I can't believe I haven't told you about Percy Morgan. A pillar of the community where I grew up, a pillar partly because he had a good suit and a motor car, but mostly because he was the choirmaster at the Methodist Chapel in Hadley High Street.
A remote figure for me, Percy Morgan was celebrated in our family because, after the service on a Sunday evening, he could be seen slipping into the Green Dragon by the back entrance, and the back entrance was visible to us from our front room window. No reason, of course, why he shouldn't wet his whistle after a vigorous bout of singing, except, again of course, because as a Methodist he had taken the pledge, ie, sworn off the demon drink.
This apparent hypocrisy delighted my atheist father, but it didn't mean a lot to me. In fact the limit of my interest in Percy Morgan were his two daughters, smashers both of them, but way above my station, they having a dad with a good suit and a motor car.