Pub 66, Day 25 – Nursery Tavern

By Andy

With uncharacteristic punctuality, we met our friend Ali outside the Nursery Tavern.

The pub comes equipped with a large front terrace, although the night was far too cold to contemplate remaining outdoors. Besides, the prospect of spending the evening with bouncers, drunkards, and the exhaust fumes of Ecclesall Road did not appeal.

Heading into the bustling warmth of indoors, Ali and Rob went to find a table while I investigated the bar. The pub is larger than it looks from the outside, although it has no problems reaching capacity. A favourite haunt of students, it is not a pub that attempts to appeal to all: rather, it knows its market. Not too long ago, I was part of this market myself, and indeed have spent several nights pre-drinking in the Tav before heading into town. Now though, the louder-than-necessary music and nothing-too-adventurous drinks have turned me elsewhere.

The beer selection was not as good as it should have been for such a trendy part of town, so I ordered two pints of London Pride. I also purchased a glass of wine for Ali, which I served with a pre-prepared apology regarding my lack of wine knowledge – an apology I have been trotting out unaltered since turning eighteen.

The pub had not changed since my last visit: the atmosphere was still rowdy (although not rough); the drinks were still cheap (although not bargains); the employees were still friendly (although understaffed).

Casting my mindset back to that of a younger man, I recalled the features of the Nursery Tavern that I had valued as a student. The late opening hours, and the opportunity to drink shots as readily as pints certainly played a part.

The pub's biggest asset though, no doubt, is the adjacent taxi rank, ready to whisk you away to the city centre at a moment's notice.

Pub: Nursery Tavern (276 Ecclesall Road, S11 8PE)

Rating: 6.5/10

Pint: London Pride

Brewery: Fuller's Brewery (London)

NEXT UP: A leopard-print onesie, at the Tap & Barrel...

Pub 65, Day 25 – The Old Crown Inn

By Rob

19:05 – (25 minutes until the deadline)

Stepping out of The Albion and into the fading light of London Road, we looked again at our watches. It was going to be very, very tight. We had to get to The Old Crown Inn, drink a pint, and then reach the Nursery Tavern on Ecclesall Road by 19:30 hours.

You might be wondering why, on this occasion, we were so uncharacteristically concerned with our punctuality – something which rarely gave us pause on a normal night. Sure, we were meeting people, but we'd been late before (just think back to The Hallamshire House), so why care?

The answer came in the form of our mutual friend, Ali.

We'd been late one too many times, she said. It was not OK to leave her hanging around pubs, on her own, while we ambled lazily towards her, she said. If we did it again then there would be hell to pay, she said.

There was no doubt in our minds that she meant it.

The problem was, we were playing a high-stakes game. The whole of London Road was in the balance. If we made it, we'd have drank a pint in every pub on London Road – a big achievement for anybody.

But if we didn't make it, then Ali would be left sitting in the Nursery Tavern, alone, waiting for us. To make matters worse, the delay would be down to the fact that we'd been drinking in another pub, elsewhere. In that scenario, there was every chance that she might attack and/or kill us.

The rewards were huge, the risks were massive.

We decided to go for it.

19:06 

After agreeing on our course of action, we started moving. Fast.

The buildings whizzed by in a blur as we increased our average walking speed from 3.5mph to a dizzying 4.2.

Breathing hard to maintain the pace, the standard small-talk got a little bit smaller. I didn't even stop to point at Barry's and remind Andy of all the weird and wonderful things that had happened there.

19:07

For the second time that evening, we were stopped dead in our tracks.

I wanted to fall to my knees and scream out in despair. I saw Andy fighting back tears (although he will deny it until his dying day).

We could see The Old Crown Inn up ahead, warm and inviting.

But standing between us and it was The Barrel Inn.

Yet another pub we'd overlooked that had come hurtling towards us from out of the blue. We were devastated. Our carefully laid plans had been shot to smithereens, along with any illusions we'd had about being expert pub-goers.

"What do we do now?" I asked Andy, hoping he wouldn't hear the squeak in my voice.

He turned to look at me with haunted eyes. "I don't know, Rob," he said, sighing. "I just don't know anymore."

Should we try and drink in both pubs and still go for the big London Road prize? If we did that, we would definitely be late, and by a considerable margin. Ali would crucify us.

Fortunately for our well-being, we realised that The Barrel Inn was closed! Not permanently, but just for the evening, which ruled out ticking off London Road.

At that moment, we knew we had to finish what we'd started. Sure, we'd have to come back to The Barrell Inn at some point, but we had a job to do. And that job was just a few yards further up the road.

Without another word, we raced along the pavement.

19:09

We'd lost a little time owing to the difficulties along the way, but we arrived at The Old Crown Inn just 4 minutes after leaving The Albion (only four times longer than Google's estimated 60 seconds – although Google Maps doesn't take into account emotional trauma).

There was a reasonable crowd inside, given that it was a midweek evening, and a few people standing at the bar. From what we could tell, there was only one member of staff serving.

Just our luck.

I joined the bustle while Andy went and sat down.

19:11

I was now at the front of the scrum, pressed up against the bar and nestled in between the elbows of two other, presumably thirsty, older gentlemen.

Hoping to get the barman's attention, I went with the tried and tested 'raised eyebrows' routine. When that failed, I employed an old nightclub classic: putting my money in my hand and visibly resting it on the bar.

19:12

The barman was working diligently and serving people as fast as he could, but the guy only had two hands.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but had, in fact, only been two and a half minutes, he asked me what I wanted.

Shit.

I'd been so caught up in the rush that I was woefully unprepared for what was, in retrospect, an inevitable question. My eyes flicked to the drinks on offer: no real ales, no obscure stouts, no fancy foreign pilsners.

Knowing Andy had a list of all the beers we'd consumed stored away on his phone, I looked around for him, but he was nowhere in sight. I dared not leave the bar to find him, for fear of losing my privileged position at the front of the queue.

Trusting in fate, I asked for two pints of Cobra: not the most common lager in the city, but certainly one I'd seen along our journey. I had no idea if we'd drank it before, but I did know that if we had to go back to the bar and re-order our drinks, we'd never beat the clock.

Searching for Andy, I found him in a comfortable looking side room. The pub was surprisingly large – it certainly didn't look as big from the outside. The room we were in was cosy, carpeted, and very traditional. The back room, which was much larger, was mostly wooden and looked as if it doubled up as a dancefloor. It was easy to imagine the place putting on a great karaoke come the weekend.

19:14

Andy's thumb moved like lighting as he flicked his way down the list. Eventually, his rapidly shifting digit came to a stop and he glanced up with a smile.

"It's fine," he announced. "We've not had it".

Weak with relief, I began to drink the Cobra. A relatively standard lager, and one found more often in Indian restaurants than in pubs, the Cobra was actually a big help, as lager goes down quicker than ale.

I set to work on emptying the glass.

19:16

About halfway through our drinks, I watched Andy reach across to a nearby table and pick up a beer mat. With his one free hand, he began to peel the corner.

"What are you doing?" I hissed, already knowing where this was going.

"This is pub number 65," he replied, hard at work on both his drink and his beer mat. "We have to leave them something."

Like a man possessed, I lifted my glass and forced myself to drain the second half of the pint in one almighty gulp.

Fighting back the urge to burp quite loudly, I snatched the beer mat from Andy and left him to focus on finishing his drink.

19:17

As many of you will know, some beer mats peel fantastically. With these, you get your nail under one corner and then, in one sweet and smooth motion, the paper comes away. You're left with a pristine, white square – ready to be drawn upon.

Some beer mats, however, do not peel well. The paper rips with every pull, leaving behind a nasty, patchy mess. You find yourself having to gouge the remaining bits of advertising from the layer beneath with your finger nails.

This beer mat fell into the latter camp.

19:18

With the beer mat finally peeled, I picked up the pen that Andy had – thankfully – brought with him. With no time to get creative, I replicated our (my) efforts at The Porter Cottage, investing just enough time to add the necessary elements.

19:19

Flinging the makeshift certificate to the table, we took our glasses back to the bar (even in a mad dash, there's always time for manners) and left the pub.

We knew the route. We also knew that it was supposed to take us 14 minutes to get there, and we only had 11. Somehow, we had to make up 3 minutes.

There was only one thing for it: we would have to walk a little bit faster than normal.

19:23

We were walking a bit faster than normal.

19:28

Turns out that we're actually quite fast walkers. We got to the Nursery Tavern with 2 minutes to spare...

Pub: The Old Crown Inn (137 London Road, S2 4LE)

Rating: 5.5/10

Pint: Cobra

Brewery: Cobra Beer (based in Bangalore, India)

NEXT UP: Ali arrives, at the Nursery Tavern...

Pub 64, Day 25 – The Albion

By Rob

Leaving The Hermitage, we were in the sort of good spirits that only the unexpected discovery of free alcohol can muster up. However, the unbeatable value of £0 per pint meant that we'd lingered there for much too long and, as such, we needed to pick up the pace.

'Why the rush?' I hear you ask.

Well, what Andy so recklessly omitted to mention in his otherwise brilliantly penned blog was that we were due to meet some friends of ours on the nearby (and recently visited) Ecclesall Road. However, we were determined to squeeze a few more pints in beforehand.

'Why?' I hear you cry out again.

Because, ladies and gents, it was time to finally cross London Road off the list.

The insalubrious home of Pubquest fame; the avenue where dreams and nightmares were forged; the birthplace of legends and the domain of lunatics; it was all these things and more. London Road would forever hold a special place in our hearts, but four years on from our first visit, we knew the time was nigh.

According to our calculations, after The Hermitage there was just one pub left to visit: The Old Crown Inn.

Knowing that we had just enough time to knock back one more drink, we strode down the pavement like the oblivious, cocksure fools that we were. After all, the last time we'd visited London Road we were still newcomers to the Pubquest enterprise. Now, however, we were experienced professionals. No longer the naive wanderers; nowadays we did our research beforehand, scoping out the venues, planning the route, estimating the times, carefully scrutinising --

-- Andy stopped dead in his tracks, dragging me from my thoughts.

"What the hell is this?" he said, staring at the building on our left.

I followed his gaze and found myself standing face-to-face with something called The Albion.

"I have no idea," I replied, equally as puzzled.

What was this place? It hadn't appeared on our map and it didn't look much like a pub. In fact, if we hadn't walked directly past the entrance, we probably wouldn't have noticed it.

"Is it a pub?" Andy asked.

Looking up, I pointed to the shiny, plastic sign above the doorway, upon which were the words 'FREE HOUSE' and 'CASK ALES'.

No question there, then.

We stepped through the door and found ourselves in a small, well-lit room. While Andy went to the bar to handle the drink situation, I moved to secure us some seats.

Sitting there alone at the table, I looked around at my surroundings.

Now, excuse my language, but: what a fucking mess.

It wasn't that the place was grotty, or grimy, or dirty, or disheveled, or worn, or rough, or nasty, or scary, or any of the other horrible adjectives that you could readily affix to many of the city's less agreeable venues. No, this pub certainly hadn't suffered from a lack of attention. On the contrary, the pub seemed to be afflicted with a serious case of trying-too-hard.

The first thing to say is that I'm not an interior designer, which in this instance is perhaps a good thing. Somebody with a refined, critical eye for decoration would no doubt find something amiss in most rooms in most buildings. I, on the other hand, am solidly average when it comes to matters of style and taste. Therefore, for me to be so thoroughly offended by the decor of this public house, you know it must have been bad.

And bad it was.

It looked as if the place had been put together by a trio of owners, none of whom could agree on what the pub ought to look like. One of them clearly wanted to run an American bar, and so had put an enormous blue neon sign up on the wall (which looked strikingly like one of those fly-catchers you see hanging up in chip shops).

The second co-owner obviously had something much more old-fashioned in mind, which would account for the series of eerie black-and-white, Victorian-style portraits that lined the other wall. The faded, creepy pictures might have looked perfectly at home on the corridors of some creaky, 19th-century lunatic asylum, but they fared markedly less well in a 21st-century Sheffield pub.

The third, and final, of the stakeholders had evidently been hoping for something much more restrained and contemporary. The hardwood floor, the plain wooden furniture, and the fairy lights that were strung up on the ceiling all suited a trendy student cocktail bar. But in between the electric signage and the Dickensian portrait gallery, they just looked odd.

Oh, and the uncoordinated-style-assault wasn't confined to the visual senses. No, sir. Amidst the American neon adverts, Victorian portraiture, and strings of fairy lights, the sound of repetitive and tuneless reggae music tickled the ears.

Andy arrived back at the table and set the drinks down. He'd elected to purchase us each a pint of Summer Sunshine. Despite my preference for darker beers over paler ales, this particular drink went down very nicely. Light, slightly fruity, and refreshing: I was impressed.

I relayed my thoughts to Andy about the surrounding decor, and he replied with a non-committal shrug, simply saying, "Looks like you've volunteered to write this blog then."

As we made our way towards the bottom of the glasses, we were acutely aware of the fact that the appearance of an unexpected pub had put a serious squeeze on our timescales. It also raised some troubling questions about whether we were quite as clued-up on the Sheffield pub scene as we'd initially thought. 

Little did we know there more surprises yet to come.

Glancing at our watches, we knew it was going to be very difficult to drink a pint in The Old Crown Inn and make it to Ecclesall Road for the appointed time.

But Lord knows, we were going to try...

Pub: The Albion (75 London Road, S2 4LE)

Rating: 5.5/10

Pint: Summer Sunshine

Brewery: Old Mill Brewery (Snaith, East Yorkshire)

NEXT UP: The countdown begins, at The Old Crown Inn...

Pub 63, Day 25 – The Hermitage

By Andy

Sweeping up the pubs we missed on our previous trip to Sharrow, we were hoping for a less salacious occasion than the last time we visited the area. We had wisely left it three years since, lest any police still be on the lookout for a drink driver dressed as a cowboy.

The first pub we came across was The Hermitage, a giant boozer at the bottom of London Road. Upon entering, we were struck by how busy it was – in an era when most pubs have a handful of patrons huddled in a corner, The Hermitage had hardly a spare seat in the house. Fighting our way through the masses, we requested two pints of Cascade Pale Ale.

The barmaid took great care pouring the perfect pint, but just as I was extracting the money from my wallet, she inexplicably turned to serve someone else.

Now I had worked in retail myself, so I had done it all before: given someone too much change, given someone too little change, accidentally accepted Euros instead of pounds because I was in a hangover-induced daze. But forgoing the exchange of cash for goods altogether was a new one on me. Confused, I leant across and gently pointed out her error.

“erm... I haven't paid for these yet...”

“Don't you know? Today's our grand reopening! All drinks are free until 6!”

“Oh,” I stuttered. “Have you been closed?”

“Yeah since July, the whole place has been refurbished. Haven't you noticed?”

Never having set foot in the pub before, I can't say I had. “Well, now you mention it...” I lied.

“We've got a new name,” she declared, abruptly. “We're called The Hermitage now.”

“Oh yeah I saw that,” I replied, glad to find my footing in the conversation.

“Do you prefer it to the old name?” she enquired.

Now I really was stumped. “Errrm it's tough to say,” I mumbled. “I was so used to the old name...”

“Yeah, we thought it sounded a bit elitist though.”

“I know what you mean,” I replied, not having the faintest clue what she meant. My mind boggled as to what the pub was previously called. Einstein's Arms? The Surgeon's Scalpel? The Sharrow Working Mensa Club? Confident that the real answer was bound to be a disappointment^[1], I scurried into the crowd before she could ask me anything else.

It seems The Hermitage had discovered the secret to a busy pub: free alcohol. For a while, we found ourselves perched by the quiz machine, unable to locate a seat at all. However, the free drinks meant regular trips to the bar (and toilet) for all concerned, so in true primary school fashion, we enforced an 'on your feet, lose your seat' policy.

The pub was open-plan with a high ceiling, meaning although it was busy, it never felt crowded. Perhaps it was merely a ploy to impress on opening night, but the selection of drinks was terrific, with beer enthusiasts and gin aficionados particularly well-catered for.

Our Cascade Pale Ale was crisp and golden, further enhancing the reputation of the ever-impressive Saltaire Brewery. Always keen to take advantage of an open bar, we soon progressed to double vodka-Red Bulls. Although we felt a slight pang of guilt helping ourselves to free drinks at a pub we had never been to before and would probably never go to again, this was quickly offset by a drunken agreement to award The Hermitage an extra point when deciding their Pubquest Rating – an honour worth far more financially than a few measly drinks.

We finally made a financial contribution to The Hermitage's upkeep when we spotted a table-football table – a common feature in the bars of coastal Spain but a rarity in British pubs. Always grateful for a new game to beat Rob at, I placed a pound coin in the slot.

Just before we kicked off, Rob did warn me that he was abysmal; however I failed to fully comprehend just how bad a human being with two arms could possibly be. I ended up triumphing 12-2 (working out at an economical 7.14 pence per ball), and can now include table football along with snooker and Connect Four as Pubquest games in which I emerged victorious. Just don't mention the darts.

After several double vodka-Red Bulls, it was decided that we should move on to our next destination. Coincidentally, this decision was taken at 18:01, just as the free bar had come to an end. The mass exodus which followed was akin to a fire drill, leaving behind a sea of empty glasses for some poor soul to clear up. Alas, The Hermitage may have discovered the secret to a busy pub, but it had failed to find the formula of a profitable one.

Hermitage table football score: Andy 1-0 Rob
Pubquest table football score: Andy 1-0 Rob

Pub: The Hermitage (13 London Road, S2 4LA)

Rating: 8.5/10

Pint: Cascade Pale Ale

Brewery: Saltaire Brewery (Shipley, West Yorkshire)

NEXT UP: Uncharted territory, at The Albion...

References:
[1] According to Google, the pub was previously called The Scholar

Pub 62, Day 24 – The Sheaf Island

By Andy

Heading down Eccy Road, we had earmarked the Nursery Tavern as our next stop. However, along the way we stumbled upon a place we didn't even know existed: the Pointing Dog.

Discovering a new pub is always a double-edged sword here at Pubquest HQ. On the one hand, it's a new location to visit, new beers to try and new memories to create. On the other, it's an extra pint for our already overworked livers, and yet another blog to add to our ever-burgeoning in-tray.

Immediately though, we sensed a get-out clause: the pub/bar conundrum was rearing its ugly head again. We've only signed up to visit every pub in Sheffield, not every single place that serves alcohol, so bars and social clubs are not on our agenda.

Instantly arousing our suspicions was the presence of a bouncer. In my experience, pubs that enlist bouncers are either extremely rough pubs or not pubs at all. On the basis of its postcode alone, the Pointing Dog clearly doesn't fall into the former category.

Prepared to give it the benefit of the doubt, we flashed our IDs and stepped into the entrance hall. However, that was as far as we got. Sitting there, in pride of place, was a sign-in book. To enter the establishment, you were required to be either a member or a guest. Both of these options involved leaving a variety of details, including your address and date of birth.

The Great British pub, an abbreviation of public house, is open to all. It keeps no register of clients, nor does it make distinctions between regulars and travellers passing through. Pub landlords know their customers not by email address or postcode, but by hobbies and favourite drink. Pub customers are not categorised or filtered, but a representative sample of the great unwashed public.

The Pointing Dog's double-pronged system of bouncers and sign-in books smacked more of keeping people out, rather than welcoming whoever crossed the threshold.

Sensing we were about to leave, the bouncer tried to entice us.

“We get all the celebs in here y'know,” he announced, proudly.

“Oh yeah, who do you get?” I asked.

“That Asian lad from Emmerdale was in once.”

New rule: if you don't even know the name of the person in question, you cannot brag about it as a celebrity encounter. I didn't even bother feigning interest.

Realising he was losing not only our custom but our interest, he doubled down:

“And we had the Great Britain Diving Team in the other week.”

“Oh yeah, Tom Daley?” I enquired, genuinely curious.

“No, the other ones,” he replied.

Brilliant. The other ones. The anonymous ones, the ones who literally nobody can name. Needless to say, we left the Pointing Dog, never to return.

Frustratingly, our shenanigans at the Pointing Dog meant we missed last orders at the Nursery Tavern. Undeterred, we continued down Eccy Road towards town – a route well-trodden by tipsy Sheffielders for generations.

Eventually, we arrived at The Sheaf Island. One of Sheffield's more recent Spoons, it opened in 2010 on the site of the old Wards Brewery. Although the closure of Sheffield's last major brewery in 1999 was a sad chapter for the city, at least there is a touch of continuity with a pub now standing in the brewery's place.

Thanks to its previous life, The Sheaf Island is cavernous – we're not quite boring enough to get a tape measure out, but it must be Sheffield's biggest pub. Despite this, at peak times it can still be a struggle to find a table – a sure sign of its popularity.

The pub's more central location meant it was open later than the Nursery Tavern, so we opted for two pints of Diamond Black Stout to round out the night. Perhaps this was a mistake – it was a little heavy to finish the evening on – but it was enjoyable nonetheless.

When it comes to assigning a Pubquest Rating, Wetherspoons always pose a dilemma: I can never quite decide if I love them or hate them. Their selection of beers is laudable, yet the food they serve conducts all manner of cardinal sins. Manufactured, microwaved, devoid of all nutrition: it's a good job they throw in a terrific pint to wash it all down.

The Sheaf is certainly one of the superior Spoons though – modern, trendy and well-located, it puts seedier specimens like The Swim Inn and The Bankers Draft to shame.

Pub: The Sheaf Island (Wards Brewery, Ecclesall Road, S11 8HW)

Rating: 7/10

Pint: Diamond Black Stout

Brewery: Chantry Brewery (Rotherham)

NEXT UP: Free drinks! At The Hermitage... 

Pub 61, Day 24 – The Lescar

By Andy

I have a confession to make:

We went to The Lescar twice.

Our first visit was wholly uneventful – it would have been a struggle to transform it into the exciting yet hilarious blog post you've no doubt become accustomed to.

So we went back, hoping to find something to write about.

Boy did we get it. 

It turns out The Lescar hosts a Jazz Night every Wednesday – a weekly event that only a pub in S11 can get away with.

In an epic misjudgement of our sophistication, we decided to attend.

The Lescar is quite a dark and dingy pub anyway, but upon arrival we were immediately directed to an even darker and dingier back room, where we parted with £7 to watch the “critically acclaimed” Lauren Kinsella Quintet.

I thought I was coming on culturally: I don't read the tabloids anymore, and I've become very partial to a night at the theatre. But I was not ready for this.

We were treated to an assortment of mishmash music with less structure than a primary-school play, each member of the quintet competing to be the most offensive to our ears.

The pianist plonked randomly, nodding along like it was in any way rhythmic. The saxophonist overpowered everything, rasping away in a manner that would have Homer Simpson banging on walls.

The drummer, as drummers are prone to do, made his presence felt at every possible opportunity, smashing his way through even the most laid-back of melodies.

I'm fairly sure the double bass player was miming. Either that or it is an utterly, utterly pointless instrument.

The vocalist was not singing in any identifiable language. I like my songs in English; perhaps French if I'm feeling particularly pretentious. But she resorted to making noises, which as the night wore on began to sound suspiciously like Bill & Ben.

Even more frustratingly, in other sequences she would stay entirely silent, closing her eyes and swaying to minimal piano chords. SAY SOME FUCKING WORDS, YOU'RE A VOCALIST AND I'VE PAID SEVEN FUCKING POUNDS TO LISTEN TO YOU!

The show soon reached so-bad-it's-good territory. It took all my might to avoid cracking out laughing in the middle of the set – during particularly horrendous songs I was creased over, my shoulders shaking. When the drummer got into his groove I could afford to let out a few sly snorts, but when the pianist took centre stage, the entire room would have noticed a pin drop, let alone an audience member collapsing in hysterics. I wanted to be anywhere else.

Rob later told me that he “couldn't look at me”, lest he be struck by the same bug. The refined folk sat next to us must have noticed how terribly uncouth we were.

Thankfully, we managed to sneak out at the interval, no doubt forbidden from attending Jazz Night ever again.

The next day, The Lescar hosted their famous Comedy Club. Rumours that the Lauren Kinsella Quintet returned to perform the same set are as yet unconfirmed...

Pub: The Lescar (303 Sharrow Vale Road, S11 8ZF)

Rating: 7/10

Pint: The Mad Squirrel's Milk Stout

Brewery: Red Squirrel Brewing Company (Potten End, Hertfordshire)

NEXT UP: Celebrity encounters, at The Sheaf Island...

Pub 60, Day 24 – The Porter Cottage

By Rob

Emptying our glasses (and returning them to the bar, in accordance with Pubquest etiquette) we headed out into the glitz and glamour of the colloquially named 'Eccy' Road. For our guest Lucy, who'd just graduated from university and was now confronted with the hellish reality of adult life, it was important to have another drink. 

Under the guise of celebrating our friend's academic success, we strolled around the corner to The Porter Cottage (ten points to anybody who can spot the link to the previous pub). Lucy, now bearing witness to one of our famous multi-pub events, had to admit that being awarded a degree was only the second most exciting thing to have happened to her that day.

The Porter Cottage was a pleasant little pub: cosy and traditional, while still being firmly 'on trend'. The pub sported an excellent line-up of guest ales, an acclaimed alternative jukebox, and 'Beer Tapas' for anybody with a thirst for variety (three different ales, each a third of a pint, for the price of one drink). 

Given that Lucy had just finished three gruelling years of studying law, and bearing in mind that today represented one of the biggest achievements of her life, we agreed to each buy her a drink. It was my round and Lucy, wishing to celebrate her big day, asked for a glass of Prosecco. I gently explained to the cheeky little bitch that I wasn't made of money and that she could buy her own Prosecco when she started raking the money in as a lawyer, but that in the meantime she would need to make do with cheap beer like the rest of us. 

To that end, I ordered three pints of Wyld Wood cider. I honestly can't recall why, out of all of the various options available, I opted for a cider. Presumably it was just one of those weird, synaptic spasms that happens to people now and again, like when your whole body shudders for no discernible reason. As we've covered in previous posts, neither I nor Andy are big fans of the stuff. However, Wyld Wood was palatable (for a cider). I can't really say much more than that.

Unbeknownst to the staff at The Porter Cottage, they had the honour of hosting Pubquest's 60th visit. To celebrate ticking off another ten pubs, we decided to mark the occasion by inventing another great gimmick, which would go on to become a staple of future Pubquest adventures.

I am, of course, talking about the ingenious beer mat certificates!

The concept was stunningly simple. We would peel a beer mat, like bored toddlers at a Sunday carvery, and then write a congratulatory message on the newly pristine surface. Inevitably, the task fell to me, as Andy's handwriting hasn't really improved since about Year 8, while Lucy was ruled out on account of being a mere guest. Andy asked the perplexed barmaid for a pen and I went to work. I'm sure you'll all agree, the result was stunning.

I finished the certificate as we each drained our glasses. We dropped the empty vessels at the bar and headed for the door, while Andy approached the barmaid with his graffiti-ridden beer mat. 

Now, I was there for this bit, so I have my own opinions on how it transpired, but Andy is convinced that the scene played out like this:

The barmaid, who had spent the last few minutes wondering why Andy had asked her for a pen, watched the blonde man approach. In his hand, he held a note. Anticipation gripped her, as the young woman was convinced that this enigmatic stranger had written his phone number down on what appeared to be a little slip of paper and that, most exciting of all, he was about to hand it over. Her heart skipped a beat, while her eyes (and I am now going to quote Andy directly) "lit up with a look that only the promise of eternal happiness can bring". 

For Andy, who had a girlfriend, it was a bittersweet moment. He handed over the beer mat, then turned and walked away, unable to face the crushing disappointment that would be writ plain across her countenance, as she discovered that he had not, in fact, given her his number. As he left the pub, he thought he heard a sob, carried on the wind.

According to my own recollection, Andy walked up to the barmaid, who was hoping to get her pen back, and handed her a tatty, ripped beer mat that was covered in nonsense. As he walked away, she no doubt wondered what sort of grown man tears up beer mats and how, thanks to him, there was probably a pile of ripped paper sitting on his table that she would have to clean up.

Pub: The Porter Cottage (286 Sharrow Vale Road, S11 8ZL) 

Rating: 8.5/10

Pint: Wyld Wood Classic Cider 

Brewery: Westons Cider (Much Marcle, Herefordshire)

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