‘IT’S called Gourmet Burger Kitchen and they do burgers but they’re, well, they’re like gourmet, they have pineapple and stuff in them, we can go there,” I explained excitedly to my brother.

“Yep, we’ve had them in London for years, they’re all over the place, I think they’ve just opened up another one in my spare room,” my big smoke-based brother said.

“Pizza Express, they’re like Pizza Hut but a bit posher, tiles on the floor instead of carpet, do you have them?” I asked, knowing full well you can’t throw a Gourmet Burger Kitchen without hitting one.

“Ha, I own three Pizza Expresses myself, they’re like feet down here, everyone’s got them, have you got any of Gordon, Marco or Heston’s new places up there, I had the most delicious piece of swan’s liver with a raspberry foam the other evening, it was historic,” he said.

Interesting, I’m pretty sure they don’t serve that in Liverpool, so how exactly should I entertain a Londoner?

I mean it’s a vibrant city with a lot to offer.

For example, my mum and dad, who live in a small North Yorkshire village, came to stay, and my mum is still recovering from her excitement at the size of Marks and Spencers.

Fortunately, it’s also got a history, a long and illustrious history.

Therefore, it makes no sense at all that our first step was into Liverpool One, a site with no history at all but lots of shops.

Although my gamble paid off because the result was a resounding success; he was impressed, although the Zara on Oxford Street is bigger, fact fans.

So, once I’d done the new it was onto the old, and maybe it was time to think outside the box.

Or at least the city centre.

And I realise this may not be a revolutionary idea to go to a pub on a Saturday night but, to our guests, this was going to be a trip back through the ages with the pub as our guide.

First on the list was The Lion, where I assumed nobody would know exactly what Alan Bleasdale would look like.

Luckily I was right, so decided to point out a man with a beard as the famous writer.

So, if you were the bearded man sat quietly reading a book in The Lion on Saturday night, then I can only apologise for the confusion when my brother asked you to “gis a job”.

Then it was onto Rigbys, now this is where the cotton traders used to gather and exchange tales about far-flung lands covered in coconuts.

Or at least this is what I imagine they did in here, which kind of made it half-true, certainly true enough to tell everybody else.

The Philharmonic was next and described by me, the official tour guide as one of The Beatles’ favourites.

In fact, unbeknownst to lots of people, including many music historians, it was where John Lennon wrote Strawberry Fields.

This was greeted with muted interest and a sense of disbelief (they’d be right with the disbelief).

As the evening progressed, then so did the tales, which reached their zenith with Sonia learning how to sing at The Roscoe Head.

My brother was left stunned.

“And these are called pubs?” he said.

“Fascinating, I wonder if we’ve got one of these in London. I know we’ve got a medieval themed bar near us, but that’s probably different,” he said thoughtfully.