By
Rob
Emptying
our glasses (and returning them to the bar, in accordance with
Pubquest etiquette) we headed out into the glitz and glamour of the
colloquially named 'Eccy' Road. For our guest Lucy, who'd just graduated from
university and was now confronted with the hellish reality of adult
life, it was important to have another drink.
Under
the guise of celebrating our friend's academic success, we strolled
around the corner to The Porter Cottage (ten points to anybody who
can spot the link to the previous pub). Lucy, now bearing witness to one of our famous
multi-pub events, had to admit that being awarded a degree was only
the second most exciting thing to have happened to her that day.
The
Porter Cottage was a pleasant little pub: cosy and
traditional, while still being firmly 'on trend'. The pub sported an
excellent line-up of guest ales, an acclaimed alternative jukebox,
and 'Beer Tapas' for anybody with a thirst for
variety (three different ales, each a third of a pint, for the
price of one drink).
Given
that Lucy had just finished three gruelling years of studying law,
and bearing in mind that today represented one of the biggest
achievements of her life, we agreed to each buy her a drink. It was
my round and Lucy, wishing to celebrate her big day, asked for a
glass of Prosecco. I gently explained to the cheeky little bitch that
I wasn't made of money and that she could buy her own Prosecco when
she started raking the money in as a lawyer, but that in the meantime
she would need to make do with cheap beer like the rest of us.
To
that end, I ordered three pints of Wyld Wood cider. I honestly can't
recall why, out of all of the various options available, I opted for
a cider. Presumably it was just one of those weird, synaptic spasms
that happens to people now and again, like when your whole body
shudders for no discernible reason. As we've covered in previous posts, neither I nor Andy are big fans of the stuff. However, Wyld
Wood was palatable (for a cider). I can't really say much more than
that.
Unbeknownst
to the staff at The Porter Cottage, they had the honour of hosting
Pubquest's 60th visit. To celebrate ticking off another ten pubs, we
decided to mark the occasion by inventing another great gimmick,
which would go on to become a staple of future Pubquest
adventures.
I
am, of course, talking about the ingenious beer mat
certificates!
The
concept was stunningly simple. We would peel a beer mat, like bored
toddlers at a Sunday carvery, and then write a
congratulatory message on the newly pristine surface. Inevitably, the
task fell to me, as Andy's handwriting hasn't really improved since
about Year 8, while Lucy was ruled out on account of being a mere
guest. Andy asked the perplexed barmaid for a pen and I went to work.
I'm sure you'll all agree, the result was stunning.
I
finished the certificate as we each drained our glasses. We dropped
the empty vessels at the bar and headed for the door, while Andy
approached the barmaid with his graffiti-ridden beer mat.
Now,
I was there for this bit, so I have my own opinions on how it
transpired, but Andy is convinced that the scene played out like
this:
The
barmaid, who had spent the last few minutes wondering why Andy had
asked her for a pen, watched the blonde man approach. In his hand, he
held a note. Anticipation gripped her, as the young woman was
convinced that this enigmatic stranger had written his phone number
down on what appeared to be a little slip of paper and that, most
exciting of all, he was about to hand it over. Her heart skipped a
beat, while her eyes (and I am now going to quote Andy
directly) "lit up with a look that only the promise of
eternal happiness can bring".
For
Andy, who had a girlfriend, it was a bittersweet moment. He handed
over the beer mat, then turned and walked away, unable to face the
crushing disappointment that would be writ plain across her
countenance, as she discovered that he had not, in fact, given her
his number. As he left the pub, he thought he heard a sob, carried on
the wind.
According
to my own recollection, Andy walked up to the barmaid, who was hoping
to get her pen back, and handed her a tatty, ripped beer mat that was
covered in nonsense. As he walked away, she no doubt wondered what
sort of grown man tears up beer mats and how, thanks to him, there
was probably a pile of ripped paper sitting on his table that she
would have to clean up.
Pub: The Porter Cottage (286 Sharrow Vale Road, S11 8ZL)
Rating:
8.5/10
Pint: Wyld Wood Classic Cider
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