Pub 50, Day 18 – Fagan's

By Rob and Andy

“You’ll never amount to much.”

“You don’t see things through, that’s your problem.”

“If either of you ever succeed at anything, I’ll eat my own fingers.”

“You know my brother Ethan!”

These are just some of the comments and accusations that have been levelled against us. Yet none of that has stopped us. Through wind and rain, thick and thin, good times and bad, we’ve stayed the course.

Now here we are, standing at the first milestone: pub number 50.

To mark this special occasion, we’ve dispensed with the usual formula (if there is one) and decided to write this entry together, for Pubquest is not a lone man’s voyage, but a joint venture.

So it is that you, our lucky reader(s), will get to hear from both of us...

Rob: Having left the Three Tuns, we made the short walk over to the nearby Fagan’s. This old joint, which has been serving beer since at least the early 1820s, was originally called The Barrel. It was renamed in 1985 in recognition of its former landlord, Joe Fagan, who had the honour of being Tetley’s longest-serving landlord, having been in the job for 37 years.

Today, locals will probably recognise the pub thanks to the huge mural on the side of the building – known as The Snog – by Sheffield artist Pete McKee.

The picture is great: both funny and endearing. This means that, if you’re approaching the pub from the correct side of the road, it automatically has a bit of star quality about it. After all, few pubs can boast such a great decoration.

If, like us, you’re approaching the building from the other side of the road, then it really doesn’t look like something you’d write home to your parents about.

Keen to see what it was like inside, we were about to step into the building when Andy stopped me.

“Wait,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve brought something for the occasion”.

Curious, I watched on as he dug into his pockets, idly wondering whether he was about to pull out a bulging wallet and offer to finance the remainder of the evening.

He didn’t, of course.

What he did provide, however, was a pair of ‘50’ birthday badges. I had to admit that I thought it was a nice touch. The only slight problem was that the badges actually said "I am 50", which we were very clearly not, but you work with what you’ve got.

Stepping indoors, we found ourselves in a place that looked, above all else, worn. I think that’s the only word that I can find to describe it. It certainly wasn’t a rough pub and, as we’ll go onto mention, the clientele were overwhelmingly friendly.

Andy: Panic not, dear readers, for Rob's verbal vomit is over.

Lucy, a mutual friend of ours, once informed us that she preferred my blogs to Rob's. Now I'm not a petty man, and therefore I don't remind Rob of this at absolutely every possible opportunity. But when you compare my delicate prose to his reckless ramblings, it's easy to see her point. It's akin to J. R. R. Tolkien co-writing Lord of the Rings with Forrest Gump.

Andy (centre) prepares to continue the story from Rob (right)

Are you keeping up? Good, because we're in Fagan's, a pub from a bygone era, where the staff spend more time chatting with the punters than worrying about the wallpaper.

Aware that our badges made us look like fools, we sensibly retreated to the corner. Still, it didn't stop some doddery old woman making a beeline for us.

“You look good for 50!” she exclaimed.

“I moisturise,” Rob retorted, quick as a flash.

I, however, have been brought up to respect my elders and so gave the pleasant old bat a brief summary of Pubquest.

“Ooo, there's not as many pubs as when I were a kid,” she remarked, in that wistful tone that only pensioners can summon.

At this point, it was getting dangerously close to Let-Me-Pull-Up-A-Chair territory. Worried she might not leave us alone (we wanted to spend a bit of time together on our anniversary), I scared her into retreat by telling her about our Twitter account.

As the smell of Grandma slowly receded, it was replaced by the scent of chilli. A giant vat bubbled away not ten yards from our table. Naturally, we enquired as to its availability.

“I'm afraid it's for an event,” came the barman's reply.

Quite what this event was I'm unsure, as there were only about five people in the pub. Unless we had stumbled upon the Over-65s Chilli-Eating World Championship, it seemed that plenty would be going spare.

Sensing defeat, we focussed our attention on the drinks instead. As you should know by now, Pubquest rules dictate we must drink a different pint in each pub. With this in mind, Addlestones Cloudy Cider caught our eye – neither of us had ever heard of it. Although not normally cider-drinkers, we requested two pints of scrumpy.

I'll let Rob finish this one off. No doubt he'll tell you that the cider was “nice” and the pub was “good”.

Rob: Casting my mind back to when I was eleven years old, I remember a game we used to play in class. You would write a few lines of a story, fold the paper over, and then pass it onto somebody else who would pick up where you left off. The process was repeated over and over, until everyone had contributed and the tale was complete.

Each time I would take it very seriously, putting maximum effort into crafting perfect English and using my blossoming mastery of the pen to create the foundation of an exciting story, ripe with potential. The problem was that my fellow Year 7 collaborators never quite shared my enthusiasm for mature plotlines. What started out as a promising Victorian murder mystery novel would inevitably turn into a story about a teacher whose trousers fell down.

That is what writing a joint blog with Andrew Wilson feels like. 

The post starts out as a thing of beauty, promising to grow into something both splendidly witty and excellently written, but then ultimately falls short. It’s a bit like watching an experienced coachman who sets out driving smoothly down the queen’s highway, but who then inexplicably hands the reins of his gilded carriage to the half-blind, limbless alcoholic who is usually entrusted with nothing so taxing as mucking out the stables.

But anyway, back to the matter of Fagan’s.

Contrary to Andy’s predictions, I’m not going to say that the cider was “nice” or that the pub was “good”, because neither statement has any place in the writings of an honest man. The cider wasn’t nice. The pub wasn’t particularly good.

The issue with the cider was that it suffered from a fundamental problem that rendered my distaste a foregone conclusion, which was simply this: it was cider. No matter how fine the apples, it will never be my favourite drink. However, it must be stated that – as far as cider goes – this was one of the better ones. I couldn’t say that I enjoyed it, but it didn’t make me want to scour my tongue with razor wire.

Andy, who is also generally averse to the beverage, found himself pleasantly surprised. I suspect that, for real cider lovers, it would be a fine pint indeed.

As far as the pub itself is concerned, it was certainly below average but still a good distance above being total rubbish. It was overwhelmingly shabby, while still strangely posh. The punters were welcoming, but the rundown taproom and frankly appalling selection of books and board games aren’t going to win it any of the coveted Pubquest Awards.

Andy: Bloody hell, Rob's tough to please. On the plus side, the cider was excellent, showing they care about the quality of your pint, and the mural gives Fagan's a touch of uniqueness that nowhere in the city can match.

Anyway, it's safe to say the joint blog has been a disaster. We've gone round in more circles than a spirograph and we haven't even reached a conclusion yet.

Rob: The pub wasn't great. 5/10.

Andy: A bit shabby perhaps but it had character! 9/10.

Rob: 7/10? 

Andy: Deal.

Pub: Fagan's (69 Broad Ln, S1 4BS)

Rating: 7/10

Pint: Addlestones Cloudy Premium Cider

Brewery: C&C Group (Shepton Mallet, Somerset)

NEXT UP: Danny returns, at The Swim Inn...

Pub 49, Day 18 – Three Tuns

By Andy

Architecturally speaking, the Three Tuns is surely the finest pub in the city. Triangular in shape, it was built in 1840 and designated as a Grade II listed building in 1974. Reminiscent of the Flatiron Building in New York, it refused to let the confines of the street prevent its construction.

The Flatiron Building (Flickr: FromTheNorth)

The Three Tuns (Flickr: Jose M Vazquez)  

If you're lucky enough to get the table which juts out into the road, it feels like being the lookout on a pirate ship, able to observe all around from your elevated position.

On this occasion though, seating was at a premium – we had unwittingly turned up on pub quiz night. With no free tables, we grabbed a pen and paper and stood by the bar. It was time to shine.

There was no denying that we had embarrassed ourselves at pub quizzes on Pubquest so far. To our eternal shame, we had picked up the wooden spoon prize at The Shakey, and despite a significant improvement, we were still off the pace at the Hollin Bush. Although we were at a natural disadvantage due to our two-man team, we knew we had to prove ourselves.

“Question One: sport. Which two countries will contest tomorrow's Cricket World Cup final?”

Rob turned to me. He had a nasty habit of doing that. Because I possess a Sheffield United season ticket, he assumes I can answer any question about any sport. As it was, because the Cricket World Cup was hosted by Australia, the entire thing had taken place at 6am, and as such had completely passed me by.

“We'll come back to that one,” I optimistically declared.

“Question Two: general knowledge. Who was the first person to fly over the English Channel?”

We exchanged blank looks, each willing the other to excitedly pick up the pen from its dormant position on the bar.

“This is a waste of time, I can't be bothered to do an entire quiz stood up,” announced Rob, tactfully avoiding the fact that we hadn't known either of the answers so far.

I could see his point. We had no idea how many questions there were going to be, and so could be in for a long shift on our feet. Besides, it was already apparent that we wouldn't win first prize.

Just then, the non-quizzing occupants of a nearby table began putting their coats on.

“Are you leaving?” I asked, eyeing up their table.

“Yeah, we're getting up early to watch the cricket final,” came the reply.

“Oh really, who's playing?” I enquired, always one for idle chit-chat.

“Australia vs New Zealand. Australia are obviously favourites because they have home advantage, but I think New Zealand...”

At some point my facial expression must have betrayed the fact that I cared not one iota for his prediction. Slowly realising he had been used and discarded like a teenage boy's sock, he tailed off.

Now I'm not a big believer in fate. Is there a divine power that strives to bring soulmates together, all the while masquerading as mere coincidence? Probably not. But did an omnipotent force just take a break from match-making to provide us with a pub quiz answer? Almost certainly.

From this I could draw only one conclusion: we were destined to win the quiz.

Unfortunately, it was going to take more than one stolen answer to bring us up to par. With a pitiful 9/20, we scored exactly half the winning score. Thankfully, there was no wooden spoon prize, sparing us the embarrassment which befell us at The Shakey.

However, our mood soon improved when we realised that all quiz participants received free chip butties! I have always hated the phrase “it's not the winning, it's the taking part”, but after my third chip butty the finer details of who won and who lost seemed insignificant.

To complement our chip butties we were drinking Maori Red from the Blue Bee Brewery – an intriguing scarlet beer which is brewed in Sheffield using New Zealand hops.

Free food and good beer, what's not to like? Other than our own intelligence...

UPDATE: The Maori Red beer has since been discontinued by the brewery and replaced by a suspiciously similar-tasting ale entitled Oceanic Red. Presumably this is connected to the fact that King Tuheitia of the Maori people accused an American brewery called Funkwerks of inflicting “another form of oppression and abuse that indigenous peoples have faced for decades” when they named their beer Maori King. Read more about the controversy here. Luckily, it appears King Tuheitia never visited the Three Tuns...

Pub: Three Tuns (39 Silver Street Head, S1 2DD)
Rating: 8.5/10
Pint: Maori Red 
Brewery: Blue Bee Brewery (Sheffield)

NEXT UP: A special joint blog, at Fagan's...

Pub 48, Day 18 – The Church House

By Rob

I lived for a series of years,

Not far from the toll of the bell,

My house they pull'd over my ears,

And I was consign'd to my cell.

Before my remains were dissolved,

The Black Resurrection took place,

My troubles upon me resolved,

Much to the Old Serpent's disgrace.

     - Joseph Mather, 'The Black Resurrection'

Joseph Mather, an eighteenth-century Sheffield songster, wrote the above verse in disgust at the behaviour of a certain 'Old Serpent' – the Reverend James Wilkinson. 

In 1785, the local authorities decided to widen Church Lane. With the permission of Reverend Wilkinson, they took a portion of the churchyard from the local Sheffield Parish Church (now the Cathedral) and removed a number of bodies that had been buried there; hence the title of Mather's song – The Black Resurrection.

Mather was not alone in his anger at Mr Wilkinson, the wealthy and influential Vicar of Sheffield who, in his additional role as Justice of the Peace, is known to have imprisoned his detractors and whose monument was the first commissioned work by Sir Francis Chantrey.^[1]

Mr Wilkinson was seen as having behaved outrageously by allowing the remains of local parishioners to be exhumed. However, a rhyming testimony by James Wills at the turn of the century, that calls Church Lane a "dark and dreary street" that "might justly be styled the robber's retreat" suggests that Mr Wilkinson was right to allow the work to go ahead.^[2] Either way, this turbulent event led to the creation of the area around the Cathedral that we know today.

Reverend James Wilkinson (picture from Art UK)

Reading this blog you may be surprised, impressed and perhaps even a little awestruck at my comprehensive knowledge of the city centre. However, as it transpired, I didn't know this spot quite as well as I thought. For one thing, I had no idea there was a pub – called The Church House – right next to the Cathedral.

Andy, on the other hand, was well aware of the pub’s existence. At the age of fifteen, while on work experience at a nearby bank, he had popped in there during his lunch hour with a few of his older, adult colleagues. They told the bar staff that Andy was, in fact, seventeen years old and – as this was somehow seen to be marginally less illegal than if he had been fifteen – the staff graciously agreed to turn a blind eye to his drinking.

But before South Yorkshire Police break down the doors, I should point out that the pub has changed hands a few times since then. You see, before it was The Church House it was Sanctuary Bar, and before that it was The Priory pub, and a long time before that it was the Church of England Educational Institute. The street it stands on has also seen its name change more than a few times, finally being renamed as St James' Street in honour of the nearby church of St James, which was destroyed in the Blitz.

In short, this small section of the city has been relentlessly reconfigured, revamped and renamed over the centuries and it stands as testament to the rich cultural fabric of Sheffield. And, talking of the rich cultural fabric of Sheffield...

...We walked into The Church House and got exactly what we'd expected; a really nice stone-built pub that – despite serving beer and bar snacks – managed to keep hold of its Victorian dignity.  The clientele was inevitably made up of those middle-aged posh people that inexplicably seem to always have free time on their hands, and some German tourists.

We ordered ourselves a pint of Theakston Lightfoot. A pale ale that's perfect in the summer that, with a refreshing fruity flavour, went down nicely.

..............................................................................................

Fun fact: The beer gets its name from the Lightfoot brewery, which was taken over by Theakston in 1919. The amalgamation made a lot of sense, as the two brewing families were very close and linked through marriage. Alternatively, there's an old rumour that the real motivation behind Theakston's acquisition lay in the fact that Lightfoot had the better cricket team...^[3]

.............................................................................................. 

Before & After
(The picture on the left is from picturesheffield.com where it is available to buy as a print)

Sipping our ale we found that we very much liked The Church House. It had a good range of beers on tap, the atmosphere was pleasant, the building was impressive, and the pub was in a great location. All was as it should be, until I got up and wandered over to the gents and saw something that you don't often see in a modern British public house.

Laid out on a small empty stage, right next to the toilets, there was a coffin. Why it was there remains a mystery to this day (because we didn't bother to ask the bar staff). I can only imagine that the sight of a coffin in a pub would have enraged Joseph Mather beyond all reason if he had been there with us...

...Inside The Church House it lay,
Unearthed and disturbed from its rest,
But I managed to drink up and pay,
Knowing we still had to finish Pubquest.

Pub: The Church House (4 St James' St, S1 2EW)

Rating: 8/10

Beer: Lightfoot Bitter

Brewery: Theakston Brewery (Masham, North Yorkshire)

NEXT UP: Stunning architecture, at the Three Tuns...

---

References:
[1] http://www.sheffieldcathedral.org/the-chancel-and-sanctuary/

[2] Joseph Mather, 'The Black Resurrection', in John Wilsin, The Songs of Joseph Mather, Pawson and Brailsford, Sheffield, (1862), p.43

[3] https://www.theakstons.co.uk/Ales/Lightfoot/

Pub 47, Day 17 – Hollin Bush

By Rob 

There is one sad fact of life that I have come to learn in recent years: never trust your childhood memories.

I recently went to Cleethorpes with my good friend Zak. I hadn’t been there for years and I was eager to revisit some of the places that I'd frequented as a child.

Chief among them was Fantasy World – the biggest arcade on the seafront. So big, in fact, that it was essentially a carpeted aircraft hangar filled with gaming machines, pool tables and flashing lights.

Only it wasn’t.

I stepped through the entrance at 24 years old, ready to be swept away in a wave of nostalgia. Instead, I walked into a relatively small and shabby amusement venue that had chewing gum woven into the fibres of the floor and a single member of staff who looked ready to fling himself from the nearest pier.

How could this be?

Well, there are two factors at play here:

1.    My memories were not an accurate reflection of reality. The building obviously hadn’t shrunk – it had simply never been that big.

2.    The place had deteriorated. It might never have been The Ritz, but the years had not been kind to poor old Fantasy World.

So, what has this sobering lesson got to do with Pubquest? Well, the same thing happened to me again very recently. To help you appreciate the emotional impact of the event, allow me to reminisce…

…It was the summer of 2009. I had just turned eighteen and, naturally, I lived with my parents. My good friend Andrew Wilson was located just around the corner and being allowed to purchase alcohol was still very much a novelty.

Our local pub was called the Hollin Bush. Every Thursday it held a pub quiz and we became regular attendees. This is the place where we learned to love the British public house.

The customers were friendly, the staff were welcoming and the cosy pub was a great place to sit, drink and talk. The landlord was a cheerful man who ensured that his pub was stocked with a reasonable range of beers. He even went so far as to put the occasional guest ale on, which was a big deal in those days.

The Hollin Bush was part of our youth. We frequented that pub until we moved away to university, and we didn’t go back for a very, very long time…

…So here we are, in 2015. Six years later and Pubquest was in full swing. We had been excited about visiting our old haunt for some time, and now the moment had arrived.

Walking together, we turned the corner and saw it standing tall on the horizon. Would the landlord still recognise us? Were the same customers still there? Was the quiz still impossibly difficult? Could we win it now?

With our hearts in our mouths, we stood in the car park and gazed upon our one-time local.

It hadn't changed one bit.

Smiles on our faces, we stepped over the threshold and entered the pub.

It was totally different.

Had it been 2009, here's what you would be reading:

The pub was small inside, but warmly decorated. The lounge was particularly comfortable and the customers were a cheery bunch. The staff were welcoming and the landlord was a great guy who, over the course of our many visits, had come to recognise us as friends.

Considering the size and location of the pub, it was a real treat to find a guest ale on tap, and to see that they served John Smith's Magnet.

The quiz was maddeningly difficult, but this only served to strengthen our resolve. We never even came close to winning, with an average score of 12/25.

After the quiz it was time for bingo, followed by 'Open the Box'. Once someone had received the winning ticket, the landlord would then play a game of 'Deal or No Deal', in which he would try to offer them money to walk away from a potentially bigger prize.

We had a great time at the Hollin Bush and would definitely go back again – the pub gets 9/10.

But it was 2015, so it goes like this:

The pub was small inside, but the warmth had evaporated some time ago. A few friendly old faces were still dotted around the place, but now they were mixed in with some slightly less welcoming ones.

We got to the bar and were greeted by the landlord. Gone was the man we had once known and in his place stood someone very, very different. A young lad in a tracksuit, with a shaven head, now ran the joint.

He asked to see some ID – a request we were happy to oblige. It quickly transpired that this was a joke: he inspected our driving licenses for quite some time, holding them up to the light and squinting at them. After an inordinate amount of minutes in silence had passed, he commented on how poorly the years had treated our once fair faces.

No doubt you think this sounds like classic barman-customer banter. All I can say is that I was there and you were not, so trust me when I tell you that it wasn't.

After taking note of our addresses (he genuinely did do that) he began the interrogation – wanting to know why two apparently local guys hadn't been in before now. We explained our situations, which seemed to intrigue him.

He asked us what we did for a living. At the time I was still a student, an occupation for which he showed little interest. However, when Andy told him that he worked for the Home Office he was somewhat more engaged. When Andy told him that he worked in immigration, the man's eyes bulged.

"What do you think of the EDL?" came the question, straight out of the blue.

At this point we both sensed that the conversation had strayed onto dangerous ground. I flashed Andy a look that, considering we had known each other for a long time, I hoped he could interpret.

With a lift of the eyebrows, I said: Andrew, I don't like where this is going. I think we should leave this pub immediately and go somewhere else.

Andy frowned and inclined his head towards the bar: No Rob, we can't go. This is Pubquest. We will have to come back here eventually, so if we walk out now then it will only be worse when we inevitably return.

I lightly shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes: OK, I suppose you're right.

Andy lifted the corner of his mouth: Of course I'm right.

Turning his attention back to the barman, Andy answered the question.

"I think they're idiots," he said.

Now, obviously this is a thunderously understated noun to employ. However, it was the best answer that could have been given under the circumstances.

The landlord's eyes were aglow at Andy's response. "Well," he said, gesturing to a man stood nearby, "this man here is the leader of the EDL in Yorkshire."

What followed was one of the most awkward conversations of Pubquest to date. We quickly made our excuses and moved to the other room. Once there, we were faced with a somewhat restricted selection of beers: John Smith's or Carling.

Yes that's right, to ensure you read that correctly I will repeat: the options were Carling or John Smith's.

Tossing a coin and leaving the matter to Lady Fortuna, we ordered a Carling and went to sit down.

The quiz eventually came and, for the first time in our lives, we did well. Don't get me wrong: we didn't win. But our score reached an unprecedented 19/25.

Of course, we were older and wiser than we were at eighteen. However, the quiz was also much, much easier than it had ever been in '09.

It wasn't long before our unashamedly racist acquaintance found us again, wanting to compare answers. Once again, we slipped away from him and moved back into the room that we had escaped from in the first place.

Under Pubquest rules we couldn't leave the pub until we finished our pint, and so we were forced to hop from one room to another in an effort to avoid our xenophobic stalker – all the while watching the foamy head slide lower down the glass.

When it eventually reached the bottom, we made a speedy exit. The fellow, whose name we never caught, came out into the doorway and shouted after us – but his outbursts were already fading into the distance, along with our memories of a once great pub brought low.

The Hollin Bush, in its present form, gets 1/10.

Pub: Hollin Bush (108 Hollinsend Road, S12 2EG)

Rating: 1/10

Pint: Carling Extra Cold

Brewery: Molson Coors Brewing Company (based in Ontario, Canada)

NEXT UP: Graves, bodies and coffins, at The Church House...