Oh, bejesus, the Wates Wine Lodge in Nottingham, bad, bad memories of being 17. That was always part of our down-Nottingham pub call, along with tactical vomiting, chips, and the terrible ride home on the last bus. Terrible, because you had several pints of liquid in your bladder urgently asserting its need for independence and the bus would stop, stop, stop and take approximately forever until you forced to take a cheeky piss into any available receptacle or get off to decorate a bus shelter and walk the rest of the way home.
I only drink wine out of boxes and don't like paying more than £11.99, so I doubt wine bars are the place for me. I was dragged into one at JFK a while back – I swear a single small glass of wine cost me $18 without the inevitable tip.
That said, I'm a beer hipster, so rather than deprecated banks, I find myself living a troll-like existence under dank railway arches, sitting on outdoor furniture indoors, and drinking cloudy, dank beer.