Pub 115, Day 44 – Noah's Ark

By Rob

I almost dropped the phone in shock.

For a moment I was frozen, staring at the device in my hand with utter disbelief, the gentle glow of the screen continuing its gradual erosion of my circadian rhythm. But it didn’t matter. Few things that had ever happened could truly be considered meaningful compared to this.

A local pub had just messaged us on Twitter.

It was finally happening. The Twitter account we had established to promote this blog, which we had roundly neglected for months, had attracted the attention of the Noah’s Ark in Crookes.

You may remember this had happened once before with The Head of Steam, and it all turned out to be a big anti-climax. However, on that occasion we had tweeted them first, and they had merely been polite enough to reply.
 

We had spent more than one stout-soaked evening dreaming of the moment when, unprompted, they would come to us – a point at which the public appeal and impact of our online writings would draw the gaze of Sheffield’s publicans, who would ultimately recognise the boundless advertising potential of a mention by the boys at Sheffield Pubquest. Eventually, we knew, they would beg us to come and drink their beer. Seats would be reserved, pints would be poured pro gratis, and the air would be thick with the sounds of flattery.

Fingers trembling, I began to compose a message to Andy.

“You won’t believe what the fu—”

I was cut short as a message flashed up on my phone. He had pre-empted me.

“You’ll never guess what’s just happened,” he said.

As Andy was living in Leeds, we quickly made arrangements on Twitter with the landlord regarding the logistics of our appearance. We scheduled ourselves in to visit the pub during their quiz night the following week.

The expected freebies soon materialised: free ‘Yorkshire tapas’ and free pints, declared the landlord. Admittedly the former was available to anybody attending the quiz, and the latter only to those who won it, but only we had been approached on Twitter to attend (probably). We were in no doubt they were out to impress us.

Celebrity beckoned.

A week later, Andy and I stood outside the Noah’s Ark. I hadn’t been this excited since I’d discovered that post-graduate education would allow me stay at university until almost the age of thirty.

The exterior of the building was palpably unremarkable. It lacked the stone-built, old-world feel that imbued some of the other pubs in Crookes, but was otherwise perfectly inoffensive.

Stepping inside, I confess to being worried that the landlord might make too much of a fuss. It was quiz night, with free tapas, in a student area – we were expecting the place to be busy. I didn’t want the staff gushing over us in front of all the other punters, clearing away tables and kicking people out of their seats to make room for these two hard hitters. I had even styled my hair, just in case a selfie was requested.

Bracing ourselves, we entered the main taproom and stepped into silence.

Now, to be clear, this wasn’t the sort of silence that ensues when the music suddenly cuts out, chatter ceases, and all heads turn to appraise the newcomers. No, this was the sort of silence you might experience if you were to bury yourself in a tomb several feet below the earth, or gently slip into a coma somewhere in the middle of the Siberian tundra. It was, in fact, the sort of silence one might experience if they were to walk into a pub with almost nobody in it.

Andy, with characteristic optimism, pointed out that fewer people equalled greater quantities of free tapas to eat. It also meant a better shot at winning those free pints in the quiz. At this, I looked around at those few people who were in attendance. None were students. Two old blokes sat at the bar, looking like they couldn’t quite decide between ordering another drink and throwing themselves in front of the 52 bus. Meanwhile, two women with shaven heads and tattooed arms were playing pool in the far corner. Maybe we would win the quiz after all, I thought. With all the usual caveats about books, judgement, and covers: none of these people screamed ‘egghead’.

We spotted a guy standing behind the bar who, we assumed, was the landlord. We gingerly approached, waiting for the inevitable excited greeting.

As I’m sure you’ve come to expect by this point, such an excited greeting never materialised. Not even slightly. Not one bit. In fact, he had absolutely no idea who we were. Any interest he exhibited was solely centred upon having two more living people in the pub, rather than the recognition of celebrity reviewers.

Crestfallen, but undeterred from enjoying ourselves, we each ordered a pint of 40 Days & 40 Nights, an aptly named beer for the pub. From the Port Huron Brewing Company in the States, this beer had travelled some distance to tickle our taste buds. A wheat beer, it was slightly too sweet for either of us, but would certainly have been nice as a half pint.

"What time is the quiz?" Andy asked the landlord.

"Depends if it picks up," came the reply. He beckoned to the assembled army of empty chairs and tables. "Can’t really do the quiz if it’s like this."

It was hard to argue with that. With a creeping sense of dread as to what the answer would be, we asked the next question.

"And the Yorkshire tapas?"

The landlord proffered a grim shake of the head. "Not looking likely."

OK, we thought; maybe he hadn’t realised who we were. My goodness was he about to be mortified when he found out who he was disappointing!

"We spoke to you on Twitter about coming to the quiz," Andy pointed out, waiting for the penny to drop.

"Yeah I know," he said. By this time his attention had turned almost entirely to his laptop, upon which he appeared to be putting together a music playlist.

"OK cool," we said, through gritted teeth.

A sharp feeling pierced my stomach, leaving an acrid taste in my mouth, which I recognised from days gone by. It was the flavour of deep, bitter disappointment. As a child, I had once craved nothing so much as a Sega Megadrive. One fateful Christmas day, I discovered that my parents had opted to ignore my request for a games console and had instead decided to purchase me a bingo set – complete with balls, rotating cage, and cards.

This was worse than that.

Looking around the pub, it was every inch the standard old man venue. This is a lazy description, for sure, but you all know what I mean: dark wooden chairs and tables, a patterned carpet nobody would ever have in their home, and red upholstery.

Before I could truly air my rage, one of the two women approached us from the pool table. She challenged us to a 2v2 match and we simply couldn’t refuse (partially because, in the absence of quiz questions and tapas, we needed something to occupy ourselves; and partially because she looked ready to break the pool cue across our faces if we replied in anything other than the affirmative).

They were both good, but we were better. We sank the black and claimed the first frame. They didn’t quite take this in a sportsmanlike manner and angrily challenged us to a rematch. We obliged and the result was the same. For a moment I thought we’d be flung through the window before getting a chance to finish our pints, but in the end we received a begrudging handshake and curt nod.

The women then vacated the table, leaving us to play three frames between us. I won two, while Andy claimed the third and final. 

By the time we’d finished, the pub was even emptier than when we’d arrived. No quiz. No tapas. And the landlord could not have been more disinterested in us.

In the course of one pint, we had come crashing down to earth with all the force of that enormous slab of space rock that screwed over the dinosaurs.

Evidently, we were not celebrities yet. Although we were about to be in the presence of an actual celebrity at the very next pub...

Noah's Ark pool score: Andy 1-2 Rob  
Pubquest pool score: Andy 46-32 Rob
 

Noah's Ark pool score: Pubquest 2-0 Rest of World 
Pubquest pool score: Pubquest 6-2 Rest of World

Pub: Noah’s Ark (94 Crookes, S10 1UG)

Pint: 40 Days & 40 Nights

Brewery: Port Huron Brewing Company (based in Wisconsin Dells, USA) 

Rating: 5.5/10

 

NEXT UP: In the presence of a celebrity, at The Milestone...

Pub 114, Day 43 – The Brothers Arms

By Andy

bottle

/ˈbɒt(ə)l/

noun

1. a glass or plastic container with a narrow neck, used for storing drinks or other liquids.
2. [informal•British]
the courage or confidence needed to do something difficult or dangerous.

You may already know that winning a pub quiz has been a lifetime ambition for Pubquest. The Brothers Arms is the tale of how we came oh so close... but threw it all away.

***

The Brothers Arms was our next stop, the perfect halfway point between the Heeley pubs we were leaving behind and the Nether Edge pubs we were heading towards – in more ways than one.

Having somehow got lost on what was essentially a three-minute walk in a straight line, we suddenly emerged from the tight streets of Heeley at an open-plan junction, where the pub stood tall above a playground, a church, and indeed the entire city centre beneath it.

Whereas some pubs may feel imposing sat atop a high hill, The Brothers Arms looked nothing but welcoming, with its modern colour scheme and cartoon signs.

Of all the pubs in Sheffield, this was potentially the one I was most excited to visit – I had heard big things. Previously a traditional pub known as The Shakespeare, the venue was given a modern twist when it was taken over by the Everly Pregnant Brothers – a Sheffield parody ukulele band whose hits include No Oven No Pie and Stuck in the Lidl with You.

Nowadays, The Brothers Arms prides itself on a fantastic selection of beers – and of course its live music every Thursday, which attracts genuinely reputable bands from a variety of genres.

Not wanting a repeat of the gig we witnessed at The Lescar, we had deliberately avoided arriving on music night. However in doing so, we had unwittingly turned up on pub quiz night.

We had originally intended to have one quick pint before heading to Nether Edge and Woodseats, but our plan brought us into conflict with the first commandment of Pubquest, originally scribed at The Shakey and subsequently reinforced at the Three Tuns:

1. If thou is present at a pub when the quiz is on; thou shalt participate.

Here at Pubquest, we're not the most flexible of fellas: precedents are there to be observed. If a pub brews their own beer, we will drink it. If a pub has a pool table, we will play on it. And if a pub has a quiz on, then by god we will win it participate in it.

Alas, a familiar feeling soon took hold: the questions completely passed us by. My specialist subject was League One football 2011-2017, while Rob was studying a PhD in Late Ancient History. Inexplicably, neither topic arose.

Thankfully, a couple at a nearby table who weren't participating took pity on us. Presumably drawn in by our perplexed faces, they began providing us with the odd answer. Realising their value to the team, we invited them to sit with us, and watched with glee as they persistently picked up the pen.

They were called Ken & Kitty, and they were geniuses. On the rare occasions when one of them didn't know the answer, the other would quickly provide it. On the extremely rare occasions where neither of them knew the answer, they looked to us – hopefully, naively, forlornly – then had a guess themselves.

After we challenged the integrity of a fellow quiz team at the Malin Bridge Inn, you may question the morals of recruiting two randomers to bolster our chances of victory – however, I couldn't care less what you think. Anything to achieve our first Pubquest pub quiz prize.

We told Ken & Kitty all about Pubquest (unbelievably, they hadn't heard of it already), and guaranteed them a shout-out in our blog. What we neglected to mention is that the blog is so far behind schedule that it would be months before we got round to writing it, so I hope they didn't spend the next week eagerly refreshing the page.

Inspired by Carried by Ken & Kitty, we actually posted a reasonable score. For the first time in Pubquest history, I was listening intently to the guy reading out the results. With each team who were revealed to have a lower score than us, my excitement increased another notch. Suddenly, there were only two teams left.

“And in joint first place...”

Joint winners! But wait, what happens now...

“Looks like we're going to a tiebreaker!”

The nerves kicked in. I hadn't been involved in an event with such a thrilling climax since our football match in the South Yorkshire Primary School Cup (second round) went to a penalty shoot-out.

Breathe slowly. Don't let the nerves affect you. Just play your normal game.

By this point, the pub had separated into two tribes – all those sat closest to us were helping our team, and all those sat nearest our rivals were assisting them.

The quizmaster revealed the all-important question: “In which year did The Shakespeare pub become The Brothers Arms?”

Great. A tiebreaker about a pub we had never been to before that night. Even Ken & Kitty were stumped.

Luckily, a wise old man leant over:

“I've been coming here every week since it opened. It's definitely 2014”.

Really? It felt like I had been wanting to visit for longer than that. Working on the basis that these things are always longer ago than you think, I made an executive decision and took a couple of years off his suggestion.

“2012,” I whispered to the quizmaster.

Our opponents went with 2013. The answer was 2014.

And so Pubquest's wait for our maiden quiz title goes on. Certainly, we will never have a better opportunity. Having listened to Ken & Kitty all night long, what made me think I suddenly knew best?

Just like the penalty I missed in round two of the South Yorkshire Primary School Cup – my nerves had got the better of me.

Pub: The Brothers Arms (106 Well Road, S8 9TZ)

Rating: 7.5/10

Pint: Brothers Best
Brewery: The Brothers Arms (Homebrew)

 

NEXT UP: Twitter celebrities, at Noah's Ark...

Pub 113, Day 43 – Waggon & Horses

By Rob

A storm was brewing...

As we left the Earl Marshal, we stepped out into the grey, overcast evening and consulted the internet on where to go next. We discovered that The Brothers Arms, a popular local pub, wasn't too far away. Deciding we'd pay them a visit, we set off to Heeley.

We'd been walking only five minutes when the first drops of rain made themselves known. Once again, I consulted the internet and was reassured to see that 'light rain' was the extent of our troubles.

Then, as if to ridicule my online forecast, the hammer of Thor crashed against our eardrums as thunder pealed across the sky. Lightning danced amidst the thick, darkening clouds and the heavens opened. In a matter of seconds, the gentle drizzle had been transformed into an Old Testament deluge.

The winds picked up, howling through the streets, while torrents of icy water came hurtling down upon our heads. We quickened our pace, fearing we'd be swept away if we didn't find shelter soon. All around us, people were darting into nearby buildings – the poor folk of Sheffield taking refuge in any place they managed to find.

Of course, we could afford no such luxury. We had a pub to visit, and no elemental forces would keep us from our goal.

Neither of us were dressed for such adverse weather conditions, and I already knew I'd be wearing wet jeans until such time as I returned home. In minutes, my immaculately sculpted hair was plastered to my skull, while Andy's lipstick, eye-liner, mascara, foundation, blusher, bronzer, and drawn-on eyebrows all began to run.

Now, I might be remembering this wrong, but I'm pretty certain one Arbourthorne resident began quoting lines from Shakespeare's Tempest, declaring from his bedroom window that "hell is full, and all the devils are here!" Whether he was referring to Sheffield, or the housing estate in particular, was unclear.

Suddenly, Andy grabbed my shoulder, pointing to a light in the distance.

"There!" he shouted, his other arm fastened tight around a lamppost to prevent himself from being washed away.

I squinted into the storm. He was right, there was a light.

There was also a door.

There was also a sign above the door.

A pub sign, which read: 'Waggon & Horses'.

Thanking our lucky stars, we darted inside and shut the door behind us. Somehow, we'd stumbled across a pub that we didn't know existed, in one of the worst storms the world had ever seen of the week.

Looking around the room, the phrase 'out of the frying pan and into the fire' sprang immediately to mind.

The place was pretty sparse: a rough wooden floor, some mismatched and tatty old furniture, and a glaring fruit machine were about the only occupants of the pub. That was, of course, with the exception of the two old men who eyed us as we walked towards the bar.

My jaw almost hit the floor as I found myself looking at not one, not two, but three separate real ales on offer. Clearly, my initial assumptions about this place had been dead, dead wrong.  I'd just started to silently chastise myself for judging books by their covers when I heard Andy select the ale we wanted, only to be told it wasn't actually available.

Andy selected the next ale, which also proved to be unavailable.

Thinking it might be third time lucky, Andy selected the final of the three ales on show.

In a hat-trick of disappointment, the barman revealed that this, too, was not available.

We then perused everything else on offer, trying to work out which beers we'd already drank. As we stood there, deliberating over what to pick, we clearly gave the barman the (incorrect) impression that we were some kind of beer connoisseurs, because he immediately began to apologise profusely for the lack of real ales, assuring us that it was highly unusual for them to be so completely out of stock.

He then began rifling through the fridges, trying to offer us various beers. Eventually, he held up a bottle of Guinness West Indies Porter. Choosing not to dispel the illusion that we were beer aficionados, we inspected the bottle and told him that it would, in fact, suffice.

"Can we have three bottles, rather than two?" I added, having learned from previous experiences that one such bottle wouldn't hold a pint. The barman never asked why, and I strongly suspect that this oddball behaviour only increased his suspicion that we were professional beer-tasters from the local CAMRA.

We settled ourselves down and made our way through the Guinness. Although not the same as 'normal' Guinness, I'd be lying if I said it tasted dramatically different. Perhaps a little stronger and a little less gassy, and perhaps even a little nicer – but basically it was Guinness.

Thankfully, we both liked Guinness.

The sort of decoration on the walls...

The barman really must've thought we were experts, because a few minutes later he came over to ask for our opinions on the Guinness. Our reply of "yeah it's nice" finally shattered the illusion that we knew anything about anything, and he sauntered back to the bar.

Sitting there in my wet clothes, drinking a Guinness in a relatively run-down pub, I wasn't having the best time of my life. However, things started to look up when one of the old men, in a state of clear inebriation, decided to shout across the room and tell Andy that he looked like Justin Bieber.

Although the pub had few redeeming features, the friendly and attentive staff did compensate for the shabby surroundings and poor beer choice. Having said that, with the storm raging outside, the only feature we really cared about was the roof.

Pub: Waggon & Horses (236 Gleadless Road, S2 3AF)

Rating: 4.5/10

Pint: Guinness West Indies Porter

Brewery: Guinness Brewery (Dublin)

 

NEXT UP: Pub quiz redemption, at The Brothers Arms...

Pub 112, Day 43 – Earl Marshal

By Rob

Perhaps you're under the illusion that time travel is impossible. Perhaps you think that such things only happen in science-fiction. Or perhaps you believe that, even if such things were possible, they would require knowledge and technology that are far beyond our current levels of understanding.

Not so.

Step through the doors of a working men's club and I guarantee you that, in almost all cases, you'll travel through time. Some will take you back to the 90s, while others will deposit you in the 80s. In a few instances, you'll be dropped as far back as the 70s.

As you enter, you'll probably notice the patterned wallpaper and linoleum floor. You'll quickly discover that the only beer on offer is smooth-flow bitter; as you try to speak to the bar staff over the noise coming from the guy on stage, whose awful rendition of The Drifters assures you that you are, in fact, more than a number in his little red book.

The shivering, huddled masses outside tell you that virtually everybody smokes, including the elderly management committee, who spend most of the evening selling tickets for the astonishingly varied array of games. Naturally, you'll have no idea what each ticket is for: there's bingo (both regular and five number), tombola, a meat raffle, a normal raffle, and more besides. Meanwhile, a sign in the doorway proudly proclaims that 'women can now be members'.

Not yet compelled to go? Well, if you need another reason to visit, then consider that these clubs are fast disappearing. Unlike Sheffield's pubs, which in recent years have reversed the downward trend, the traditional working-class clubs continue to vanish. They close down and, when they're not left to collapse, end up as supermarkets and (in at least one case) residential homes.

This isn't all conjecture, either. I worked in one such place for five years while at university and I've visited many others. Believe me when I tell you that few places are able to offer the same mixture of interesting local characters, old-fashioned music, casual racism, and incredibly cheap beer. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the only thing better than a Sheffield working men's club, is a Sheffield pub.

So, imagine our delight when we discovered that one such club – the Midhill Working Men's Club – had managed to find new life as a pub. After closing down due to financial difficulties and a lengthy spell of bad management (sadly not an uncommon problem in such places), the Midhill reopened as the Earl Marshal, a pub that's since stood on East Bank Road for more than thirty years.^[1]

***

From the outside, the pub looked enormous. The building seemed to stretch out in all directions, set in the middle of large grounds. Had it not been in the middle of a council housing estate, it might've looked something like a luxury residence.

Once inside, it was clear to see that this had not always been a pub; it was far too big. About three or four customers stood around the bar, but the rest of the place was empty. The various rooms, set back in the several branches of the building, were not even lit. It was a strange scene: a small, semi-populated bar in the midst of empty, inky blackness.

As is often the case in such pubs, our entrance elicited a few stares. Once at the bar, we were faced with the predictably poor choice of beers. The usual suspects were all lined up: John Smiths, Stones, and Carling. Everything we saw, we'd already drank. Fortunately, we'd recently come to discover that a bottle of Bulmers cider held a full pint of booze. With two of those in hand, we headed to sit down.

But where to sit?

Picking one of the various rooms at random, we asked the woman behind the bar if she wouldn't mind switching on the lights. Apparently, this was perceived as a wholly unreasonable demand, which she absolutely refused to meet. We briefly considered sitting in darkness, presumably to teach her some sort of obscure lesson, but ultimately decided against it.

In the end, we perched ourselves down at a small table a few feet from the bar, where I took a swig from my drink and almost immediately developed type-2 diabetes. The concentrated syrup – apparently 'Wild Blueberry & Lime' – tasted like liquefied sherbet. Holding the bottle up to what little light we had, I wondered whether it was the wild blueberries or the limes that had given this cider its agonisingly bright, electric blue colour.

As for the pub itself, it was very hard to judge. Apparently, when the Earl Marshal first opened for business, the various rooms were interestingly themed. The pub boasted of a colonial room, Victorian room, and a garden party room.^[2] I was fairly confident this was no longer the case but, given that we'd finally found somewhere darker than The Abbey, it was impossible to know for sure.

While I heartily recommend visiting a working men's club, I can't say the same for the Earl Marshal.

Pub: Earl Marshal (291 East Bank Road, S2 3PZ)

Rating: 3.5/10

Pint: Bulmers Wild Blueberry & Lime

Brewery: H. P. Bulmer (Hereford)

 

NEXT UP: Caught in a thunderstorm, at the Waggon & Horses...

[1] Peter Tuffrey, Sheffield Pubs; Landlords and Landladies, Fonthill Media, (2012), pp.45-46

[2] Peter Tuffrey, Sheffield Pubs; Landlords and Landladies, Fonthill Media, (2012), pp.45-46