NO, no, no. This is not right. This is not right at all.

Where are all the freaks and the weirdos, with their Black Sabbath T-shirts and blank stares? Who are all these beautiful people in their place?

Standing there in their branded shirts and identical shoes, striking poses and catching glimpses of themselves in the mirror.

And what has happened to the sticky carpet, scarred with holes from a million cigarettes, which have been thrown to the floor over the years? Instead there lies a wooden floor, bouncing off the unmistakable clacking of high heels from its polished surface.

The men with the money have been at work and the result is nothing short of disastrous.

It was something I was fully expecting but - rather like the passing of a sickly pet - it still hit me with the full force of a hammer blow.

Ever since the scaffolding went up on my favourite pub, it was inevitable a change was coming.

And when the cocoon was finally removed, the clumsy caterpillar had been transformed into a beautiful butterfly.

The problem is, I happened to like it when it was a caterpillar, bumbling along with no real sense of purpose, desperate to fit in with the other creatures.

Thousands of pounds were poured into the refurbishment after a national chain bought the premises. Any sentiments were cast aside as workmen busied themselves in tearing out every last remnant of the old place and knocking a few walls down in the process.

It reopened months later in the midst of a grand fanfare. It had been renamed - to fit in with the hundreds of other identical pubs this brand name owns - all spruced up and polished.

But in the toil, the workman had managed to rip out the very heart of the place, leaving it lifeless. Soulless.

Although the old place had a certain air of intimidation about it, it was ultimately harmless.

The clientele resembled a convention of Hell's Angels, yet were the nicest people you could meet.

They looked beyond your clothes and career and were not in the least bit interested in what car you drive or the cost of your mortgage. They were interested in you.

They had tales to tell, hardships to share and they exuded a warmth that belied their demeanour.

The confirmation of my feelings of the place were cemented when I took the Big Sis and my brother-in-law there when they were up to visit - they hated the place so it must have been good.

If I took them there now they would be much more complimentary. Gone is the big screen playing continuous Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd videos, out are the flea-bitten, but extremely comfortable, settees and gone are the pound-a-pint offers and the 'Hell's Angels'.

Instead pristine types lounge around on the finest leather recliners, supping fashionable cocktails at extortionate prices, while the latest S-Club Seven track floats from the speakers.

And although the air is polluted with chatter, it is not actually to each other. Gangs of friends sit around and talk into their mobile phones.

It's as if they need to be seen in these places, with these people, yet have nothing to say to them and find conversation elsewhere.

Sitting in there, which I did this week, more out of curiosity than genuine desire, among the people in their identical kits made me think I had been transported to Stepford.

It's not just this particular chain of pubs which is guilty of mass-marketing.

Think of all the character-filled local pubs destroyed by a lick of brown and green pint, given an Irish name and turned into theme bars the like of which are the same the length and breadth of the country.

My local had years of history and an individuality all of its own but that has been swallowed up by the money men.

And where are the 'Hell's Angels' who have been displaced? I only wish I knew.