MANY thought it would never happen, but finally it did.

At 11pm last Friday people threw parties in the streets, flew their Union Jacks and spent as much as they could at their local Wetherspoons to celebrate the UK’s long-awaited departure from the EU.

At least that is what I assumed happened.

I was asleep by nine on the dot after a few thrilling reruns of The Sweeney.

There has been plenty of debate as to what Brexit actually means, but to many it means a nice pint.

So in lieu of celebrations on the night, I decided to pop into The Broadwater to have

my first drink in this brave new world.

Of course, Mrs PubSpy decided to tag along. With the sovereignty restored to Britain, how could I tell her no?

A Greene King chain pub though it may be, The Broadwater certainly had some homely red furnishings.

I am usually a sucker for a Wetherspoons carpet, but this pub’s shag was not bad either.

TV screens were placed in every possible angle.

You could not have missed the football even if you wanted to.

And as well as the usual pub fare of fruit machines, pool and darts, a foreboding inflatable rugby goal stood by one table.

Not once did any punter attempt to kick a conversion through it, perhaps a sign of a nation still coming out of its shell.

Then again, it was a weeknight.

After I finished admiring the cavernous interior, I made my way to the bar, imagining the British specialities on offer.

But then I saw the Peroni tap and went for two pints of that instead.

The friendly barman read out “£5.10” as he directed me to the till, and for a second I thought I was in heaven.

Had Boris Johnson and co finally mastered the art of trading and reduced our pints to Poundland prices?

Simply put, no.

The barman had misspoken and quickly corrected himself to £10.20.

But I was not rocked by that revelation, instead bundling myself into a spacious corner seat with wide-ranging views of Broadwater’s High Street.

The Broadwater had a lively atmosphere for a weeknight, punters’ eyes unwaveringly trained on the TV screens that surrounded them.

One oldie sitting by himself was continually mumbling what I could only assume were words of encouragement straight out of Sir Alex Ferguson’s playbook.

Across the room a group of burly men were engaged in a frosty game of darts.

It was all very professional.

There was a good age mix around the room too. No doubt there were a few pubgoing prodigies in here.

Despite Mrs PubSpy’s regular insistence, I held my nerve and avoided ordering an ice cream sundae.

Guzzling my pint was

relative ease, I took a trip to the toilets.

The words “clean and functional” have been thrown around by many a PubSpy before me, but I would be lying if they did not apply.

No shenanigans here.

After returning to my seat, I thought about my time at The Cricketers, a more traditional pub down the road.

There the atmosphere was more like a village pub, a place where everybody knows each other even if it is a little quieter.

The Broadwater is different. The atmosphere is livelier, the TVs more plentiful and the punters a bit younger.

Having had a tiring day of grumbling on the sofa, I decided to quit while I was ahead and make my way out.

The Broadwater had done what it needed to.

I was well-rested, mildly sozzled, and my wallet was only £10 lighter.

I felt a little reluctant to leave as I stepped out into the cold air, but one post-Brexit pint was enough to digest for the night.