Pub 90, Day 34 – The Francis Newton

By Rob

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

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

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

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

His name? You guessed it – Old Franky Newton.

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

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

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

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

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

Nevertheless, we went ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody else even glanced twice.

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

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

Rating: 7/10

Pint: Devils Backbone American IPA

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

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