The Albion, on Armley Road, Leeds.
My brother and I would often drop in for a couple of pints, and a game or two of pool, maybe a plate of sandwiches, (the sandwiches, like the beer there, were excellent). A friendly place, the front bar was across the width of the pub, that was the place to lean on the bar, chat with the regulars, and the back rooms, on the left was a cosy sitting room, and on the right, the room with pool table, dart board etc. Old blokes playing dominoes. On the walls, pictures of local history, the big engineering works and railway yards that, like the pub, are just memories now.
stop press: it's a grade 3 listed building, an application to demolish would probably have been rejected, on the grounds that it's a handsome piece of history.
Stop Press! Ead-itter's note: From the comments, I realise that 'Perfidious Albion' has crunkled many a brow, so I have to claritify my title. 'Albion' is one of the oldest known names for Britain. It goes back a couple of thousand years, when it was just a mysterious place on the map, a distant land on the edge of the world to greek and roman, carthaginian, phoenician alike.
Perfidy is treachery. I think it was a frenchman who coined the phrase Perfidious Albion, but I refuse to look it up. A pub called "The Albion" is thus quintessentially british, redolent of roast beef, Union Jacks, St George, Nelson's navy, british bulldogs.
This pub now not a pub? Perfidy!
Office workers where once flowed the foamy beer. I shudder at the thought.