By
Rob
For
those of you with long memories, you may recall our compatriot Danny:
a perpetually lonely and unloved specimen, whose relentless romantic
failures served as a constant source of merriment to both myself and
Andy. He also happened to be one of my closest friends.
When we last encountered him at Noah’s Ark, he was planning to skip
town and traverse the globe. For months he’d been looking forward
to experiencing a host of new cultures, amidst the exotic landscapes
of three different continents.
You may also recall that he was hoping to discover new cultures in the bedroom, getting to know each nation by seducing their women.
You may also recall that he was hoping to discover new cultures in the bedroom, getting to know each nation by seducing their women.
Of
course, I had long suspected that the rationale behind this
expectation of success was built upon a series of questionable
assumptions about the erotic nature of travelling, but I was always
reluctant to say so. I was firmly of the opinion that it would be
better to hide my doubts and quietly hope that, upon his return to
England, he would surprise me with tales of his intimate encounters.
So
it came to pass that, six months after we’d last seen each other,
Danny returned to Sheffield. We agreed to meet at a pub, and
seeing as Pubquest was never far from my thoughts, I invited Andy along.
Finding
the right pub for the occasion was more difficult than you might
think. For starters, Danny wanted to go somewhere that served food,
whereas Andy and I simply wanted to visit somewhere we hadn’t
already crossed off the list. Danny also wanted the pub to be in the
city centre, so that he could get to/from the venue with relative
ease.
This
left us with limited options and resulted in a visit to the worst
Wetherspoons of the journey so far: The Swim Inn.
Like
many Wetherspoons in Sheffield, the pub sits within an impressive old
building. As its name suggests, people were swimming lengths there
long before they were sipping pints. The Glossop Road Baths
began life in 1836 as a medical enterprise, built during the height
of Sheffield’s cholera epidemic that claimed over 400 lives.
Prior
to the establishment of the baths, the good folk of Sheffield had
been washing themselves in the River Don, which was heavily polluted
from the city’s endless industrial runoff.[1] The first of its kind
to be opened in Sheffield, this hygiene-promoting brainchild later
featured one of Victorian Britain’s earliest Turkish baths.
Sadly,
the building’s noble history as a weapon against disease does
little to improve the atmosphere or interior of the pub that stands
there today. The dimly lit ‘Spoons has a neglected feel to it and
plays host to a clientele that isn’t always fantastically
friendly. That being said, there is the usual range of
well-priced ales on offer, meaning our quest-within-a-quest to drink
a different pint each time is made that little bit more achievable as
Wetherspoons continue to spread across the city.
Danny
arrived only a few minutes after us and we all headed to the bar.
Andy and I each ordered a pint of Boadicea. The light, straw-coloured
ale had a slight sweetness to it and went down very easily. Danny,
not burdened by any self-imposed regulations relating to his choice
of beverage, opted for a lager. He also bought himself a pulled pork
quesadilla.
Sitting
down with our drinks, both myself and Andy waited with anticipation
as Danny began to regale us with stories from his multi-continental
adventure. He told us about the beauty and rich cultural fabric of
Asia. He painted pictures of the magnificent vistas and blistering
heat of the Australian Outback. He told us of his time driving an RV
across the highways of western America and his night in Vegas.
The
answer, of course, was that there were no romantic entanglements
along the way. The only time he had come close to anything resembling
an amatory rendezvous was when he discovered that a certain German
co-traveller was, inexplicably, attracted to him. Unfortunately
for Danny she looked, and I quote, "like a man".
The
certainty of Danny’s empty, affectionless future was pushed to the
back of our minds as the onetime globetrotter’s food arrived.
Now,
I like Mexican food. I really like quesadillas. And I love
pulled pork quesadillas. But no matter what the staff at The Swim Inn
called it, the flat, discoloured, anaemic pancake that they’d
slapped onto the plate was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a
pulled pork quesadilla.
Danny,
exhausted from hurtling through a hundred different time zones in a
flying metal tube, didn’t have the energy to send it back.
It
says something that, after a journey in which he’d eaten all manner
of disgusting food, from fried scorpions to aeroplane dinners, the
pub meal upon his return was the worst meal he’d had in six months.
In
summary, if you’re desperate to go to a Wetherspoons in Sheffield,
this one certainly isn’t at the top of the list.
Pub:
The Swim Inn (217-231 Glossop Road, S10 2GX)
Rating: 4/10
Pint:
Boadicea
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