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...

Pub 81, Day 30 – Admiral Rodney

It's time to rejoice, as once again we are treating you – our loyal readers – to another guest blog. This time, following in the footsteps of Rob's youngest sister Reanna, his other sister Rebecca (fashionably rebranded as Beki) masterfully takes over the reins. 

***

By Beki

It’s said there are only two things you can be certain of in life: death and taxes. However, if you are a friend or family member of Rob and Andy, then you can add a third: that one day you will be roped into writing a Pubquest blog. It was, of course, a momentous occasion to finally be asked along and, with the knowledge that my post might be seen by literally TENS of people, I set off on my first 'quest'.

Knowing that this was Sheffield Pubquest, I assumed we might be hopping on a tram to a trendy pub in the city centre that I’d never heard of, or discovering a diamond in the rough, perhaps in a dicier area like Firth Park or Lowedges. Instead, we travelled for at least half an hour into the middle of nowhere. We eventually reached Loxley, a village that only actually became part of Sheffield in 1974. Perhaps I’m being a little cynical readers, but it felt rather like we were scraping the barrel.

Although we did visit a couple of really quite nice establishments on this trip, I will today be reviewing the Admiral Rodney. However, before we get into my review I’d like to explain a little of my background to you all. For the past two years I've worked in a very, very well known chain pub and I believe wholeheartedly that most (if not all) chain pubs are shit. Some chain pubs are like those owned by my old employer and have garish, lager-stained carpets and men in high-visibility jackets called Dave who drink too much John Smith's. Other chains, meanwhile, have very nice carpets and potpourri on the tables, and are frequented by middle-class families who delight in shouting at people on minimum wage. Inevitably though, they are all varying incarnations of the same lifeless, soulless entity.

The view from the pub (photo from
Google Maps, contributor Nigel Raynor)

The Admiral Rodney is a Vintage Inns pub. These are very much at the potpourri, middle-class end of the chain pub spectrum – something that becomes apparent as soon as you pull into the car park, with its perfectly manicured shrubbery and charming little patio. In fact, the terrace offers excellent views of the rural scenery and this outdoor seating area is actually my favourite part of the pub: a few simple picnic benches with ash trays, parasols and a lovely view – it's perfect.

The inside is another matter: the entire place is covered in wooden beams, old fireplaces and other knick-knacks in a desperate attempt to give it a cosy country pub vibe, although it mostly comes across as very calculated and fake. The best country pubs just throw bits of tat everywhere, such as random horseshoes on the ceiling and old pump clips stuck above the bar; there’s no rhyme or reason to anything, but it's cosy. The Admiral Rodney was too clean, the lager was poured from shiny chrome taps, the bar was arranged neatly with rows of wines and spirits on glass shelves and the toilets smelled lovely: the soul and character had essentially been scrubbed away with furniture polish and disinfectant.

The thing that really, really struck me when I walked inside, was that this was not a pub. Not really. I think if the Admiral Rodney could stick up big signs everywhere that said “BUY FOOD OR PISS OFF” they absolutely would have. Unfortunately for them this is generally frowned upon and so they had to make do with filling the entire pub with nothing but dining tables, each adorned with cutlery and menus. The purpose of Pubquest, of course, is not to review the food and so we chose to forgo the culinary delights and turned our attention to their drinks.

For a pub that is literally a five minute drive away from Bradfield, home to one of the best brewers in Sheffield, they had a pretty crap selection, consisting of about three ales, one of which would always be Doom Bar, as Vintage Inns (apparently like many other chain pubs) have some kind of agreement with the brewer. The lagers were nothing exciting either, so I ended up settling for a strawberry and lime Kopparberg. I’m not going to bother reviewing that because, well, its Kopparberg. Rob and Andy had a pint of Black Sheep, which I'm not going to review either. 

The staff were pleasant and the couple of cigarettes I enjoyed on the terrace made it clear to me that this was absolutely the best part of the pub, especially in the dusk with the sounds of the countryside floating around you.

Now, at this point you are probably expecting a rating. However, Rob and Andy are tyrants and so, even if I did give you one, they would rescind it, as they jealously guard their monopoly of the rating system and would decry my attempt as "not official". So, what I will say is that I’m sure this pub is bloody lovely for those looking for a Sunday roast or a nice lunch, but as an actual pub? It’s shit.

***

Yes, I think we broadly agree....

Pub: Admiral Rodney (592 Loxley Rd, S6 6RU)

Rating: 6/10

Pint: Black Sheep Best Bitter 

Brewery: Black Sheep Brewery (Masham, North Yorkshire) 

NEXT UP: Gatecrashing events, at The York...

Pub 80, Day 30 – The Plough

By Andy

The pubs in Bradfield were having a Bonfire Night pissing contest.

From its position high up on the hill, The Old Horns Inn had clearly put on a far superior fireworks display. But fireworks last mere minutes – the bonfire itself is the headline act. It was therefore no coincidence that The Plough's bonfire had been mischievously positioned so it could be seen from The Old Horns Inn, and as The Horn's own fire began to smoulder, we were drawn to the inferno down the road.

Upon arrival, it was immediately apparent that The Plough's owners were flouting the Equality Act: you have to be a supermodel to work there.

The Plough's employees on a staff night out

Chiselled men poured pints while their triceps tumbled from incredibly tight shirts; petite waitresses shuttled food to tables, their powerful strides reminiscent of a Paris catwalk. It appears The Plough operates the same recruitment policy as Sky Sports News: the punters need something to look at. Presumably, as soon as any member of staff turns 30, they are immediately relocated to the kitchens, never to be seen by customers again.

We ordered two pints of Belgian Blue from a barmaid with an impossibly symmetrical face. We chose Belgian Blue because:

a) as a Christmas beer, we didn't think we'd encounter it very often,

and;

b) we bloody love it

This later turned out to be a mistake with regards to the first point, as Belgian Blue takes over in December: it is available in every pub in the region, and is as integral to a Sheffield Christmas as taxi drivers asking for extortionate tips. However, with regards to the second point it was not a mistake: we still bloody love it.

The Plough is a classic country pub of the sort that Britain produces so well: large rooms and homely fireplaces, ample beers and hearty food. Low stone archways remind you that the building has stood for hundreds of years, yet widescreen TVs reassure you it has all the modern comforts required.

Despite only coming to watch the fire, we soon decided that there was no point standing near something warm when you could stay inside instead. Unfortunately, the local wildlife had reached the same conclusion: as soon as we sat down, a spider the size of an octopus scuttled across our table.

Now let me make one thing clear: I am not afraid of spiders. However, this was the sort of spider I couldn't take my eyes off. I contributed little to the conversation as I mapped its route: further away, further away, closer, closer, why's it coming closer? It's OK guys it's going again. Wait it's coming back!

As my decidedly non-scared observations climbed to a gradually higher pitch, Rob spoke up:

“If you're just gonna sit there squealing, I'm gonna kill it,” he announced, presumably to his sisters.

Now let me make a second thing clear: I am definitely not afraid of spiders. Indeed, I would have offered to kill it myself, but Rob was ever-so-slightly closer. Gallantly, he removed his shoe and hobbled into battle.

The spider put up a good fight, but it was no match for Rob's shoe. The Plough's patrons, gentler folk than us, gave Rob a lukewarm reception befitting a victorious bullfighter: everyone was glad that the human had won, but did there need to be so much bloodshed?

The whole episode served as a reminder that we were no longer in the city centre: Pubquest had reached the countryside.

Pub: The Plough (New Road, S6 6HW)

Rating: 9/10

Beer: Belgian Blue

Brewery: Bradfield Brewery (Sheffield)

NEXT UP: Middle class chain pubs, at the Admiral Rodney...

Pub 79, Day 30 – The Old Horns Inn

By Rob

One can't help but wonder if, when Guy Fawkes was being dragged to the Old Palace Yard at Westminster to be hanged, he gave any thought to his legacy. Did he, perhaps, imagine a time – over four centuries later – in which two young adventurers would head out into the wilderness of High Bradfield to celebrate his capture and subsequent execution by drinking in front of a roaring fire?

Either way, that's precisely what happened, as Andy and myself donned our winter coats and headed for the far-flung reaches of Sheffield's outer limits, ready and raring to tick off some distant pubs.

Just days earlier, we'd received word that The Old Horns Inn would be playing host to some Bonfire Night festivities, which included hot pies and plenty of fireworks. Confronted by the promise of pints, pastry and explosions, we made the decision to attend.

The first thing we discovered about The Old Horns Inn was just how difficult it was to actually get there. Situated out towards the countryside, the venue wasn't easy to reach via public transport. Complicating matters further was the fact that we couldn't drive to the pub, as we would both be drinking.

There was also the fact that we didn't own a car.

And we couldn't drive.

Faced with few options, I did the one thing that any self-respecting 24-year-old man does: I asked my dad for a lift. While the initial response was "f*** off", he eventually came around to the idea – on the strict condition that I demonstrated some brotherly love and took my two sisters, Rebecca and Reanna, along with me. However, it was a decision he'd soon come to regret, as we quickly found ourselves stuck in a long line of traffic on a narrow country lane.

After sitting in one spot for about 15 minutes, we thanked my dad and hopped out of the car, deciding to walk the rest of the way. This was partly to speed up the journey, and partly to put some distance between myself and my increasingly angry father, who wasn't overly enthused about being immobilised in the middle of nowhere thanks to his lazy, beer-swigging son.

The four of us (me, Andy, and my sisters) arrived to find The Old Horns Inn packed to the rafters with revellers. The interior of the pub was pretty much filled to capacity, with punters spilling out into the cold night air, standing as close as possible to the billowing flames of the bonfire. Cleverly, a small, portable bar had been set up outside. Unfortunately, this temporary service station sold only a couple of lagers – which would have satisfied most people, but not Pubquest.

However, getting inside the pub – the place you needed to be in order to access the main beer selection – was difficult. Fighting your way through the doorway was a tough challenge in its own right. Reaching the bar, getting served, and not spilling your pint on the way back out was another matter altogether.

The solution was obvious, though far from ideal.

We would wait until the fireworks began. The crowds would move outdoors, hoping to catch sight of the skyward spectacle, leaving us free to approach the bar. Of course, as my sisters were quick to point out, it wouldn't be much of a Bonfire Night celebration if we missed the fireworks.

With Andy's supportive, enthusiastic nodding in the background, I quickly explained to my siblings that Bonfire Night, which hadn't even been running for 500 years, was a flash in the pan compared to Sheffield Pubquest. Time would tell, but there was little doubt in my mind that, ultimately, history would remember Pubquest more clearly than that time when somebody failed to blow up a building. If we had to sacrifice a few brightly coloured flashes in order to successfully cross The Old Horns Inn off the list, then that's what we would do.

Sure enough, the fuses were lit and the rockets launched into the sky. Almost all of the punters shuffled out into the night to watch the visual delights unfold. Meanwhile, Andy and myself – along with two reluctant sisters – moved into the virtually empty pub and got served at the bar almost instantly.

Looking around at the pub, we were impressed by its blend of clean, modern decor and countryside warmth – a hard balance to pull off! The beer selection was perfectly good, and the food on offer looked decent too. We each ordered a pint of Damflask, a reasonably dark bitter with a nice clean finish from Thwaites.

Pints in hands, we made our way back outside to enjoy the spectacle. Not for the first time, I was struck by the remarkable extent to which firework displays fail to impress me. It wasn't that The Old Horns Inn didn't put on a good show – they did! I'm sure that anybody who enjoys fireworks would have thoroughly appreciated it. But something about splodges of bright colour appearing and disappearing in the night sky, over and over again, leaves me utterly bereft of joy. No, it turns out that I only enjoy the truly exciting things in life, like reaching the final of a Connect 4 tournament, or discovering that a rough-looking pub actually sells seventeen different types of craft beer.

Andy and I soon found another reason to ignore the fireworks, which came in the form of a stall selling pies, peas, and gravy. Please believe me when I say that you have never looked upon the face of true happiness until you've seen Andy holding a pie.

Once the pints and pies were put away, we headed off to the next Bonfire Night stop along the way, at The Plough.

Pub: The Old Horns Inn (Jane Street, S6 6LG)

Rating: 8.5/10

Pint: Damflask

Brewery: Thwaites Brewery (Blackburn)

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