Hello there,
I would like to point out that I always did, and continue to do so until this day, think that sniffed up was a reference to a current or previous cold infection. It was only when in the toilets with two of the world's loudest ever men, on the last Friday before Christmas, that I heard one of them roar that they wouldn't be able to eat their meal because they were "snifft up off mi tits man" referencing, one imagines, recreational drugs. So the title is about injecting misery into your veins. AKA going out on Fruit Loop Friday. Hope that helps....
Oh, and a warning to any delicate souls reading - this post does feature a large swathe of what I might politely call "maritime language". AKA swearing. Look away now if you are scared of the f word.
So, who would want to go out on the last Friday before Christmas? Who? And why? Well, the thing is, am thinking that I may have gone out on every such cataclysm of coarse language and crude behaviour in the last ten years - not least because Wee Keefy's work mates almost always have their Christmas pub crawl on that day. And am struggling to recall a year when I didn't see them. So if its not such a big deal in terms of times completed, what is it that I hate about the last Friday before Christmas so much? Let me tell you....
Not wanting to go over old territory (that much) I think most of all I dislike the large numbers of obnoxious people infringing on my personal space, and the fact that a number of these irregulars believe that the season to be merry is, instead, the season to act without reason. Am not going to try and assume a high moral line against drinking to excess - even if I never say it I am aware that I drink too much and my birthday week this year was an excellent example of my drinking well beyond the bounds of sensibility by anyone's standards. What I would say, however, is that apart from the odd argument with those around me, I never become aggressive, and never physically attack people when am drunk. This is a rule that I observe as a member of human society. And its not one that I consider the festive season is reason enough to abandon entirely.
Many of you will have heard the phrase pub voice. This is a voice that most people have, at a reasonable volume, that should be used when in the pub surrounded by other humans, whom have ears. Inside the pub is not a place to try out your foghorn overpowering bellow. Not even once. And definitely not all bloody night. Yet for some reason, the festive season seems to be overladen with the shoutiest and most annoying people ever. And the last Friday before Christmas is their pied piper of pointless, piss taking, rambunctiousness.
Then, there is the lack of spacial awareness. As a hundred and something year old pub building, Shakespeares has a number of rooms and a relatively small bar area. Using even the most infantile logic its easy to spot that congregating at the bar once you have your drink is entirely the behaviour of fucktards. Apologies for my Middle-English. I have sat at the bar, in times of quiet. The last Friday before Christmas is not that. Get your drink, and piss off out of everyone's way OK? Its a simple rule to follow.
A lack of knowledge of beers and pub etiquette and manners is also piss boilingly annoying. As per the below:
Fucknugget: Steeef. Steeef. Dyerwanna beer?
Far away Fucknugget: Whorrivthi go?
F: Ave yer gorrany lager pal?
Barkeep: Yes we have Becks Vier, Paulaner or bottles of Corona....
F: Fuck me, errr...ooh, this uns 11% Steeee-eeee-eeeef! Steeee-eeee-eeee-eeef!
Barkeep: it is £8.90 a pint though
F Yer fuckin wha? yavvin a fuckin laff er wha?
Barkeep: you could have a pint of Becks for £3.40
F: aye go on then (laughs, turns away and points over shoulder at barkeep) this guys tranna sell mi a pint for £19.00 a gu.....
FAF: wosztha go meh?
F: nnanuvver pint er tha please pal
FAF : eh?
Some 11% shit, a dorn fuckin norr.....
This goes on for the next 7 hours. This is one of many reason I don't work behind a bar. The above is not a criticism of lager drinkers, by the way, before you get your angry crayon out....
And finally, mass. Too many people in too small a space. For the love of made up deities, just go somewhere else!
The weight of the air, sticky with overweight men's sweaty farts and Thorseby market perfume splashed on by the litre. Blokes pissing in the sink because there is a queue of two for the urinals. A ten minute scramble to the loos. People who can't pronounce available, thinking it features the letter D. People who are proud of knowing nothing. People who start anecdotes in great enthusiasm, only to not finish them or drift off onto another subject, like John McCabe. Sitting behind a near impenetrable barrier of massive lumbering chimp men with the brains of a cat and the hygiene of a dead rat. Its really not very good fun.
Yet, despite all of the above, I was out in this shambles. I was drinking and enjoying Almasty Pale on cask from the past, and enjoying the company of my Brother and his workmates. We finished the night in a reassuringly quieter Bar Stewards on a mental pint of Wylam Reality Asylum hoppy soup at 7.4% and it was amazing.
And that is the ironic thing. I enjoyed my night out because I was drinking what I liked in my two favourite pubs with people I love. Partially the same remit as the noisy simpletons blocking the bar.
Although, to the best of my knowledge, I don't have breath like a miner's sock with a poo in it.
Just saying....
Bee Wifi
Showing posts with label Drunken mishaps. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drunken mishaps. Show all posts
Sunday, 23 December 2018
Monday, 16 December 2013
Barred?
Good heavening
am going to share a story that happened back in February. Those that know me will probably twig what event I am about to describe, if nothing else based on how much I wittered about it since. I think there is also a small chance that this post may potentially become a confession. But we're all friends on the blog aren't we? We can share....
One night in February I had ended up in the Bath Hotel and they had made me drink beer. Obviously, every single action I perform thereafter is their fault. And the Ball on Crookes. And the Sportsman at Crosspool. Just so we know I'm innocent...
Anyhoo, in the good old days there was an N52 night bus which, for a small fee, would magically transport me from West Street to near my home (or much further on than my home depending on snoozing) around 20 past the hour, and having just missed such a chariot, I opted to wander into the....pub which is part of a group, and opens late, the name of which you can never ever guess.
It was rammed as it usually is around midnight on a Friday and since I needed my real money for the ale tractor set up a tab and purchased a delicious pint of Bradfield Stout. Having failed to find a seat and being in urgent need of a trip to the facilities, in desperation, I placed my full pint of real ale in, erm... a rather large pot. Containing a small tree or similar.
Now, I realise this sounds daft. It was. So to ensure that even if the location of my pint seemed perplexing, said drink could be identified as belonging to someone, I wrapped my scarf round it, and placed the other end in the top of my work bag, and asked the youngsters on the nearest table to watch my drink. And there is no way you can guess what happened....
For those unused to the vociferous enthusiasm of glass collectors, and/or random ale thieves, someone unwrapped the scarf and waltzed off with my pint in the 90 seconds it was out of my sight. I asked the people nearby if they had seen what happened and they suggested someone had probably collected it, and it didn't seem like they'd nicked it. So I went to the bar to pay my tab, even though I had in essence purchased nothing more than the concept of a pint. This was a deliberate set up on my part to prompt them to tell me I was below the limit for a card payment, so that I could then moan endlessly that someone, possibly a member of their staff, had snaffled my ale. It worked a treat.
Except it was very loud and I had to raise my voice. This alerted the staff to my perhaps being pissed and so the manager stepped in to have the same conversation all over again. If I'm honest, this wasn't making me feel any better, especially when he suggested that I simply buy another pint. A quick chat with a colleague meant he turned his back on me for a while and my limbic brain was quick to note that I was now being ignored. So I raised my voice. A lot. In a Yorkshire accent that I don't possess.
I have worked behind a bar so I know that there is nobody who enjoys being shouted at by drunks but the response was (and I quote) "No-one screams at me. Take your card and get the fuck out of my pub". Now, that's quite rude. And it is owned by a large company, so if we want to be factual it is also not his pub. However, the shock brought me back into a more sensible state and on being passed my card back having not paid for my stolen pint I said "oh brilliant! and smiled, before a very large person ( a professionally trained very large person) gently escorted me to the street outside.
On my ale tractor home I thought about my experience and decided this wasn't me. I don't scream and shout and I don't say Naaaa-then unless I am having a laugh. Well, apart from that night, obviously. So upon returning home more or less sober, I emailed the "pub in question" with some precise details and caveats and apologised. I also pointed out I'd like to pop in the next night to do so in person and to draw a line under the matter. Inevitably the very large person on the door had been pre-warned about me and refused me entry. I explained about the email which I considered quite a polite manner of behavior but to no avail. I was told I had to wait for the manager to tell me I wasn't barred.
And this is where I'm confused. You may, having become used to my bleary and inaccurate recollections, think that I mis-remembered an important slice of discourse but I assure you I was never told I was barred. Not only that, but I never received a reply to my impeccably drafted email. Nor any written, verbal or otherwise communicated disbarring notice. So I boycotted them. For like, months. And then gave up and went in the other night to find that no-one cared.
The point of this is - does this sound like your experience (not that I dare to suggest you've had any) of being barred? Only I spoke to a few upstanding citizens in the months after and found some who had been barred twice in the same night from said establishment. So with all this being new to me I couldn't figure out if this was normal?
Oh, and of course the other perhaps more important point is that this serves as a cathartic exploration of my errant ways one night. So I consider the whole episode, having enjoyed a lovely pint of dark ale in there last night, closed.
And I also reckon I win....
Sir Beefalot
am going to share a story that happened back in February. Those that know me will probably twig what event I am about to describe, if nothing else based on how much I wittered about it since. I think there is also a small chance that this post may potentially become a confession. But we're all friends on the blog aren't we? We can share....
One night in February I had ended up in the Bath Hotel and they had made me drink beer. Obviously, every single action I perform thereafter is their fault. And the Ball on Crookes. And the Sportsman at Crosspool. Just so we know I'm innocent...
Anyhoo, in the good old days there was an N52 night bus which, for a small fee, would magically transport me from West Street to near my home (or much further on than my home depending on snoozing) around 20 past the hour, and having just missed such a chariot, I opted to wander into the....pub which is part of a group, and opens late, the name of which you can never ever guess.
It was rammed as it usually is around midnight on a Friday and since I needed my real money for the ale tractor set up a tab and purchased a delicious pint of Bradfield Stout. Having failed to find a seat and being in urgent need of a trip to the facilities, in desperation, I placed my full pint of real ale in, erm... a rather large pot. Containing a small tree or similar.
Now, I realise this sounds daft. It was. So to ensure that even if the location of my pint seemed perplexing, said drink could be identified as belonging to someone, I wrapped my scarf round it, and placed the other end in the top of my work bag, and asked the youngsters on the nearest table to watch my drink. And there is no way you can guess what happened....
For those unused to the vociferous enthusiasm of glass collectors, and/or random ale thieves, someone unwrapped the scarf and waltzed off with my pint in the 90 seconds it was out of my sight. I asked the people nearby if they had seen what happened and they suggested someone had probably collected it, and it didn't seem like they'd nicked it. So I went to the bar to pay my tab, even though I had in essence purchased nothing more than the concept of a pint. This was a deliberate set up on my part to prompt them to tell me I was below the limit for a card payment, so that I could then moan endlessly that someone, possibly a member of their staff, had snaffled my ale. It worked a treat.
Except it was very loud and I had to raise my voice. This alerted the staff to my perhaps being pissed and so the manager stepped in to have the same conversation all over again. If I'm honest, this wasn't making me feel any better, especially when he suggested that I simply buy another pint. A quick chat with a colleague meant he turned his back on me for a while and my limbic brain was quick to note that I was now being ignored. So I raised my voice. A lot. In a Yorkshire accent that I don't possess.
I have worked behind a bar so I know that there is nobody who enjoys being shouted at by drunks but the response was (and I quote) "No-one screams at me. Take your card and get the fuck out of my pub". Now, that's quite rude. And it is owned by a large company, so if we want to be factual it is also not his pub. However, the shock brought me back into a more sensible state and on being passed my card back having not paid for my stolen pint I said "oh brilliant! and smiled, before a very large person ( a professionally trained very large person) gently escorted me to the street outside.
On my ale tractor home I thought about my experience and decided this wasn't me. I don't scream and shout and I don't say Naaaa-then unless I am having a laugh. Well, apart from that night, obviously. So upon returning home more or less sober, I emailed the "pub in question" with some precise details and caveats and apologised. I also pointed out I'd like to pop in the next night to do so in person and to draw a line under the matter. Inevitably the very large person on the door had been pre-warned about me and refused me entry. I explained about the email which I considered quite a polite manner of behavior but to no avail. I was told I had to wait for the manager to tell me I wasn't barred.
And this is where I'm confused. You may, having become used to my bleary and inaccurate recollections, think that I mis-remembered an important slice of discourse but I assure you I was never told I was barred. Not only that, but I never received a reply to my impeccably drafted email. Nor any written, verbal or otherwise communicated disbarring notice. So I boycotted them. For like, months. And then gave up and went in the other night to find that no-one cared.
The point of this is - does this sound like your experience (not that I dare to suggest you've had any) of being barred? Only I spoke to a few upstanding citizens in the months after and found some who had been barred twice in the same night from said establishment. So with all this being new to me I couldn't figure out if this was normal?
Oh, and of course the other perhaps more important point is that this serves as a cathartic exploration of my errant ways one night. So I consider the whole episode, having enjoyed a lovely pint of dark ale in there last night, closed.
And I also reckon I win....
Sir Beefalot
Friday, 13 April 2012
Wee Beefy's Wednesday wander
Arvtenoon
I have been off work this week and have maturely and sensibly used my free time to get important jobs done, make the house spotless, tend to the garden, and, well, go to the pub. Quite a bit. Here's some details of my Wednesday waterings...
Grindstone
I was off to meet Wee Keefy and Jambon int Blake and decided to go via the Hallamshire House at Commonside. Since I have a pass all the way to Crookes I got off just past the recently reopened Grindstone. I haven't been in this century I think, my Crookes drinking seemed to have been in the Ball, Cobden, Prinny or (RIP) the Old Heavygate. So I thought I'd pop in for a half.
On entering it seemed a bit spruced up but essentially the same. The pub has always had quite a modern interior layout, and I didn't stop to check if the upper level back room was still the snooker room like it was on the day I got my A-Level results (I was 19, law fans!). Remembering that this was the first and only pub I ever drank Wards Kirby on draught in, and the first I ever picked up a copy of Beer Matters (which I still have, from 1993) in, I was hoping to have a pleasant trip back down memory lane, with some great beer.
On the bar were 4 handpumps, with one disheartening Greedy King IPA clip facing me and the other three turned round, making a defencive wall of disappointment. "Ay up" I said, swiftly followed by "Oh dear". I quickly scanned the bar for more pumps. "Is there only the IPA on?" I asked, out of a desire to buy time to mute my disappointment. The barman was unsure and told me something about a new set of something in the cellar; I said it was OK, not to worry, but he insisted on talking to the manager(?), which was very kind but probably not necessary, and came back to confirm what I really already knew - it were IPA only.
I asked him what I missed and found Brains Milkwood, Nottingham Legend and another, and jokingly asked what day was best to visit for real ale. The barman apologised again and insisted any day but today would be fine, that the beers in fact had not yet settled, and was so eager to assuage my assumed dissatisfaction that I felt sorry for him and said "Its OK, I really don't mind, I'll just come back another time - me and IPA don't get on thats all". Looks like the staff are friendly and certainly eager to help, so perhaps when the full range is available this will be a good place for a pint.
Hallamshire House
Off down School Road next to the Hallamshire House, a pub so grey and depressing in its appearance that even though it was overcast, I swear I took a completely grey picture on my phone camera. Inside there were about 7 Thornbridge beers on offer, including their new beer flavoured with cucumber. I was very sceptical that I would enjoy this, not least because I am not a big fan of the cumber. The barman's description of a pale refreshing beer that has " a whole cucumber added to each barrel" really didn't help but I gamely tried a sample. It tasted of beer and cucumber. I couldn't really complain that it had confounded my expectations, but in meeting them, tasted grim. Amusingly, it was called Wye, which I know is the name of the river running out of Bakewell, but would have been a far better name with a question mark on the end....
In the end I had a very nice pint of Wild Swan instead, and sat in the snug on the left enjoying the quiet scene, and trying to see what was different about the stained glass in the window - had they taken the Wards Fine Malt Ales lettering out? Jesus, what's wrong with these power mad aristo's! (having looked at an old photo taken in the same room it seems I may have misremembered this feature, although the whole window is not in view...jury's out.)
Luckily the relative emptiness of the pub enabled me to get a pic or two. Les also came in and took up his position at the bar, which is a positive sign, although ironically he could not receive the compliment on the pump clip Les's Best, as it wasn't on. I finished with an enjoyable half of Jaipur, which seemed sweeter and slightly spicier hopped than before.
Blake Hotel.
Off through Commonside next past the insalubrious Springvale, advertising the amazing upcoming Sky Sports events which improves the pub experience no end with its ability to bring disparate sections of drinking society together in one small space, in a relaxing, level headed thinking encouraging, non divisive way. Soon I was down at the Blake in relative peace eyeing up the 3 remaining pork pies on the bar, and selecting a pint.
I opted for a pie and a pint of Vale Lock Prop and Barrel, a pleasant enough beer from Brill, which went down well. I quickly texted WK and Jambon to inform them that there were only two pies left now, and settled down to wait. They made it, and Jambon had the Dancing Duck brewery Ay Up, and Koof summat grim from a brewery I expected better from. We sat in the right hand room surveying the scene and discussing the cost of beer amongst other things, and blogging - well, I say discussed, more, I talked at them.
Cobden View
I finished with a delicious pint of Brewster's Stilton Porter, which went down really well, and disappointingly appeared to have no chunks of cheese in it - come on Brewsters (who is a person) you missed a trick! This last beer was also a little rushed, since young uns had to get home to drop their respective vehicles off so we could go for another pint legally.
Parking up on Crookes we walked to the (former) Bolehill Chippy, now called Five Star - this misleading name is a travesty, since not one of the original line up works there - for some useful sustenance. Suitably fed we then walked down to the Cobden View. This is another of my formative years drinking venues (shamefully supping Newky Brown when there was real ale on, aged erm, lower 18) and is one I try and visit if I am in the area. On the bar were regular offerings plus Copper Dragon best, Farmers Blonde and Farmers Stout. No prizes for guessing what I had.
We sat out in the beer garden in a rare spot of dry weather although it was still pretty chilly. The stout was a little thinner than at te Old House but was an enjoyable snifter. After a while we caved in and went under the heated smoking shelter for a warm. WK and Jambon were off for more food or telly or other young folks pursuits after this so I strode off down to Conduit and out onto Western Bank to head for the next pub.
University Arms
The Arms was busy and smelled enticingly of food, but I had eaten a fishcake butty a pint ago so saw no reason to fanny about masticating. Instead from a range of four beers, I opted for a pint of Abbeydale Archangel. This is the second of their recent seasonals (Dark Angel being the other ) and even though I am a dark beer fiend at heart, this was equally excellent. Vibrant fruity hops and gentle balancing ,malt made this a tasty quaffable brew that I could have drank many more of. However, I was off to see Barraharri in his natural environs next..
Harrisons 1854.
Star beer turn of the night at the 54 was the Farmers Blonde which was on very good form. I had two pints and an enjoyable chat with John, who was carefully assessing the white wines on offer. As the (late) evening progressed myself John and Barraharri devised an interesting project pertaining to the beers breweries and pubs of the Steel City. The details are entirely embryonic at this point but I will share them with you when they have some form, over the coming months. During this early meeting, a couple more pints of Blonde passed my lips, which may have explained my missing the last 52 bus home.
Mind you, the timetable info is a bit misleading, and ultimately unhelpul. According to that at the bus stop on West Street, there is a 52 to Woodhouse at 23.49 every day. Except there's not. It goes to town. Still, it also says theres a 30 everyday at 23.59 from West Street to Plumbley, so I could always rely on that...except there isn't. It leaves at 23.10 from Arundel Gate. So this cock up warranted sharing a taxi. Two blokes stood at the bus stop having been similarly tricked (because I think the 30 did until very recently run at that time during the week) let me jump in their taxi, and when disembarking hastily at the Parkway roundabout on Handsworth, they insisted I didn't need contribute.
Karma, however, is a sly mistress. So warm with the glow of humanity was I after this kindness (and I suspect a drop or two of frol may have added to my temperature), that on getting home, and being directed towards the edge of the steps by the springy gate which I know from nearly 11 years experience needs to be pushed aside, I took one giant step for Beefy, and one face down full on flop for mankind into my bluebells. (this is not a euphemism)
That I cracked the back of my head on a blob of concrete growing wild in the undergrowth made this a more vexing and time consuming end to the night, as I had to staunch the wound and then wash it painfully several times before getting to bed.
Aah, the slings and arrows of outrageous familiarity with alcohol readers. How one pays for one's art...
Wee Beefy
I have been off work this week and have maturely and sensibly used my free time to get important jobs done, make the house spotless, tend to the garden, and, well, go to the pub. Quite a bit. Here's some details of my Wednesday waterings...
Grindstone
I was off to meet Wee Keefy and Jambon int Blake and decided to go via the Hallamshire House at Commonside. Since I have a pass all the way to Crookes I got off just past the recently reopened Grindstone. I haven't been in this century I think, my Crookes drinking seemed to have been in the Ball, Cobden, Prinny or (RIP) the Old Heavygate. So I thought I'd pop in for a half.
On entering it seemed a bit spruced up but essentially the same. The pub has always had quite a modern interior layout, and I didn't stop to check if the upper level back room was still the snooker room like it was on the day I got my A-Level results (I was 19, law fans!). Remembering that this was the first and only pub I ever drank Wards Kirby on draught in, and the first I ever picked up a copy of Beer Matters (which I still have, from 1993) in, I was hoping to have a pleasant trip back down memory lane, with some great beer.
On the bar were 4 handpumps, with one disheartening Greedy King IPA clip facing me and the other three turned round, making a defencive wall of disappointment. "Ay up" I said, swiftly followed by "Oh dear". I quickly scanned the bar for more pumps. "Is there only the IPA on?" I asked, out of a desire to buy time to mute my disappointment. The barman was unsure and told me something about a new set of something in the cellar; I said it was OK, not to worry, but he insisted on talking to the manager(?), which was very kind but probably not necessary, and came back to confirm what I really already knew - it were IPA only.
I asked him what I missed and found Brains Milkwood, Nottingham Legend and another, and jokingly asked what day was best to visit for real ale. The barman apologised again and insisted any day but today would be fine, that the beers in fact had not yet settled, and was so eager to assuage my assumed dissatisfaction that I felt sorry for him and said "Its OK, I really don't mind, I'll just come back another time - me and IPA don't get on thats all". Looks like the staff are friendly and certainly eager to help, so perhaps when the full range is available this will be a good place for a pint.
Hallamshire House
Off down School Road next to the Hallamshire House, a pub so grey and depressing in its appearance that even though it was overcast, I swear I took a completely grey picture on my phone camera. Inside there were about 7 Thornbridge beers on offer, including their new beer flavoured with cucumber. I was very sceptical that I would enjoy this, not least because I am not a big fan of the cumber. The barman's description of a pale refreshing beer that has " a whole cucumber added to each barrel" really didn't help but I gamely tried a sample. It tasted of beer and cucumber. I couldn't really complain that it had confounded my expectations, but in meeting them, tasted grim. Amusingly, it was called Wye, which I know is the name of the river running out of Bakewell, but would have been a far better name with a question mark on the end....
In the end I had a very nice pint of Wild Swan instead, and sat in the snug on the left enjoying the quiet scene, and trying to see what was different about the stained glass in the window - had they taken the Wards Fine Malt Ales lettering out? Jesus, what's wrong with these power mad aristo's! (having looked at an old photo taken in the same room it seems I may have misremembered this feature, although the whole window is not in view...jury's out.)
Luckily the relative emptiness of the pub enabled me to get a pic or two. Les also came in and took up his position at the bar, which is a positive sign, although ironically he could not receive the compliment on the pump clip Les's Best, as it wasn't on. I finished with an enjoyable half of Jaipur, which seemed sweeter and slightly spicier hopped than before.
Blake Hotel.
Off through Commonside next past the insalubrious Springvale, advertising the amazing upcoming Sky Sports events which improves the pub experience no end with its ability to bring disparate sections of drinking society together in one small space, in a relaxing, level headed thinking encouraging, non divisive way. Soon I was down at the Blake in relative peace eyeing up the 3 remaining pork pies on the bar, and selecting a pint.
I opted for a pie and a pint of Vale Lock Prop and Barrel, a pleasant enough beer from Brill, which went down well. I quickly texted WK and Jambon to inform them that there were only two pies left now, and settled down to wait. They made it, and Jambon had the Dancing Duck brewery Ay Up, and Koof summat grim from a brewery I expected better from. We sat in the right hand room surveying the scene and discussing the cost of beer amongst other things, and blogging - well, I say discussed, more, I talked at them.
Cobden View
I finished with a delicious pint of Brewster's Stilton Porter, which went down really well, and disappointingly appeared to have no chunks of cheese in it - come on Brewsters (who is a person) you missed a trick! This last beer was also a little rushed, since young uns had to get home to drop their respective vehicles off so we could go for another pint legally.
Parking up on Crookes we walked to the (former) Bolehill Chippy, now called Five Star - this misleading name is a travesty, since not one of the original line up works there - for some useful sustenance. Suitably fed we then walked down to the Cobden View. This is another of my formative years drinking venues (shamefully supping Newky Brown when there was real ale on, aged erm, lower 18) and is one I try and visit if I am in the area. On the bar were regular offerings plus Copper Dragon best, Farmers Blonde and Farmers Stout. No prizes for guessing what I had.
We sat out in the beer garden in a rare spot of dry weather although it was still pretty chilly. The stout was a little thinner than at te Old House but was an enjoyable snifter. After a while we caved in and went under the heated smoking shelter for a warm. WK and Jambon were off for more food or telly or other young folks pursuits after this so I strode off down to Conduit and out onto Western Bank to head for the next pub.
University Arms
The Arms was busy and smelled enticingly of food, but I had eaten a fishcake butty a pint ago so saw no reason to fanny about masticating. Instead from a range of four beers, I opted for a pint of Abbeydale Archangel. This is the second of their recent seasonals (Dark Angel being the other ) and even though I am a dark beer fiend at heart, this was equally excellent. Vibrant fruity hops and gentle balancing ,malt made this a tasty quaffable brew that I could have drank many more of. However, I was off to see Barraharri in his natural environs next..
Harrisons 1854.
Star beer turn of the night at the 54 was the Farmers Blonde which was on very good form. I had two pints and an enjoyable chat with John, who was carefully assessing the white wines on offer. As the (late) evening progressed myself John and Barraharri devised an interesting project pertaining to the beers breweries and pubs of the Steel City. The details are entirely embryonic at this point but I will share them with you when they have some form, over the coming months. During this early meeting, a couple more pints of Blonde passed my lips, which may have explained my missing the last 52 bus home.
Mind you, the timetable info is a bit misleading, and ultimately unhelpul. According to that at the bus stop on West Street, there is a 52 to Woodhouse at 23.49 every day. Except there's not. It goes to town. Still, it also says theres a 30 everyday at 23.59 from West Street to Plumbley, so I could always rely on that...except there isn't. It leaves at 23.10 from Arundel Gate. So this cock up warranted sharing a taxi. Two blokes stood at the bus stop having been similarly tricked (because I think the 30 did until very recently run at that time during the week) let me jump in their taxi, and when disembarking hastily at the Parkway roundabout on Handsworth, they insisted I didn't need contribute.
Karma, however, is a sly mistress. So warm with the glow of humanity was I after this kindness (and I suspect a drop or two of frol may have added to my temperature), that on getting home, and being directed towards the edge of the steps by the springy gate which I know from nearly 11 years experience needs to be pushed aside, I took one giant step for Beefy, and one face down full on flop for mankind into my bluebells. (this is not a euphemism)
That I cracked the back of my head on a blob of concrete growing wild in the undergrowth made this a more vexing and time consuming end to the night, as I had to staunch the wound and then wash it painfully several times before getting to bed.
Aah, the slings and arrows of outrageous familiarity with alcohol readers. How one pays for one's art...
Wee Beefy
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