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