that's been so close to my heart," he says.

It's a sentiment shared by other members of the Crosby Crew such as occasional Column quaffers Neil The Bitter and Twisted Bluenose, and Sir Gerry of Corner.

One visit and you'll volunteer your love to the place as well.

Our Kev and I had been grafting hard for seasonal pocket money on the local farm, and the older lads who worked there full time invited us along to make a hefty dent in our brown pay packets at the local, the Blue Anchor, on Aintree Lane.

It was patrolled by Alf, a small officious man who wore his Whitbread blazer with pride. And though he served a truly awful jar of mild, for which slops were regularly used as a top-up, his Guinness was the stuff of legend.

So it was over pints of the black stuff, chasers of rum and puffs on the tinned cheroots, we merrily toasted in the season before stumbling home to crank up some heavy metal on Mum and Dad’s old gramophone.

I remember thinking that the experience had never made me feel so close to “belonging� – for want of a better term – and, in its simple fashion, was probably the best Christmas I’d ever had.

Through the years since, other Liverpool pubs have occasionally been central to life’s pivotal moments, venues where joy and sadness, shared hope and solace have been meted out in equal measure.

I remember the years of living away during the 80s when jobs in this city were at a premium.

Coming home, your heart would leap at the first sight of the Mersey as the railway track weaved through the long curve taking in the Runcorn/Widnes bridge and the knowledge that, in about 45 minutes’ time – or three hours, if the customary breakdown occurred – you’d be knocking back pints with loved ones at favoured watering holes such as The Swan, in Wood Street, or Ye Cracke, on Rice Street.

There were other times when the Liverpool pub and its company could provide the only shoulder to cry on.

Memories of such events were jogged after being sent Brian Reade’s 43 years With The Same Bird, which chronicles his own topsy-turvy love affair with Liverpool FC.

In it, he recalls the day after Hillsborough as we sat alone together in the corner of The Lion, in Tithebarn Street.

We’d spent that sombre Sunday in Castle Greyskull banging out eye- witness accounts in our dual roles as fans and journalists, before realising we could stand no more.

The pub, a pint and quiet conversation about the horrors of the day before was the only answer available, albeit only temporarily, to help ease the pain.

It’s this affinity with the pub and the important role that it does sometimes play in people’s lives that provided the inspiration both for this column and the spawning of The Great Liverpool Pub Crawl, the new book wot I wrote.

In it, I’ve tried to capture the essence of the pub culture that continues to thrive here, despite a government that seems determined to tick all the wrong boxes when it comes to helping our surviving boozers keep their heads above water.

I hope it proves to be a worthy legacy to what you and I continue to hold dear – through the good times and the bad.

THE Great Liverpool Pub Crawl is available, priced £8.99, and is available from all major book stores, including WH Smith, Waterstones and Mersey Shop.

Undeterred, the Pub Column, with faithful Wirral good pub sniffer dog Lady Penelope of Pensby on the leash, decided to stick to our original plan – to explore and hopefully discover the first pub for the new season worthy of a grand day out in the sun amid the verdant fields of Albion.

Sometimes it’s a tough task though.

Thank Cains then for the Lady who knows her way around the Peninsula’s best watering holes better than a beer seeking missile.

Which is not to suggest she’s a member of the alkie-stocracy. It’s just that if she goes out she wants a place with a bit of class about it.

What we ended up with was something which ticked all the right boxes.

But... after excellent navigation from The Lady, the Chapmobile had ultimately landed in lovely, leafy Willaston, home of the great and the good.

Well, Stan Boardman and Sami Hyypia anyway – which is good enough for me.

The essence of yesteryear hangs over the place, compounded by the fact that it has retained its village green. The nearby Hadlow Road railway station, which served the village until its closure in 1955, also acts as a gateway to the Wirral Way, a haven for walkers.

And what is the object of your desire after a long thirsty trudge on a sunny summers day?

A pint, of course.

This will be provided at the Pollard Inn.

Appropriately known as the “hidden inn on the Wirral� the Pub Column would have been duly lost without The Lady’s directional nouse.

Tucked away on a narrow tributary behind the green this manor house, later farm house, is a grade II-listed building which dates way back to 1637.

It was converted and extended to become a pub in 1983. It’s a fine looking specimen, with low beams, a la carte restaurant, bright and airy conservatory extension for pub diners, beer garden and play area, plus B&B accommodation.

Just inside the main entrance are photographs of Willaston dating back to the early 20th century and a framed family tree of the Pollard family, er, which gives you a clue to the name of the boozer.

Any opportunity to elicit any more background information, however, hit a brick wall a couple of days later when Yours Truly rang after leaving the customary Daily Post calling card due to the absence of the landlady.

“What’s your angle?� came the suspicious response from mine hostess down the blower on being told Pollard’s had been chosen as At the Bar’s pub of the week.

The temptation was to say that the Post was investigating cases of human sacrifice in the Gents toilets but that would have been facetious.

Instead, Yours Truly accepted that this lady wasn’t for turning and her excuse, that as ownership was changing soon “what would be the point in putting it in the paper if things are going to be different?�

Fair enough.

What the Pub Column can tell you is that Pollard’s serves a very acceptable pint of Marston’s Pedigree but an overpriced – and very drab helping – of fish, chips and mushy peas.

Nothing more to say than that.

Except, perhaps, vive la difference.

You have lost the plot forever, to commit a ghastly crime.�

A puerile adaptation perhaps, but it’s as nothing compared to the insults many city publicans and “responsible� beer drinkers would have hurled at the Chancellor if he’d popped his head round the door of their locals after Wednesday’s budget.

It’s the sheer nanny knows best ignorance – and arrogance – of Labour Boy which probably gets to the craw of most.

The four pence tax hike on beer was a grievous blow in itself to a brewing industry hit by spiralling costs from hop and malt shortages caused by a bad harvest. To compound it with an unprecedented 2% increase above inflation rate on the price of a pint for the next four years was taking the proverbial P – especially when the “wages of sin shalt pay for the welfare of the young and the old� and the war on binge drinking were brought in as Darling’s excuses for it.

It was an outrageous piece of moralist shysterism designed to prevent anyone daring to disagree with a move that could ring the death knell for some Merseyside pubs already reeling from the smoking ban and cheap supermarket takeaways.

Everyone knows – apart from Darling and co perhaps – that the war on so-called binge drinking should not be being fought in the pubs, where most landlords carry on their own effective policing, but at the supermarket tills. Those forced by circumstance to take a Saturday evening train into Liverpool will see the collateral damage already taken on the young Dawn of the Dead “fun� crowd after hours of glugging cheap carry-out WKDs and Wife Beater in the living room and bedrooms beforehand (with maybe some Colombian marching powder – that’s now cheaper than a pint – snorted up as a chaser in between).

It normally only takes one more drink to set light to the blue touchpaper when they reach their destination – and it’s the landlord left to pick up the pieces from a drinking spree and expenditure that has had nothing to do with them.

No wonder that there’s been such a wave of frustration and rage coming the Pub Column’s way in the Budget’s aftermath.

Geoff Edwards, chairman of the Liverpool and Districts branch of the Campaign For Real Ale, said the price rise had added insult to injury in a week when nationally the group had asked for a tax cut on beer to stop the flow of 57 UK pubs being permanently closed every month because of the crisis.

“This is just going to accelerate the process, now,� he said ominously.

John O’Dowd, landlord of the Lion in Tithebarn Street, says that many pub companies were already quietly contemplating a massive 25-30% drop in annual business.

“Smoking has taken many pubs to the wall – this will take them beyond that,� says John, who adds that continuing closures were destroying the cultural and community fabric of the country built up over centuries.

“Even Prince Charles is always banging on about social cohesion and that the pub is the hub – and he’s right. Labour, in doing this, have given a kick in the teeth to their own voters.�

Richie Owen at the Exchange in Old Hall Street agreed.

“The politicians were once told to beware getting between the working man, his beer and tobacco. That line’s just been crossed and the party will suffer for it. �

Still all right, Darlin’?

And the primary place the city burghers should want to get right for the first time visitor alighting from the train in this its Capital of Culture year is Lime Street.

Right?

Or so it would seem if you were to survey the work that still needs to be done around here.

The station itself may have finally been tidied up and the widened Big Dig pavements are impressive.

But the derelict Concourse House office block eyesore is still there, albeit covered with a big 08 banner, like a giant ostrich with its head in the sand.

The sad old ABC Forum cinema is there too.

And then there’s the mishmash of dereliction, pole dancing tat and fast food nosheries on the facing side of the street.

So give thanks, then, for the Crown Hotel which has been given its second major makeover in recent years, a sensitive sprucing up worthy of its Grade II* listed building status.

It’s a Victorian toff of a pub that’s been dressed to kill to make it welcome for the passing train trade brigade.

It hasn’t always been so, though.

During the naughty 90s – that’s 18 and not 1990s – Lime Street was renowned as one of the city’s red light districts and the pub would be perfect for ladies of the night trawling for trade.

In the darker days of the late 20th century, it was the domain – like the Big House further down the way – of The Shamblers that breed of passing trade which nobody wants. In they would shamble selling everything from knock-off socks – usually odd – to ciggies which smelt worse than a sweaty docker’s armpit.

Then there was the Mr R A Mate variant, begging for money.

As in “R A Mate, I spent last night in the Bridewell. Giz a fiver for me taxi, yer mingy get.�

Thankfully, this passing traffic has been blocked in recent years as a close Shambler Watch is now kept on the door.

Consequently the sight of a pair of trackie bottoms and the utterance of that tell-tale giveaway catchphrase “gorranymoney� will set off an immediate alarm and the offender will be frogmarched outside to be dumped head first into the nearest purple wheelie bin.

This means that the Crown has become not just a perfect stopover for the traveller eager to avoid the off-the-rails food and drink service which has become the norm when trundling along by train but a favourite among locals too, especially shoppers.

It’s been closed and sheathed in scaffolding for the past three months to allow the latest shapeshift to take place.

The consequent result has been met with the approval of the Liverpool and Districts Camra group and the council’s conservation wallahs who both keep a beady eye on alterations carried out on all the city’s listed pubs.

New carpets and furniture are in place, interior walls have been repainted, lighting has been increased inside – and out – and the ladies and gents totally renovated. There’s also now a polished oak floor in the bar area, the ceilings have been gilded with intermittent flakes of gold leaf, while the back room and upstairs former billiards room still offer the best grandstand seats of the hustle and bustle of Liverpool.

An additional bonus is that the pub is now open for breakfast from 8am to catch even more of the station’s commuter trade with a takeaway service available.

So things are certainly on the right track here.

It’s now time for others to follow suit on this gateway to the city.

And pronto.

He’s a Captain Birdseye type figure, with Space Hopper tum, beard, and ruddy cheeks who has a penchant for whipping out the squeeze box hidden down his dungarees and subsequently warbling a selection of English folk songs about the glory days of black puddings, canals and the utilitarian advantages to be found from living in a brown paper bag.

But the stereotype of the female strain of the species, hereby unaddressed, is perhaps even less appealing.

Clad in sensible shoes and even more sensible all-weather jacket – invariably coloured beige – she’ll shrewishly scratch down on her ring-bound notebook verdicts on the quality of the half pint of ale being studiously sipped. This will be done with the earnestness and lack of enjoyment usually shown by a bulldog chewing a wasp.

Again it’s a lazy image which belongs to antiquity if, indeed, it ever existed much at all.

Mud, though, does stick – which is why in the past few years the Campaign for Real Ale has been at pains to banish the notion that the world of the great cask beer supping adventure is the domain of nerds living on the fringe of bonkersdom, hey nonney-no old fart traditionalists and the downright elitist.

The much anticipated and long sold out 2008 Liverpool Beer Festival in the crypt of Paddy’s Wigwam was a case in point. The theme for this year was female drinkers – or as Father Jack from Father Ted might have put it “Gerls!!!� and “Drenk!!!�.

The opening session on Wednesday was put aside as Ladies’ Night in which invited females were asked to try a variety of different beers to see which took their fancy best.

Centre stage was 19-year-old Harriet Easton, from Shropshire, who was doling out her “woman-friendly� 4.2% Harry’s Beer.

She maintains that the way real ale is branded in this country is an absolute turn-off for women whose tastes she claims are catered for with her light brew which is tinted with the essence of citrus such as lime and orange.

Jackie Moore, of the Liverpool and Districts Camra branch – which once again flawlessly organised the presentation of around 250 real ales from around the country – differed somewhat in her opinion. She maintained that the variety of real ales appealed to a wide variety of people regardless of their gender or palate.

Whatever.

The Pub Column took along a willing guinea pig to the debate, Lady Penelope of Pensby. She – despite being more of a fine brandy and lemo girl (double, no ice, ta ever so) – needs no persuading when invited to participate in experiments of a food and drink bent.

She missed out on the Harry’s Beer but wasted no time trying the roster of locally-produced beers which was also part of the opening night showcase.

Stunning in their number and variety, they included the creamy Cheeky Pheasant and the delicately topical Valentine’s Kiss from the George Wright Brewery of Rainford. There was also the rich Oystercatcher stout from Wirral’s Brimstage Brewery and the Betwixt BeWilder fuelled by wild Wirral hops. Plus lots, lots, more, bedded down with lovely snacks provided by John O’Dowd from the Lion and Paddy Byrne’s Everyman Bistro.

And the verdict?

This Lady WAS for turning.

It was blessed with a God’s Waiting Room.

Far from being morbid, this is a dry, charming expression which takes an irreverent bow to the inevitable for a part of a pub where older men – and women – will meet their friends. Inevitably, as the Brow’s owner Tony Houlihan – a veteran himself – confirmed, the talk would sometimes turn to days gone by and drinking chums who had moved on, metaphorically speaking, to the room upstairs.

Having been built it 1924 it’s only a relatively recent addition to the peninsula’s pub canon – but has the feeling of being a great deal older. Its central serving area is surrounded by three open rooms – a proper standing room only bar (with no truck for wussey non essentials such as tables and comfy chairs), a large back lounge and the cosy snug-like Copper Room at the side.

This is where the Farmers own good old boys and girls tend to meet. And, sure enough, when The Lady and Yours Truly popped in on a mellow, sun-dappled afternoon, there they were, a lively bunch of old boys grouped together.

While one ear was pleasantly wafted by the Lady’s conversational jingle-jangle about Bowser, her much-missed Old English sheep dog, tonight’s tea, and other such womanly preoccupations, the other surreptitiously tuned into the discussion going on elsewhere which spanned the village’s history, local characters, and yes, even a breezy mention of mortality.

It ended with one old boy declaring: “I look on death as the last great adventure.�

We secretly toasted his confidence.

Locally-born landlady Linda Campbell-Jones confirmed that the Farmers was an erstwhile community centre steeped in tradition and very much part of the old school where customers looked after each other. Despite being here only 15 months, beer is in her veins, even though she doesn’t even like the stuff. She’s been a landlady for much of her 51 years having previously managed the Telegraph in New Brighton among others. But when the chance came to buy the lease for the Farmers she didn’t hesitate.

“I jumped at it, especially since I never thought it would come up for sale because it was such a good pub,� said Linda, who was adamant she wasn’t going to fix what hadn’t been broken by the man who had run the pub for 20 years before her.

There were a few Wallasey Whispers, of the Chinese variety, that traditionalists’ Anti Christs juke boxes and even karaoke might arrive on Linda’s heels.

But the Farmers kept to the adage that a pub passes muster on conversation and well kept beer, which it has in spades. There are five real ale casks which are looked after by Linda and her cellarman Brian. Three of them are bitter constants – Theakstons, Tetleys, Cains – plus Ansells Mild and one guest which on our visit was Old Speckled Hen with its beefy 5% poke to it.

The only concession to contemporary demand is Sky Sports as, like the Heather Brow, this is ostensibly a man’s pub, which supports two golf societies and where footie is avidly followed by customers no matter what their age.

“But that’s it. We’ve already got the whole package with brilliant staff and customers. We don’t need anything more than that,� said Linda proudly.

Heaven can wait, as they say.

Targeted by arsonists the previous Christmas, it later lost its licence. Local residents – who had come to vilify the once-popular local – even celebrated as a court backed the decision to keep it closed.

Personally, there had been some memorable sessions there – Yours Truly and Our Kev recall an especially melancholic booze-up in the Vallie on the eve of our 20th birthdays, miserably toasting the end of our youth.

If only we knew then about life what we know now.

What we could never have anticipated, however, was that a favourite pub should come to such a shabby end.

Then something of a miracle occurred, when a new buyer appeared on the scene.

Paul Orr, whose late dad, Joey, was something of a legend in the Merseyside licensing trade, backed by son Joseph and daughter Elizabeth as manager, pledged to transform the pub back into one for the whole community.

Over £150,000 was spent repairing the fire damage and completely revamping the place without destroying its pub identity, transforming into a chrome and laminate doppelganger of its former self.

Elaborate CCTV was installed inside and out plus protective gates and railings fitted on the walls surrounding the car park.

But the most difficult job was not only to win over the local authorities but the residents themselves. They did the first by getting a licence – albeit with a raft-load of stringent conditions attached – but then the came the acid test.

It came on an Open Evening for the locals held a fortnight ago on January 17.

The Vallie had now become the Villie – or The Village Inn – the name change being symbolic of its new life, or return, to being a community local.

And it seems to have worked.

The Inn has won almost universal local approval, which has been aided by a police Section 30 which is still in place. Subsequently, the area appears to have been cleansed of the night-time shamblers who regularly slouched around outside the old Vallie.

Certainly, when the Old Man and the Pub Column popped in one teatime this week, the place was buzzing particularly in the bar, once dark and dingy now bright and beautifully spruced up.

Always a favourite with the footie/racing crowd, it’s somewhere they can now sit and watch what they want without moving an inch, thanks to the plethora of compact plasma screens scattered about.

“When the pub reopened after being closed for 13 months, we had grown men hugging each other and saying it’s great to be back home again,� said 57-year- old Paul, a quantity surveyor who has been in the pubs trade almost a lifetime, having helped his Dad from the age of six.

The Mildmay – named after the inner track of the National course, just a quarter of a mile away – separates the bar from the lounge. This is now the “quiet room� or snug which will be open for 9am cake and coffee mornings from the week after next.

The main lounge has now been given over to food service without, thankfully, changing its feel as a place for drinkers who are returning in droves.

Which means that they may have fallen out of love with their Valentine – but found a new romance with the Inn crowd.

Welcome back.