Pub 90, Day 34 – The Francis Newton

By Rob

The final stop of the night was my local Wetherspoons, The Francis Newton. We’d had good food at the The Psalter, fine ale at the The Stag's Head, and now it was time for something a little cheap ‘n’ cheerful.

If you’ve been to a Wetherspoons before, you already know what it served, who the regulars were, and how much it costs. If you haven’t been to a Wetherspoons before: all-sorts, catch-all, and fuck-all.

That being said, some ‘Spoons are nicer than others, and on balance, the Francis Newton ranks among the better. The clientele is younger and more student-esque than that of The Benjamin Huntsman, The Bankers Draft, or elsewhere (I’ll let you decide if this is a plus).

In addition, the surroundings are rather fetching. The current building was once Broombank House – the family home of a local, wealthy cutlery manufacturer.

His name? You guessed it – Old Franky Newton.

Mr Newton owned the Portobello Works (a reasonably short journey from his fancy, Georgian-style residence) and was elected Sheffield’s Master Cutler in 1844.

Turns out there’s a fork load of money in cutlery.

More recently, this pub was the sight of an embarrassing, backfiring prank. You see, some time after our official visit, I was there drinking with a group of my postgrad friends. Sitting across the way, we spied the President of our students' union. At the same time, I was made aware of Wetherspoons’ mobile app, which lets you order drinks for any table in the pub, from any location.

"Wouldn’t it be funny," me and my friend Sam said, "to get loads of milk sent to his table?"

We decided that it would be, despite the fact that it was patently blatantly demonstrably obviously not that funny. At all.

Nevertheless, we went ahead.

Except that we couldn’t work the app properly, and accidently entered our own table number, instead of his.

So, not only was it a shit prank, but we didn’t even execute it correctly.

Ignorant of our shambolic efforts, we sat watching his table, eagerly awaiting the moment when Mr President would be presented with several pints of milk, at which point the whole pub would presumably erupt in hysterics and we’d be carried over the shoulders of the appreciative crowd, as they sprayed celebratory champagne into the air. 

A feat they'd talk about for months afterwards. The two hilarious heroes. Masters of comedy. Pranksters of legend.

Instead, the waiter breezed straight past the intended location, deposited the tray of drinks onto our table, and looked at us with a perfectly justifiable mixture of bemusement and disdain.

Nobody else even glanced twice.

I learned three things that day: I’m not a natural prankster; intelligence is not a prerequisite for doing a PhD; and I quite like milk.

Pub: The Francis Newton
(7 Clarkehouse Road, S10 2LA)

Rating: 7/10

Pint: Devils Backbone American IPA

Brewery: Devils Backbone Brewing Company (based in Roseland, USA)

NEXT UP: Ten out of ten, at the Rutland Arms...

Pub 89, Day 34 – The Stags Head

That’s right folks, we enjoy shirking our responsibilities so much that we’ve offloaded yet another blog onto one of our guests. Sit back and enjoy an insightful post, from a young woman whose work has been called ‘satisfactory’ by teachers and peers alike. Returning after her triumphant debut, I hand you over to the incomparable Reanna.

***

By Reanna

After the roaring success that was my first guest blog, it is no surprise to anyone that the boys have begged me to return. I consider myself quite the philanthropist, and so I quickly agreed…

…The evening was a cold one. Andrew and Robert had somehow convinced a few of us to accompany them on this branch of their Pubquest journey and so, with coats buttoned and scarves tied, our group left the warm confines of the Psalter and hurried along to The Stags Head. The walk was a pleasant one, for Christmas was almost upon us and our journey was illuminated by LED lights shining from every window. 

Upon our arrival I was pleased to see that The Stags Head, which is part of the Thornbridge Brewery chain, had all the charm and character of a traditional country pub. The walls were adorned with dark wood panelling and several pictures, while antlers and such had been hung up around the room. It is not a large pub, with one main room that stretches around a classic wooden bar. To the side of this room is a conservatory-like extension with table seating. The place was fairly busy, although the crowd seemed to be made up mostly of regulars, who all stared at us upon arrival, as though we had just broken into their home.

We ordered our drinks and, although the service was a little slow (due to there being only one barman on), it was friendly enough and the range of drinks was perfectly acceptable. Robert and Andrew got themselves a pint of Myrissty, which is described by Thornbridge Brewery as a winter ale, and I (for this was before my pallet would be mature enough to appreciate the fine flavours of real ale) bought a bottle of fruit cider. Our drinks in hand, we secluded ourselves in the corner of the conservatory, at a table far away from the death-glares that were inevitable when a group of youths enter a pub frequented by old men.

As I learnt on my first exposé, I am not entitled to award any of the pubs a rating. No, instead I must do all the work of writing their blog for them, only for the boys to then swoop in at the end with their ‘official Pubquest score’. So all I will say is that, overall, The Stags Head is a charming, traditional pub: full of character with a good selection of drinks at a slightly higher-than-average price. Its location is pleasant, nestled between Broomhill and Sharrowvale. The atmosphere, while slightly unwelcoming on that night, was lively enough. Any further evaluations, I shall leave to Andrew and Robert…

***

The wise old seers of Pubquest have sat in council and have passed judgement. Let it be known that from henceforth, the Stag shall carry a rating of seven and a half.

And praise be to Reanna for taking less than 36 moons to pen this blog.

Pub: The Stags Head (15 Psalter Lane, S11 8YN)

Rating: 7.5/10

Pint: Myrissty

Brewery: Thornbridge Brewery (Bakewell)

NEXT UP: Backfiring pranks, at The Francis Newton...

Pub 88, Day 34 – The Psalter

By Andy

What a waste of time.

In between our trip to The Psalter and me writing this blog, the pub shut. Permanently.

This renders our visit completely pointless, as it takes us no closer to 'completing the set'.

Even more infuriatingly, because we actually attended, we feel immense pressure to write a blog regardless, lest our readers miss out on a chapter of our journey.

Don't put the kettle on: I'll keep it brief.

***

For presumably the first time in history, Pubquest had a female majority, as we were joined by Ali, Reanna and Hannah – all three of whom will loudly proclaim to anyone within earshot how lame Pubquest is, yet who were returning for their second, third and sixth(!) day of Pubquest respectively. Anyone would think they were starting to enjoy it.

The Psalter is an elongated building – two stone wings connected by a dilapated mid-section that looks like the sort of temporary structure your school no doubt used as an RE classroom.

Inside, it feels more like a pub: the carpets were patterned, the furniture was pre-loved and the staff were friendly.

The pub's impressive size meant there were numerous empty tables to choose from, and our advancing years meant we were beginning to see this as an asset rather than a liability – we picked a quiet corner to ourselves.

In a Pubquest first, we actually
remembered to take a photo of our food

As we hadn't eaten, we ordered an assortment of 2-for-1 stone-baked pizzas, which were surprisingly tasty. However, their oval shape led to a familiar conundrum – how are you meant to slice pizza if the base isn't round? I opted for the 'hacking off random slabs' approach, whereas Rob admirably attempted to converge his slices through a centre-point.

We paired it with Good For Your Elf by Kelham Island Brewery, a pale ale for which taste is irrelevant because everybody chooses it based on the festive pump-clip.

The pub was fine enough, but looking back there were hints that the end was nigh – the building was suffering from a severe lack of investment, and the pub was suffering from a severe lack of customers.

UPDATE: When I wrote this, it looked as though the pub was going to be turned into flats. However, that seems to have fallen through, and there are rumours The Psalter could reopen as a pub once more. This would put the tin lid on it – not only did we go to a pointless pub and write a pointless blog, but I would then have to rewrite said pointless blog because the introduction would be outdated!

Pub: The Psalter (178-180 Psalter Lane, S11 8US)

Rating: 8/10

Pint: Good For Your Elf

Brewery: Kelham Island Brewery (Sheffield)

NEXT UP: Reanna returns, at The Stags Head...

Pub 87, Day 33 – Masons Arms

By Andy

Although hidden from the main road, the Masons Arms jumps out if you select the right side-street, fighting for attention with the equally impressive Wesley Hall Church.

An old-fashioned boozer, the Masons Arms looks exactly how every pub should: patterned carpets, wooden fittings, and an ancient man sat in each corner (dog optional).

Despite appearing huge from outside, it somehow manages to feel cramped from within. The owners have gamely tried to make a feature out of the pub's bay window, but unfortunately the faded paint means it doesn't quite work. Then again, not every pub can be blessed with the Three Tuns' architecture.

The beer selection was ample, although it was with some trepidation that we ordered Hobgoblin Gold – we still hadn't forgotten our experience with Hobgoblin in West Street Live. Thankfully, the gold variant is much more pleasant.

Halfway through our pint the pool table became available, so we naturally power-walked our way over before someone else got there first.

Against the run of form, Rob triumphed (for the first time since the Big Tree, pub 44).

However, just as we were about to return to our seats, things got interesting. A young man stumbled over and asked if he could play. Never one to turn down a challenge (even from creepy drunk men), I agreed to a game.

As he racked the balls, he was struggling to stand without swaying; and in an attempt to toss the coin, he predictably dropped half the contents of his wallet, showering nearby patrons with copper.

I decided I had won the coin toss by default, and headed over to break.

“I'll play you for money,” slurred my opponent. “Make it interesting.”

I paused. The poor fellow was still scrabbling around for the pennies at his feet.

“How much?” I enquired, rummaging through my pocket for a coin or two.

“Thirty quid,” came the response, quick as a flash.

Drawing a sharp intake of breath, I turned to Rob and Hannah, who had kindly pulled up a stool to spectate. No words were spoken, but many facial expressions were exchanged:

“Do it! This'll pay for our drinks all night! It'll be like taking candy from a baby!” grinned Rob.

“He's clearly not thinking straight, be the good guy,” urged Hannah.

“Call it a fiver mate,” I concluded, not wanting to take undue advantage of him. I placed £5 in coins on the table.

A slight look of disappointment on his face, the man straightened up, reached for his back pocket, selected a £5-note from a wad of cash, then confidently strode to the other end of the table. With no announcement, he suddenly broke off, spreading the balls across the table at blistering speed.

Suspicious already, I observed his next shot in a bid to gauge his ability.

The stumble now replaced with a swagger, he delicately potted into the middle pocket. Casually chalking his cue with one hand, he then spent an age selecting his next shot, before playing a tedious safety.

By this point it was clear: only my good nature had prevented me from being royally hustled.

Pubquest's Most Wanted

My preferred plan of action was to punch my opponent in the face. Unfortunately, I hadn't yet finished my pint, and if we were barred from the Masons Arms at this stage we would never be able to complete Pubquest. (Also the guy would have kicked the shit out of me, but let's overlook this fact for now.)

My only remaining option was to continue with dignity. It was time to serve this guy some karma.

Alas, I was out of my depth. My adversary made short work of the reds, and advanced to the black while I had three yellows remaining. Fortunately, he missed a tough shot to win the game, giving me one final chance.

As I rose to my feet (yes, his style of play was so drawn-out that I had resorted to sitting down between shots), I heard Rob turn to Hannah and say, “He'll win it from here.”

Looking at the table, I realised he was right: my three colours were all in the open, and the black was right by the pocket.

This mumbled vote of confidence gave me the belief I needed to clear up. Sure enough, I didn't buckle.

The crowd rose to their feet with delight – Hannah gave me a hug, while Rob scooped up the money and treated us to a second pint.

My conquered rival skulked off, muttering something about “the table being too slow”.

Taking candy from a baby it was not. But taking £5 from a hustler was far more satisfying.

Masons Arms pool score: Andy 1-2 Rob

Pubquest pool score: Andy 42-30 Rob

Masons Arms pool score: Pubquest 1-0 Rest of World

Pubquest pool score: Pubquest 4-2 Rest of World

Pub: Masons Arms (2 Carson Road, S10 1UR)

Rating: 6/10

Pint: Hobgoblin Gold

Brewery: Wychwood Brewery (Witney, Oxfordshire)

NEXT UP: Blogging about a closed pub, at The Psalter...

Pub 86, Day 33 – Old Grindstone

By Rob

Twas a few weeks before Christmas, when all through the city,

Folk were out having fun, twas a sight oh-so pretty,

And amidst all these people there were two of the best,

Who were preparing themselves for a night of Pubquest.

They dressed up real smart, taking care of their looks,

And set off to drink in a place they called Crookes,

They were ready and focused, they were both in the zone,

And their first stop that night, would be the Old Grindstone.

From outside the pub looked really quite gracious,

And once inside it was most surprisingly spacious,

"I wonder," said Andrew, "what the beer choices are."

So to answer his query, we went to the bar.

We were both very pleased by the large range of beer,

How smart we both were for having come here!

"Frozen Assets looks good," I heard Andy shout,

From Taxman Brewing, it was a rich chocolate stout.

We each bought a pint and then we sat ourselves down,

As I sipped at my drink, Andy spotted my frown,

"What's wrong?" he inquired, "what's wrong?" he asked twice,

I said "I don't often like stout, but this is rather quite nice!"

We were enjoying the ale, and we were enjoying the sights,

Surrounded by tinsel and small Christmas lights,

And last but not least, we noted with glee,

Was a beautifully decorated, seven-foot tree.

Amidst all this splendour, amidst all this cheer,

We each drank our drinks, in the warm atmosphere,

The pub was friendly and cosy, and also trendy and cool,

It played music, had TV, and a table for pool.

The pub had made a real effort, it looked incredibly festive,

But it was time to sup up, as we were both getting restive,

It was already late, and there were more pubs ahead,

There stood at least one more pint, between me and my bed.

So while the pub was still busy, filled with lads and with lasses,

We both downed our drinks, and we returned our glasses,

We stepped out of the pub, and left behind its many charms,

As we each soldiered on, towards the Masons Arms.

Pub: Old Grindstone (3 Crookes, S10 1UA)

Rating: 8/10

Pint: Frozen Assets

Brewery: Taxman Brewing Company (based in Bargersville, USA)

NEXT UP: Encountering a pool hustler, at the Masons Arms...

Pub 85, Day 32 – The Manor Castle

By Rob

The Manor Castle takes its name, as does the surrounding area, from the nearby Manor Lodge. Originally built in 1516 as a hunting lodge in one of England's largest deer parks, the Lodge is perhaps best known as the place in which Mary Queen of Scots was held prisoner for 14 years.

More recently, many people have told me that The Manor Castle was once voted the roughest pub in Britain. Despite these repeated assertions, I haven't yet managed to verify this claim. Of course, the fact that such a claim is often made is, in itself, troubling for anybody faced with the prospect of drinking there.

What I did know for certain was that, unjustly or not, the pub had an unsavoury reputation. This was probably due, in part, to its location within the Manor estate. Once described as the worst estate in Britain, the Manor has featured in various newspaper articles over the years, many of which have made lurid claims about the horrors of living on the estate.

From my own experiences of working in the area (I was a glass collector at the Manor Estate Social Club for five years while at university) I knew that a lot of the reporting was exaggerated. As more recent articles were showing, the estate had improved dramatically over the past decade or so.

Nevertheless, both Andy and myself were understandably apprehensive about venturing into the pub.

"You're not going there?!" people would ask, horrified.

"I think you're stupid," others would conclude.

"Best of luck," some simply said.

"Can I have your laptop if you die?" my loving sisters would enquire.

But we were not about to relent, not when we had a job to do. We reasoned that it was all about timing: even the roughest pubs would have their not-so-rough moments. It was simply a matter of working out when that would be.

That meant weekends were off-limits, as going when the pub was busiest didn't seem like a sensible choice. Evenings also seemed like a bad idea, as that's when the heavier drinking would get underway.

Midweek afternoons were risky too, as the most diehard locals and alcoholics would be present, making the arrival of two outsiders impossible to miss. And of course mornings weren't an option, as I couldn't get out of bed.

We were thus left flummoxed. There wasn't a good time to go.

It was then, at the very moment when we thought all hope was lost, that we were saved. Salvation arrived, somewhat surprisingly, in the form of a gay wedding.

My girlfriend at the time, Hannah, had a work colleague who was marrying his long-term partner. Their wedding reception was being held at The Manor Castle, and Hannah had been invited.

It was an opportunity we couldn't miss – to sneak into the pub under the safety of a wedding, when the taproom would be privately rented out and all of the local punters absent.

"Could you get a plus one for the wedding?" I asked her.

She checked with her friend and yes, it turned out she could.

"Could you get a plus two for the wedding?" I then asked her.

She again checked with her friend and yes, it turned out she could.

***

The big day arrived and, once the vows and all the rest of it were out of the way, the main event took place. The happy couple made their way to the wedding reception. Two young men, bound together by a shared commitment, were about to embark on a wonderful, magical journey.

The newlyweds were there too.

From the outside, the pub was pretty nondescript. It didn't look particularly shabby, rough, or dangerous.

The same was true of the inside, more or less. The room we were in was fairly small, with the standard-issue pub carpet, tables, stools and bar. On this day, however, there was also a DJ near the doorway and, in one corner, a large buffet.

Wanting to get the measure of the place, I popped my head through the door into the other room, where the locals were drinking. Now, maybe The Manor Castle was once the roughest pub in Britain, but I'm certain that's no longer the case. The average age of the clientele was about seventy. If these were the same violent ruffians who'd secured a fearsome reputation for the pub back in its day, then they'd clearly mellowed with age. I was more worried about them breaking their own bones, not mine.

While the pub was much less scary than anticipated, the beer selection was every bit as dismal as we'd feared. With only a few standard lagers and bitters on tap, there was nothing for us. I was sorely tempted to complain to the newlyweds about their blatantly selfish lack of consideration. They hadn't even bothered to check what beers would be on offer. Instead, they'd made the day entirely about themselves, without giving a thought to the fact that an official Pubquest visit was also taking place.

Choosing to be the better men, we let it pass. Fortunately, we'd recently been faced with a similar situation in which we'd resorted to bottled beer, and so we eyed up the fridge.

We thus ended up with two bottles of Bulmers crushed red berries & lime cider. Overly sweet and artificially fruity, it was every bit as unpleasant as you might imagine. On the plus side, the bottles each contained a full pint, so there was no need to buy any more.

As the evening wore on, the clingfilm and tinfoil was removed from the various plates of food on offer. Andy's eyes lit up like the fourth of July. Not letting the fact that he didn't know anybody at the wedding dissuade him, he flew from his chair and, through the efficient use of sharp elbows, secured a place near the front of the buffet line.

With the food consumed, the standard wedding festivities played out. Cheesy music and incomprehensible murmuring from the DJ; outrageously bad karaoke; even worse dancing; and a seemingly endless stream of children running in between the tables like the annoying little bastards they are.

As you might have gathered, I hate weddings.

Still, it was better than being stabbed.

Pub: The Manor Castle (239 Manor Lane, S2 1UJ)

Rating: 4/10

Pint: Bulmers Crushed Red Berries & Lime

Brewery: H. P. Bulmer (Hereford)

NEXT UP: Rob writes a poem, at the Old Grindstone...

Pub 84, Day 31 – The Doctor's Orders

By Rob

After escaping from the shambolic shitpile that was the South Sea, we finally headed to meet Danny. He had just completed his last day of employment at the Children's Hospital, and was celebrating with colleagues at The Doctor's Orders. Situated amidst the Hallamshire and Children's, this particular watering hole is a common haunt of doctors, nurses, and hospital staff.  

Upon arrival, we stepped into the nicely decorated, spacious venue and wandered over to the bar. There was a good range of ales on offer, none of which we'd tried before, and so I felt comfortable letting Andy make the big decision on his own. 

While my compatriot deliberated over which beer to purchase, I spied Danny over at the other side of the room. He was surrounded by a group of people and, to my astonishment, most of them were young, female and attractive. The conversation appeared to be flowing seamlessly. The girls were smiling and laughing at his jokes. Everything seemed to be going well.

Andy stepped away from the bar, carrying the drinks.

"I bought us two pints of --"

"-- Shush!" I interjected, cutting him off. Before he could inquire as to my rudeness, I pointed to the other side of the room, in the direction of our mutual friend.

"Oh," came the response. "Wow."

I nodded. Wow indeed. For years we'd always viewed Danny as a hapless fool where matters of romance were concerned. It was widely shared wisdom that he was unable to successfully engage in any sort of flirtation with members of the opposite sex.

And yet here it was, in front of our very eyes.

We had to ask ourselves: was Danny actually a ladies' man?

Well, as it turned out: no.

Once the safari-like experience of watching our friend from afar had worn off, we walked over and said hello. In the subsequent conversations that took place, it became readily apparent that Danny's relationship with each and every woman present was strictly platonic, with no possibility of any change to the deeply non-romantic nature of the connection.

Reassured that our basic understanding of the universe was not totally flawed, we mingled with the crowd and drank our drinks. Thanks to Andy, we were each sipping a pint of Sagres: a lovely light lager, which was ever so slightly sweet.

As I got chatting to the others, I was suddenly struck by the realisation that I was getting demonstrably older. Making small talk, I mentioned that The Doctor's Orders used to be my local, as I'd lived only a few doors up the road during my first year of university.

Except back then the pub was called The West End, I had to explain.

And my old house had been knocked down, I clarified.

Also, the big supermarket and multi-storey car park didn't exist back then, I pointed out.

Oh, and the new hospital buildings weren't there either, I added.

Hearing myself, I was reminded of almost every conversation I'd ever had with my grandfather, who was unable to drive down a street without embarking on a lengthy explanation of which buildings used to stand where.

I realised that I was getting old.

I also realised that I was really, really bad at small talk. After all, no stranger was going to be interested in hearing about where I used to live.

The hours rolled by and, inevitably, we got drunk. It was at this time that Danny, in his heavily inebriated state, decided to sneak us into the hospital with his staff ID card. He'd left something or other in his locker, and needed to retrieve it. Stupidly, he suggested we come along.

Minutes later, we were doing what most people do after a visit to the pub: drunkenly staggering around the basement of a hospital. It didn't take us long to get lost in the warren of identical-looking corridors and unhelpful signage and, before long, we found ourselves walking past the operating theatres (which were empty, thank God).

We eventually found the locker room, eliciting curious stares from some of the coffee-sipping doctors. Dressed in shirts and jeans, and smelling quite strongly of beer, it was difficult to persuade anyone that we, too, were hospital staff. Fortunately, Danny recognised a few of the faces and made up some ridiculous excuse as to why we'd ventured into the bowels of the hospital with him.

As he nipped into the changing room to retrieve his belongings, I decided to make small talk with one of the doctors sat across from me.

"Did you know that I used to live around here?" I asked.

Pub: The Doctor's Orders (412 Glossop Rd, S10 2JD)

Rating: 7.5/10

Pint: Sagres

Brewery: Central de Cervejas (Vialonga, Portugal)

NEXT UP: A gay wedding, at The Manor Castle...

Pub 83, Day 31 – South Sea

By Rob

Question: when is a pub not a pub?

Answer: when it's a bar, or a club, or a supermarket. Nor is it a pub if it's a newsagents, a butchers, or a bank. Laundrettes aren't pubs either. You can also safely categorise cobblers, pet shops, and designer outlets as things that are definitely not pubs.

So what about total fucking dumps? Are they pubs?

That was the question we were faced with upon arrival at the South Sea in Broomhill, which claimed to be a pub, despite looking for all the world like it was, in fact, a total fucking dump (TFD).

That was the impression we got from the outside, as we looked at the squat, black-bricked, flat-roofed building that stood in front of us.

It was the impression we continued to get from the inside, as we glanced down at the threadbare carpet, complete with interwoven chewing gum and stains of indeterminate origin. Weird shit hung on the walls, the furniture looked like it had been retrieved from a skip, and the bar wasn't dissimilar in appearance to one that your uncle might knock up in his garage as he crashes headlong into a midlife crisis.

Now, despite how it sounds, I don't have anything against TFDs. Thanks to Pubquest, I've been in quite a few. Pubs that are shabby and rundown are perfectly alright in my book. However, the problem with the South Sea was that it was deliberately cultivating the TFD aesthetic in order to qualify, in some bizarre manner, as trendy.

For instance, where most venues might try and dissuade their clientele from scrawling shit all over the walls and doors of the toilets, the South Sea actively encouraged it. I'm not sure why. Perhaps they were hoping that, mid-piss, their customers would suddenly look up from the urinal and be struck by the freestyle artwork and grimy urban feel. Maybe this would have been the case if the graffiti had been even slightly Banksy-esque, instead of 15-year-old-boy-smoking-weed-in-the-school-toilets-esque.

Slightly perturbed, we approached the bar to scan the pumps for any appealing beers.

Except we couldn't.

There were no pumps.

"We don't have anything on tap," came the explanation from the barman, obviously prompted by the look of confusion on our faces.

"So what do you have?" Andy asked.

Helpfully, the barman replied: "Bottles".

This statement wasn't delivered as an apology. It wasn't a mistake. The pumps weren't broken. The pub just didn't have anything on tap. Ever.

Swallowing down a mouthful of bile, we inquired further and discovered that, if you weren't drinking spirits, then your options were limited to a few bottles of lager, cider, or Newcastle Brown Ale. Left with no choice, we picked two of the latter.

Back at the table, I could see Andy staring at the label on the back of the bottle. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet mine. I knew what he was going to say before the words even came out.

"There isn't a full pint of beer in these bottles," Andy said flatly.

Considering that the whole point of Pubquest is to drink a pint in every pub, we couldn't tick the South Sea off our list with one bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale, and I had no desire to return to the TFD.

It transpired that one 'Newkie Brown' held 550ml of ale, which was just 18.261ml short of a pint. Therefore, to ensure we were abiding by the rules, we were forced to buy a third bottle. Of course, we didn't want to drink more than was strictly necessary, so to be certain of the measurements we opted to serve the additional beer in a shot glass, thereby guaranteeing we would have drank just over a pint each.

I'm fairly confident that, for the barman, it was the first time he'd ever been asked for a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale and two shot glasses.

Needs must

Now, it's at this point in the blog where I have been known to say something along the lines of 'sitting there at the table, with our drinks, I actually found myself warming to the pub'.

Not this time.

In fact, sitting there at the table, with our drinks, I actually found myself wondering what the point of the pub was, which has to be a Pubquest first. All they offered was bottled beer, which I could have picked up for a fraction of the price at my local shop. The atmosphere was dead. The surroundings were shit.

I disliked the South Sea so intensely that, were it left to me, I would award the pub one solitary star. However, Pubquest is a joint enterprise and Andy, ever the more generous of the two, felt that the pub deserved slightly better. He said something about the pub having 'character', or some other vaguely ridiculous notion.

Therefore, by the good grace of Andy, the pub is saved from sharing bottom spot with the Hollin Bush.

It's still a TFD though.

NOTE: As if to justify absolutely everything I've said, the pub has since closed down!

Pub: South Sea (3 Spooner Road, S10 5BL) 

Rating: 3.5/10

Pint: Newcastle Brown Ale

Brewery: John Smith's Brewery (Tadcaster, North Yorkshire)

NEXT UP: A visit to the Children's Hospital, at The Doctor's Orders...

Pub 82, Day 31 – The York

By Rob

It was a Friday night and I was bored. I'd made no plans for the weekend and so, regrettably, I was stuck at home. Despite paying for numerous online streaming services, there was nothing to watch on television. I was fairly certain that, at the age of 24, I was supposed to be doing something with my weekend other than watching episodes of Peep Show which I'd previously seen nineteen-thousand times.

I was midway through quoting a familiar scene out loud (one of the many benefits to living alone) when the phone rang.

It was my long-suffering friend, Danny.

He had just completed his last day of employment at the Children's Hospital, and was going out with some colleagues as a leaving do. They were heading to a pub in town, near the hospital, which happened to be just down the road from my flat.

Did I want to join them?

Naturally, the first thing I did was check that it was absolutely OK for me to come, as you don't want to gatecrash somebody else's night out.

I did this while putting on my jeans, shirt, jacket, shoes, and – immediately discarding any concerns about uninvited people tagging along – texted Andy to see if he wanted to join.

Of course he did!

In fact, not only would we be meeting Danny at the pub, but we planned to squeeze an additional two venues in beforehand.

Suddenly, Friday night was looking up.

***

Like The British Oak, which has been rightly lavished with praise in a previous blog, The York is owned by True North. The two pubs are very similar, as The York is also perfectly decorated with dark wood panelling, coloured Victorian-style tiles, and an odd assortment of trinkets and pictures dotted along its various walls.

The beer selection is excellent, with the pub able to boast of numerous different ales on tap. For those who prefer something a little stronger, the selection of spirits on offer is even more extensive. I have it on good authority that the gins are particularly good!

Acutely aware of the self-imposed rule that whatever alcohol we consume has to come as a pint, we decided to stay away from the gin, for fear of death by instant liver failure. We instead opted for two pints of Crofton IPA. A relatively strong beer at 5.4%, it packed a real punch, yet somehow still managed to carry a fruity taste with a light finish.

Pints in hand, we then experienced the one downside of being in The York on a Friday night: the overabundance of other human beings. A victim of its own success, weekends always see the place get really busy. As such, it was unable to offer any seating or even much standing room, while the cold and miserable weather left its normally pleasant beer garden off limits to even the hardiest ale drinkers.

From numerous previous visits, I can confidently attest to the fact that the pub offers excellent food, as well as a fun quiz that runs most weeks. Of the pubs in Broomhill, it undoubtedly offers the broadest range of drinks and the best quality meals. As you might expect, it's also probably the most expensive! For this reason, it's one of those pubs that students are most likely to frequent when their parents come to visit. 

After getting to the bottom of our IPAs – a difficulty when your arms are pressed against your sides by the surrounding crowd – we fought our way to the doors and heaved ourselves out onto the street. We walked along the road in the cold night breeze, heading to the next venue...

...Until we realised that we hadn't taken our empty glasses back to the bar.

Faced with a choice between returning to the scrum or knowingly abandoning a cornerstone of Pubquest etiquette, we valiantly strode back into the foray and did our duty.

After all, 'manners maketh man'.

Pub: The York (243-247 Fulwood Road, S10 3BA)

Rating: 8/10

Pint: Crofton IPA

Brewery: The Kennet & Avon Brewery (Melksham, Wiltshire)

NEXT UP: No beers on tap?! At South Sea...