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
Rating:
5.5/10
