Friday, 15 March 2013

Imperial Arra's and Croaky

In Attendance: +John Urquhart +Iain Stuart +Jon Clark +Martin Hatfield +Golfyball  and briefly +Brian Rees
Weather: Cold, light showers later, moderate to good.

Ah, The "Imperial Inn". A special place.

This week is race week, what with it being the Cheltenham Festival and all. As such, Cheltenham is full of the Irish kissing the Blarney Stone and coming over here stealing our women and drinking our beer and loosing their money at the race course. It makes for a fantastic atmosphere in the town, with wall-to-wall fun and games and properly overpriced beer.

Naturally we wouldn't want anything to do with that malarkey, and so snuck off to the "Imperial Inn" with the expectation of a quiet night and a game of darts. As usual with the WTC, the best laid plans of mice and men...

Bitten by the racing bug, the Imperial Inn, which up until now has been the quietest city pub, with a nice little jukebox and a dart board and sensibly priced beer, had gone and got Karaoke in. Those of you that have followed the WTC will be aware that we merely "tolerate" croaky in the early part of the evening, and then in the later part of the evening (on the outside of the Courage of Holland) we actively participate in the stuff. Hopefully, this was not to be one of those occasions...


The place was unusually busy, due to the fact that the were race goers from up and down the country in the vicinity. There was some footy on the telly and the music was loud enough to be almost annoying, but not quite. We relocated to the very back of the pub where this is a well maintained dart board for a game of "Halve It", which is mentioned elsewhere I'm sure...


This game belongs to Sniffer and Jugs. They always win and the results usually have Stan in third, followed by Reeser or Claude with Golfy bringing up the rear... Not tonight though. In fact almost the complete reverse with Golfy reigning supreme much to the disgust of Jugs and frustration of Sniffer. As it turns out, Jugs was so disgusted (and so pickled, thanks to the pace that sniffer was setting on the beer drinking) that he left the group to go and talk to his "new friends" who were actually some old friends from back in the day.

The pace was too much for some and after a reasonably poor stab at Robbie Williams on the croaky, Golfy gave up the ghost and staggered home, while Claude managed to rouse the crowd with something by Frank Spencer Sinatra before the entire event collapsed in an overtired and drunken heap of a mess...

All in all, a top night out for the WTC with all the right elements. It's fair to say that the Imperial Inn is a long standing favourite - a proper pub, without instructions, and largely untouched since the day it was built - which must be a hundred years ago give or take. I can confidently report that we will return.

Next week, is Thursday.... No idea what we're doing.

Friday, 8 March 2013

A local pub for local people....

In Attendance: +Iain Stuart  +John Urquhart +Jon Clark +Golfyball and fleetingly, +Jason Brown
Weather: Cold, but not wet.

This evening was somewhat marred. Sadly I've seen the passing of my grandmother - she was 93, so she'd had a good run at it, but it's a sad day to be sure (as the say in Ireland). On top of that, Mr Brown senior is non too chipper, so the general mood was that of some sort of depression. What better way to lighten the mood than to go and get some quality largers down your neck in some top quality pubs in the city. So instead of doing that, we went to a couple of rubbish pubs on the London road for some nasty beer.
Ok, ok, so I'm doing one of them something of a dis-service, but only one.

"The York" was our first port of call. There is a similarity here to "The Nelson Inn" in that its a bit of a dive of a pub, and mostly forgotten about. It has the feel of someone's front room, with a slightly chillier atmosphere and for the first time in a city pub, I actually felt like this was a "local pub, for local people" and "that there was nothing for us here"..... To coin a phrase.


It was quiz night and there was football on, so you could be forgiven for imagining a happening and warm sort of place, but not a bit of it. There are small signs dotted around about the place, asking you not to swear, and to mind your language and so on and so forth. Now, I occasionally have been known to drop the odd f-bomb (for emphasis and openly showing my lack of a university education) as have some of my comrades of the WTC. That's not to say that we necessarily approve of bad language, but there's a time and a place, and late at night with a few beers on board and in the company of sinners, that is both the time and place. My point is, that the signage is a little "off putting" and reeks of a nanny state of mind. (See what I did there?)

Furthermore, the quiz situation. We ensconced ourselves in the large bay window, only because that was the only table that wasn't reserved. The pleasant bar staff informed us of the upcoming quiz and apologised that it was on (a little odd) to which we responded "not at all, perfectly all right, we'll join in" and we should have realised something was amiss when this was met with a stony silence. 10 minutes later, the place was heaving. Every table was full and no doubt the bad language police were out in force. First prize was to be 100 pounds, so naturally we thought "Hello, we could be onto a winner here..."

A further 10 minutes passed and we procured further beverages to oil our aged minds in anticipation of a "big win" and the pub promptly emptied. Hang about. What's occurring? Every single person in the pub bar two buffoons watching the football at the far end of the bar and us, walked out the back door. Very odd. Especially as the quiz is about to start. We continued our banter undeterred as realisation dawned. It would appear that as "non-locals" and "not from round 'ere" types we'd been blackballed! It was apparent that the entire quiz had relocated out the back and left us for dead. Now to be fair, they sent a man back in 5 minutes later, to sheepishly ask if we'd like to play the quiz, along with a look that said "I shouldn't if I were you" and "keep off the moor, stick to the path, it's a full moon and you never know what might be out there". We finished our beer and left, looking for the safety of anywhere but The Slaughtered Lamb The York. Most disappointing.

Luckily just next door is "England's Glory", another pub full of neatly printed little signs telling you what you can and can't do. "Don't sit here, it's so and so's seat" or "Any smoking anywhere on the premises results in an instant ban" or most bizarre of all on top of the fruit machine (slot machine for our American friends) "Local's Only"... I mean, really.... What the hell is going on round here?

Regardless of whether we were allowed to or not, we ensconced ourselves in the corner and bought the overpriced beer ("Cash only, no cards" according to the sign) and carried on as usual. Not sure if it was the beer, the company or just the general mood but in the end we actually quite enjoyed it - even if we were permanently instructed on what was and was not considered acceptable - "only consume food and beverages purchased on the premises" - four packets of nuts please, and so on and so forth.


Even with the sad news of the day, it's great to know that when you need a friend, the WTC a there to royally take the piss and make you feel better about the world. We even raised a glass of sherry in the name of the departed "Aud", and greatly she would have approved.. Fingers crossed for the senior Brown.

Next weeks thrilling instalment - "Imperial Inn"

Friday, 1 March 2013

Chubby Little Fingers.....

In attendance: +Martin Hatfield +Iain Stuart +Golfyball +Alex Stevens
Weather: Still freaking cold.

Music venues on a Thursday are thankfully still pretty plentiful in our neck of the woods. That's not to say that there are hundreds of them, but there are a few that are worth a visit.  One of the more regular stops for "that kind of thing" for us, is "The Ridge and Furrow"


One of our members has imposed his own self-ban on the basis that he's either a) terrified of the bouncer, or b) terrified that he doesn't remember exactly how it was he came to be impersonating a leprechaun - complete with serenading a taxi driver. However, all that aside, let's talk about the pub.

To be fair - it's a bit of a hovel. Sort of sticky carpets, early 80's décor updated in the early 90's and still looking a bit rough around the edges. It's sited next to a sodding great supermarket, slap bang in the middle of a rabbit-warren of a housing estate and is purpose built for the residents of said estate. It serves the needs of those that work hard all week and want to spend their wages blotting the fact out, or those that do sod all all week, and want to spend their benefits blotting the fact out.  Inevitably, where two such cultures meet, this can often result in a bit of a punch up - and often does.

As such - it has a bit of a reputation.  It's a party pub of a place and even though it's rowdy, it's an enjoyable rowdy.  What helps it along is it's layout. It's been cleverly crafted into a two tier pub with a restaurant (of sorts) out the back.  In the old days you'd think of the lower tier as a bear-pit or possibly somewhere for the crowd to gather round on the upper tier and watch the cock-fighting on the lower tier.  Nowadays, the lower tier is considered to be more of a dance-floor, or a stage (for the purposes of live music).  Cock-fighting still takes place though - just more in the form of drunken cocks, fighting.

On this particular Thursday, Chubby and his band mates were making the most of the lower tier and filling it with instruments of a musical nature with which to entertain the crowd.  "The Shy Teds" (for that is their chosen name) are a band of excellent quality able to play just about anything in the song book of popular music when they put their minds to it. A drummer, a couple of guitarists, a vocalist and Chubby's little fingers on the piano forte make for a beautifully crafted sound with bits of rock and pop liberally scattered about. Apart from their name, they're a band you'd be happy to take home to your mum. They can please everyone and the crowd generally goes wild.... ish.


So there we have it.... Beers were consumed as per... and the three of us were joined by Chubby both before and during his half time break for a swift couple of pints. All most enjoyable.

While it's a bit of a dive as pubs go, we wouldn't want to see it closed, and yet this is going to be the case. Typically, in a world where money is more important than enjoying what little money you may have, the local supermarket (in this case Morrisons) have shelled out some cash to by the plot the pub is built on, knock it flat and stick in a petrol station. A sad day for the losers of the area, but a good day for "The Turmot Hoer" just up the road - who will no doubt be employing bouncers and enrolling their staff in karate lessons as we speak.

Next week - also as per - wasn't drawn from the hat, so without further ado, here it is.

Ladies and Jellyspoons - we will be partaking of a beverage or three in Number 16: "The York".  Now, this is a little concerning, due to it being reminiscent of someone's front room. However, in view of trying to make a night of it - I'm suggestion a stop on the way in "England's Glory", and then possibly a detour afterwards over to "The Kingsholm Inn/The Jockey" and possibly rounding things off in that old favourite, "The Cross Keys Inn" or "Cafe Rene"...

Let's hear what you have to say in the comments.  Or by email....