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)

NEXT UP: Battling spiders, at The Plough...

Pub 78, Day 29 – The British Oak

By Rob

With the rumbling of Andy's stomach now measurable on the Richter scale – his hunger pangs sending tremors racing across the Eurasian Plate – we left the Ridgeway Arms and headed a few minutes down the road to The British Oak. None of us had ever set foot inside this pub before and, consequently, had no idea what to expect. The one thing we did know, however, was that at 10.30pm the kitchen would be firmly closed.

Venturing through the doorway, I fell instantly in love with the place.

The wooden roof beams, the red leather upholstery, the wall lamps, and the various decorations made it feel like we'd just wandered into a countryside lodge. The head of a deer could be seen on one wall, while behind us there sat a large blackbird – so lifelike in appearance that I half-expected it to start flapping around the tables. The heads of foxes and badgers stared down at the punters below, while fish, pigeons and various other creatures of indeterminate taxonomy festooned the walls. Sure enough, the choice of decor might not appeal to some people, but in me the proprietors had found an appreciative audience.

Once at the bar, the pub only continued to impress, this time by presenting us with an extensive range of ales, craft lagers and organic ciders. Spoiled for choice, we selected two pints of Erdinger Weißbier – a Bavarian wheat beer that we both really enjoyed. Every sip was crisp, and the sparkling nature of the drink gave it an almost champagne-like quality. The brewers over at Erdinger put this down to the "invigorating carbon dioxide" that they use (which must have been carefully selected from the many varieties of CO₂  available on the market today).^[1]

Strolling past a selection of hunting rifles and yet more works of taxidermy, we sat ourselves down in a corner and soaked up the warm atmosphere of The Oak. Both Reanna and I were thoroughly enjoying ourselves, while poor old Andy was still bemoaning his almost debilitating malnutrition. To exacerbate the situation, someone had cruelly left a menu out on display near our table, thereby taunting our starved compatriot with a list of delicious-sounding, and totally unavailable, food.

Having spent many evenings in The York, over at Broomhill (about thirty seconds away from my flat) it doesn't take a genius to guess that it's owned and operated by the same people: True North Brew Co. Both pubs have a similar feel to them and, I have it on very good authority, both can whip up some excellent grub (for those fortunate enough to visit when the kitchen is open).

As last orders arrived, we reluctantly left the pub and made our way home. I can't be certain, but I think Andy might have broken the land speed record in his bid to reach the takeaway before it, too, closed its doors.

The British Oak, because of its mountains of charm, gets a well deserved 9.5/10

Pub: The British Oak (1 Mosborough Moor, S20 5AY)

Rating: 9.5/10

Pint: Erdinger Weißbier

Brewery: Erdinger Weißbräu

NEXT UP: Bonfire Night, at The Old Horns Inn...

---

^[1] https://int.erdinger.de/beer/weissbier.html

Pub 77, Day 29 – Ridgeway Arms

By Andy

The problem with having high standards is that you always live to regret them.

Our mutual friend Danny refuses to go on a date with a female unless she is a supermodel, and as a consequence he is destined to die a lonely, unsatisfied virgin. 

I had turned my nose up at The Birley's food due to its unhygienic bathrooms and uninspiring menu, and we now faced a mad dash to the Ridgeway Arms before they stopped serving food.

Me and Rob limbered up for the walk between pubs, a routine we had become well-accustomed to during our Pubquest tours.

“What are you doing?” asked our guest Reanna, as I performed a few warm-up stretches. 

Official Pubquest Policy states that we must walk between pubs: it's a well-known fact that a 5-minute walk burns off enough calories to negate the two pints of beer and one bag of pork scratchings that we typically consume. This was politely explained.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” countered Reanna, as Rob placed a sweatband over his head.

Me and Rob exchanged wary glances, while I changed into my lycra.

“This is only your second Pubquest pub, you can't start dictating all the rules,” Rob informed his sister curtly, as he stuck tape over his nipples, lest they chafe.

“Well I'm getting the bus,” stropped Reanna.

Sensing a quarrel between the siblings, I tried to intervene. Opening Google Maps on my phone, I typed in the route and waited for it to load.

“It'll probably be quicker to walk to be honest, it's only--” The route loaded. “Fuck. 1.8 miles!”

Undeterred, me and Rob set off to walk, leaving Reanna behind at the bus stop. We had gone a full fifty yards before I realised we had made a mistake: I turned around to see an 18-year-old girl alone at a dark bus stop, on a cold night, in an area she didn't know. It was clear I needed to amend the error.

“If you get there first, order me a steak and chips,” I bellowed back at her. “Medium-rarrrrrre!”

***

On the walk, me and Rob foolishly convinced ourselves that we could beat the bus. Public transport is so unreliable, we said; much better to just put one foot in front of the other. Not only would Reanna have to wait for the bus to turn up, but her journey would be punctuated by stops every 30 seconds.

Our delusions were shattered when we arrived to see a very bored-looking Reanna sat in the corner, already halfway through her drink. After apologising for our late arrival (for the second time that night), Rob struck a deal with his sister that they wouldn't mention this little escapade to their mother.

The walk had certainly increased my appetite, but no matter because it was about to be quelled. After all, my hunger was the primary reason we had come to this pub: we had checked online before setting off, they served food until 10pm. I glanced at my watch: it was 9:40.

I approached the bar with a smile, knowing the internal agony of my hunger would soon come to an end. I even had the foresight to check our table number.

“Steak and chips please,” I requested. “Medium-rare.”

“Sorry, we're not serving food anymore, you're too late.”

The hunger in my stomach suddenly transformed to anger, as I realised I might end the night without a meal.

“But, but, it says on your website you serve food until 10!” I spluttered.

“Yeah we do, but it's been quiet tonight, the chef's gone home,” the barmaid replied, oblivious to the impact of her words.

“WELL BRING HIM BACK THEN!” [I may or may not have actually said this.]

However I remonstrated, it was no use. The woman in front of me claimed to be incapable of putting even the most basic of items into a microwave without the supervision of the chef.

Not that I'm sulking, but the choice of beers was shit too. We had to have Strongbow.

I wanted to give the pub 0/10 for starving me. However, I was overruled by Rob.

Pub: Ridgeway Arms (Quarry Hill, S20 5AZ)

Rating: 4.5/10

Pint: Strongbow

Brewery: H. P. Bulmer (Hereford)

NEXT UP: The best pub of the night, at The British Oak...

Pub 76, Day 29 – The Birley

By Rob

Sitting almost directly across the road from our current location at The Sherwood, The Birley was always going to be next on our list. The three of us (me, Andy and Reanna – my sister, for those not quite keeping up) walked the requisite fifty yards from one pub door to the next and stepped inside yet another budget eatery.

The Birley, it's safe to say, was a bit of a shit pub.

While The Sherwood was fairly nondescript and looked every inch the chain pub, it had a certain warmth to it. The Birley, on the other hand, had all the warmth of a Norwegian January. It was drab where The Sherwood was bright. It was dour where The Sherwood was friendly. It was worn where The Sherwood was marginally less worn.

Arriving at the bar, we reviewed the range of ales on offer.

The range of ales didn't include any that we recognised.

By which I mean it didn't include any.

What I'm saying is: there were no ales.

Two pints of Stella Artois later (reassuringly expensive, but annoyingly commonplace), we headed over to the pool table, where somebody won 1-0. I won't bother going into details about who it was that won, or who it was that lost, or where the overall Pubquest pool score stood at the end of it. The game was played and the game was finished. Enough said.

As for the pub, it really wasn't appealing. A little dark, a little dingy,  and with no ales on offer, it was immediately apparent that it wouldn't be winning any of the coveted Pubquest awards.

Andy, having not eaten any dinner, was by this point very hungry. He thus picked up a menu to peruse the culinary options available to him. Unimpressed with what was on offer, and somewhat dissuaded by the slightly rundown surroundings, he deliberated at great length over whether or not to order some food. Leaving him to his thoughts, I headed to the toilet.

Pulling the door open, I was assaulted by an almighty stench – so potent in its malodour that it almost melted the contact lenses right off my eyes. Staggering back from the noisome attack on my olfactory senses, I turned to see Andy clap a hand over his nose in a vain attempt to defend himself from the pestilential miasma.

Now, I accept that toilets are never going to be the nicest of places and, considering what they're built for, I'm prepared to tolerate a certain degree of unpleasantness. However, when you're inches away from calling 999, firm in the belief that there's a decomposing human cadaver in one of the cubicles, then it's gone too far.

With his face turning the same colour as the baize on the pool table, Andy decided that he would forgo the dining experience and seek sustenance elsewhere.

With that decision made, we finished off our drinks rather more quickly than we did in The Sherwood and decided to head to the next place.

Overall opinion? The pints may have been Stella, but the pub certainly wasn't.

The Birley Pool Score: Andy 1-0 Rob
Pubquest Pool Score: Andy 41-28 Rob

Pub: The Birley (66 Birley Moor Road, S12 4WB)

Rating: 3/10

Pint: Stella Artois

Brewery: Anheuser-Busch InBev (based in Leuven, Belgium)

NEXT UP: A Top Gear challenge, at the Ridgeway Arms...

Pub 75, Day 29 – The Sherwood

It's time to treat you, our lucky readers, to another guest blog. This time, helping us to celebrate our 75th pub, the contributor in question is Rob's youngest sister, Reanna. Making her Pubquest debut at the age of eighteen – that magnificent age when the world of (legal) pub-going is opened up – she is here to share her experience.

***

By Reanna

It was a day like any other, or so it seemed. As I awoke that morning, little did I know what adventures lay ahead of me.

As had become tradition, my sister Beki and myself visited my grandmother’s house every week for lunch. We would then while away the hours with idle chatter, watching reruns of Murder She Wrote until, eventually, we would venture out to have our dinner at The Sherwood pub. This had been the routine, once a week, every week, for the past five years; so I could be forgiven for not realising that this day would be any different.

Oh, but different it was, because on that fateful taxi ride from my grandmother's front door to the pub, I received a text message – one word that filled me with excitement, one word that would change the course of the evening completely:

Pubquest?

I was aware of my brother and Andrew’s mission – to visit every pub in Sheffield; a goal I had doubted more than once. I had never imagined I would become a part of it, eternalised in the legend that is Sheffield Pubquest.

I replied with speed, confirming my attendance and informing him of the time we usually finished our meal. Once the food was eaten, my grandmother and sister politely declined the invitation to remain with me and await the boys' arrival, and so I was left waiting alone for Robert and Andrew who were, unsurprisingly, late.

The Sherwood is a pub belonging to the Hungry Horse chain and can be found in Frecheville, along Birley Moor Road. It is a funny sort of building, which would look more at home in a seaside town than on the side of a main road, across from a Co-op and a row of takeaways. It has a large car park and plenty of outside seating for those who like their beer with added rain water, or their food with a side order of flies.

Inside, it is exactly how one might imagine a chain pub – trendy(ish) and, arguably, aimed at those on a budget. The main seating area, which is open to families, is large with plenty of tables and they even have comfy, if slightly worn, booths with small televisions set into the wall, designed to keep the children entertained (although the TVs are muted and without subtitles, so the level of entertainment provided is questionable). There are crayons, puzzle sheets and balloons available and, for whatever reason, a couple of those “play ‘til you win” grabber machines by the toilets. Needless to say, I knew we wouldn't be sitting in this side of the pub...

The other side of the pub, meanwhile, is dedicated to over-18s only. It has the usual row of bandits along the wall, a couple of pool tables and a big screen they bring out for especially exciting sports games.

I also feel as though I ought to mention the cuisine, as it's usually the reason for my visiting The Sherwood (although food is not, I understand, the focus of Pubquest). The range of the menu is decent enough, with the usual pub food and a few ‘fancy’ extras thrown in. The quality of the food is average, although considering the low price you pay it is certainly nothing to complain over. Generally speaking, it is much like you would find in a Wetherspoons, or any other budget chain pub.

Once the pair finally arrived, swaggering in with the ego of two men who run a blog nobody reads, we relocated to the adults' section, nabbing the table closest to the bar. Robert and Andrew carefully scoured the drinks menu, searching for something they had not already had at one of their previous jaunts. The range of drinks on offer was much to be expected, with a few real ales thrown in alongside the usual lagers and beers.

The pub also offered a range of cocktail pitchers, all of which were greatly overpriced. I am still unsure as to why a chain pub that is nowhere near the city centre offers such a wide range of shots and drinks deals, but the service is usually quick and the staff are mostly friendly, so I will let that slide.

Deciding on a pint of Abbot Ale for themselves, and a bottle of Bulmers for myself (which Andrew so graciously bought for me), we sat down and planned for the night ahead.

Overall, The Sherwood is a perfectly acceptable pub and certainly one of the better ones in the area, being ideal for families and low-budget group meals.

As a regular, I feel I have to award it a respectable 6/10 – although that is, perhaps, a little generous.

***

While we appreciate Reanna's enthusiasm over here at Pubquest HQ, I must point out that she's vastly overreached by assuming that she – a guest contributor – is permitted to award an official rating to a pub. Therefore, we have voided and rescinded her rating, as it does not represent the official position of Pubquest.

After much discussion, we have instead awarded The Sherwood an Official Pubquest Rating of 6/10. 

Pub: The Sherwood (67 Birley Moor Road, S12 4WG)

Rating: 6/10

Pint: Abbot Ale

Brewery: Greene King Brewery (Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk)

NEXT UP: Disgusting toilets, at The Birley...