By
Rob
The
Manor Castle takes its name, as does the surrounding area, from the
nearby Manor Lodge.
Originally built in 1516 as a hunting lodge in one of England's largest deer
parks, the Lodge is perhaps best known as the
place in which Mary Queen of Scots was held prisoner for 14 years.
More
recently, many people have told me that The Manor Castle was once
voted the roughest pub in Britain. Despite these repeated assertions,
I haven't yet managed to verify this claim. Of course, the fact that
such a claim is often made is, in itself, troubling for anybody faced
with the prospect of drinking there.
What
I did know for certain was that, unjustly or not, the pub had an
unsavoury reputation. This was probably due, in part, to its location
within the Manor estate. Once described as the worst estate in Britain, the Manor has featured in various newspaper articles over
the years, many of which have made lurid claims about the horrors of living on the estate.
From
my own experiences of working in the area (I was a glass
collector at the Manor Estate Social Club for five years while
at university) I knew that a lot of the reporting was exaggerated. As more recent articles were showing, the estate had improved dramatically over
the past decade or so.
Nevertheless,
both Andy and myself were understandably apprehensive about venturing
into the pub.
"You're
not going there?!" people would ask, horrified.
"I
think you're stupid," others would conclude.
"Best
of luck," some simply said.
"Can
I have your laptop if you die?" my loving sisters would enquire.
But
we were not about to relent, not when we had a job to do. We reasoned that
it was all about timing: even the roughest pubs would have their
not-so-rough moments. It was simply a matter of working out when that
would be.
That
meant weekends were off-limits, as going when the pub was busiest
didn't seem like a sensible choice. Evenings also seemed like a bad
idea, as that's when the heavier drinking would get underway.
Midweek
afternoons were risky too, as the most diehard locals and alcoholics
would be present, making the arrival of two outsiders
impossible to miss. And of course mornings weren't an option, as I
couldn't get out of bed.
We
were thus left flummoxed. There wasn't a good time to go.
It
was then, at the very moment when we thought all hope was lost, that
we were saved. Salvation arrived, somewhat surprisingly, in the form
of a gay wedding.
My
girlfriend at the time, Hannah, had a work colleague who was marrying
his long-term partner. Their wedding reception was being held at The
Manor Castle, and Hannah had been invited.
It
was an opportunity we couldn't miss – to sneak into the pub under the
safety of a wedding, when the taproom would be privately rented out
and all of the local punters absent.
"Could
you get a plus one for the wedding?" I asked her.
She
checked with her friend and yes, it turned out she could.
"Could
you get a plus two for the wedding?" I then asked her.
She
again checked with her friend and yes, it turned out she could.
***
The
big day arrived and, once the vows and all the rest of it were out of
the way, the main event took place. The happy couple made their way
to the wedding reception. Two young men, bound together by a shared
commitment, were about to embark on a wonderful, magical journey.
The
newlyweds were there too.
From
the outside, the pub was pretty nondescript. It didn't look
particularly shabby, rough, or dangerous.
The
same was true of the inside, more or less. The room we were in was
fairly small, with the standard-issue pub carpet, tables, stools and
bar. On this day, however, there was also a DJ near the doorway and,
in one corner, a large buffet.
Wanting
to get the measure of the place, I popped my head through the door
into the other room, where the locals were drinking. Now,
maybe The Manor Castle was once the roughest pub in Britain, but I'm
certain that's no longer the case. The average age of the clientele
was about seventy. If these were the same violent ruffians who'd
secured a fearsome reputation for the pub back in its day, then
they'd clearly mellowed with age. I was more worried about them
breaking their own bones, not mine.
While
the pub was much less scary than anticipated, the beer selection was
every bit as dismal as we'd feared. With only a few standard lagers
and bitters on tap, there was nothing for us. I was sorely tempted to
complain to the newlyweds about their blatantly selfish lack of
consideration. They hadn't even bothered to check what beers would be
on offer. Instead, they'd made the day entirely about themselves, without giving a thought to the fact that an official
Pubquest visit was also taking place.
Choosing
to be the better men, we let it pass. Fortunately, we'd recently been
faced with a similar situation in which we'd resorted to bottled beer, and so we
eyed up the fridge.
We
thus ended up with two bottles of Bulmers crushed red berries & lime
cider. Overly sweet and artificially fruity, it was every bit as
unpleasant as you might imagine. On the plus side, the bottles each
contained a full pint, so there was no need to buy any more.
As
the evening wore on, the clingfilm and tinfoil was removed from the
various plates of food on offer. Andy's eyes lit up like the fourth
of July. Not letting the fact that he didn't know anybody at the
wedding dissuade him, he flew from his chair and, through the
efficient use of sharp elbows, secured a place near the front of the
buffet line.
With
the food consumed, the standard wedding festivities played out.
Cheesy music and incomprehensible murmuring from the DJ; outrageously
bad karaoke; even worse dancing; and a seemingly endless stream of
children running in between the tables like the annoying little
bastards they are.
As
you might have gathered, I hate weddings.
Still,
it was better than being stabbed.
Pub:
The Manor Castle (239 Manor Lane, S2 1UJ)
Rating:
4/10
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