Pub 50, Day 18 – Fagan's

By Rob and Andy

“You’ll never amount to much.”

“You don’t see things through, that’s your problem.”

“If either of you ever succeed at anything, I’ll eat my own fingers.”

“You know my brother Ethan!”

These are just some of the comments and accusations that have been levelled against us. Yet none of that has stopped us. Through wind and rain, thick and thin, good times and bad, we’ve stayed the course.

Now here we are, standing at the first milestone: pub number 50.

To mark this special occasion, we’ve dispensed with the usual formula (if there is one) and decided to write this entry together, for Pubquest is not a lone man’s voyage, but a joint venture.

So it is that you, our lucky reader(s), will get to hear from both of us...

Rob: Having left the Three Tuns, we made the short walk over to the nearby Fagan’s. This old joint, which has been serving beer since at least the early 1820s, was originally called The Barrel. It was renamed in 1985 in recognition of its former landlord, Joe Fagan, who had the honour of being Tetley’s longest-serving landlord, having been in the job for 37 years.

Today, locals will probably recognise the pub thanks to the huge mural on the side of the building – known as The Snog – by Sheffield artist Pete McKee.

The picture is great: both funny and endearing. This means that, if you’re approaching the pub from the correct side of the road, it automatically has a bit of star quality about it. After all, few pubs can boast such a great decoration.

If, like us, you’re approaching the building from the other side of the road, then it really doesn’t look like something you’d write home to your parents about.

Keen to see what it was like inside, we were about to step into the building when Andy stopped me.

“Wait,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve brought something for the occasion”.

Curious, I watched on as he dug into his pockets, idly wondering whether he was about to pull out a bulging wallet and offer to finance the remainder of the evening.

He didn’t, of course.

What he did provide, however, was a pair of ‘50’ birthday badges. I had to admit that I thought it was a nice touch. The only slight problem was that the badges actually said "I am 50", which we were very clearly not, but you work with what you’ve got.

Stepping indoors, we found ourselves in a place that looked, above all else, worn. I think that’s the only word that I can find to describe it. It certainly wasn’t a rough pub and, as we’ll go onto mention, the clientele were overwhelmingly friendly.

Andy: Panic not, dear readers, for Rob's verbal vomit is over.

Lucy, a mutual friend of ours, once informed us that she preferred my blogs to Rob's. Now I'm not a petty man, and therefore I don't remind Rob of this at absolutely every possible opportunity. But when you compare my delicate prose to his reckless ramblings, it's easy to see her point. It's akin to J. R. R. Tolkien co-writing Lord of the Rings with Forrest Gump.

Andy (centre) prepares to continue the story from Rob (right)

Are you keeping up? Good, because we're in Fagan's, a pub from a bygone era, where the staff spend more time chatting with the punters than worrying about the wallpaper.

Aware that our badges made us look like fools, we sensibly retreated to the corner. Still, it didn't stop some doddery old woman making a beeline for us.

“You look good for 50!” she exclaimed.

“I moisturise,” Rob retorted, quick as a flash.

I, however, have been brought up to respect my elders and so gave the pleasant old bat a brief summary of Pubquest.

“Ooo, there's not as many pubs as when I were a kid,” she remarked, in that wistful tone that only pensioners can summon.

At this point, it was getting dangerously close to Let-Me-Pull-Up-A-Chair territory. Worried she might not leave us alone (we wanted to spend a bit of time together on our anniversary), I scared her into retreat by telling her about our Twitter account.

As the smell of Grandma slowly receded, it was replaced by the scent of chilli. A giant vat bubbled away not ten yards from our table. Naturally, we enquired as to its availability.

“I'm afraid it's for an event,” came the barman's reply.

Quite what this event was I'm unsure, as there were only about five people in the pub. Unless we had stumbled upon the Over-65s Chilli-Eating World Championship, it seemed that plenty would be going spare.

Sensing defeat, we focussed our attention on the drinks instead. As you should know by now, Pubquest rules dictate we must drink a different pint in each pub. With this in mind, Addlestones Cloudy Cider caught our eye – neither of us had ever heard of it. Although not normally cider-drinkers, we requested two pints of scrumpy.

I'll let Rob finish this one off. No doubt he'll tell you that the cider was “nice” and the pub was “good”.

Rob: Casting my mind back to when I was eleven years old, I remember a game we used to play in class. You would write a few lines of a story, fold the paper over, and then pass it onto somebody else who would pick up where you left off. The process was repeated over and over, until everyone had contributed and the tale was complete.

Each time I would take it very seriously, putting maximum effort into crafting perfect English and using my blossoming mastery of the pen to create the foundation of an exciting story, ripe with potential. The problem was that my fellow Year 7 collaborators never quite shared my enthusiasm for mature plotlines. What started out as a promising Victorian murder mystery novel would inevitably turn into a story about a teacher whose trousers fell down.

That is what writing a joint blog with Andrew Wilson feels like. 

The post starts out as a thing of beauty, promising to grow into something both splendidly witty and excellently written, but then ultimately falls short. It’s a bit like watching an experienced coachman who sets out driving smoothly down the queen’s highway, but who then inexplicably hands the reins of his gilded carriage to the half-blind, limbless alcoholic who is usually entrusted with nothing so taxing as mucking out the stables.

But anyway, back to the matter of Fagan’s.

Contrary to Andy’s predictions, I’m not going to say that the cider was “nice” or that the pub was “good”, because neither statement has any place in the writings of an honest man. The cider wasn’t nice. The pub wasn’t particularly good.

The issue with the cider was that it suffered from a fundamental problem that rendered my distaste a foregone conclusion, which was simply this: it was cider. No matter how fine the apples, it will never be my favourite drink. However, it must be stated that – as far as cider goes – this was one of the better ones. I couldn’t say that I enjoyed it, but it didn’t make me want to scour my tongue with razor wire.

Andy, who is also generally averse to the beverage, found himself pleasantly surprised. I suspect that, for real cider lovers, it would be a fine pint indeed.

As far as the pub itself is concerned, it was certainly below average but still a good distance above being total rubbish. It was overwhelmingly shabby, while still strangely posh. The punters were welcoming, but the rundown taproom and frankly appalling selection of books and board games aren’t going to win it any of the coveted Pubquest Awards.

Andy: Bloody hell, Rob's tough to please. On the plus side, the cider was excellent, showing they care about the quality of your pint, and the mural gives Fagan's a touch of uniqueness that nowhere in the city can match.

Anyway, it's safe to say the joint blog has been a disaster. We've gone round in more circles than a spirograph and we haven't even reached a conclusion yet.

Rob: The pub wasn't great. 5/10.

Andy: A bit shabby perhaps but it had character! 9/10.

Rob: 7/10? 

Andy: Deal.

Pub: Fagan's (69 Broad Ln, S1 4BS)

Rating: 7/10

Pint: Addlestones Cloudy Premium Cider

Brewery: C&C Group (Shepton Mallet, Somerset)

NEXT UP: Danny returns, at The Swim Inn...