Pubs In The Middle Of Nowhere Review #1.

Sorry and all that, I’m just a lazy fucker.

 

So, anyway, a couple of weeks ago the urge to go to the pub suddenly engulfed me. But which pub, I ask myself without a question mark. Does one use a question mark at the end of a rhetorical question? Sorry, going off at at a tangent like my mother there. Where was I? Oh yes. Then I remembered the story of a pub from which my parents, many moons ago, were ejected for some sort of lacivious behaviour. This, unfortunately, is not a surprise to me. Or anybody else for that matter, most if not all of them have their moments of being singularly inappropriate, even if they’re not quite in the same class as I. Anyway, I digress, here’s what I learned on my visit to…

 

Pub 1 – The Moorcock (ha ha ha) Inn, Waskerley.

 

See, this pub is so sodding remote that it’s address is simply the name of the pub followed by the very small hamlet in which it resides. It’s kind of like The Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf In London, only quieter and more friendly. This is not somewhere you’d want to walk to, sitting atop the moors between Consett and Stanhope, but there’s ample parking outside for oh, I don’t know, 600 or so cars. This is because there’s nothing else there other than a couple of houses and a water treatment works.

 

Anyway, the sign outside said Black Sheep Brewery, a good thing if you ask me and still a good thing if you don’t, so without further ado I bought a pint of Carling. There was no Black Sheep, only something which I’d never heard of but that was off.

 

As far as the clientel went, rather unsurprisingly, everybody knew everybody else with the sole exception of me, who knew nobody. Still, you know, they were pleasant enough, banging on about beating this and shooting that and playing darts. There was one particularly silent young chap of 18 or so years who refused to join in the conversation, but he livened up a bit when he threw up all over the floor after the taxi driver, called by the landlady, refused to take him anywhere.

 

To sum up then, it was a pleasant if latterly pungent atmosphere with a poor choice of beers yet welcoming staff. The landlady wasn’t wearing a bra though, so extra points for that.

 

Bored…

There’s something annoying about suffering from insomnia and writer’s block at the same time, hence me writing about writer’s block. Errr….

 

In order to bring some sort of order to what has begun life as a rather haphazard blog-type-thing, I’ve sort of formulated a kind of plan, after a fashion anyway, to provide me with what I shall refer to as a Feature Allowing Regular Timing, or the rather obvious acronym of F.A.R.T. for ease of typing. Anyway, this F.A.R.T. will involve me visiting pubs which I would not usually frequent and writing some sort of review of it. As visiting each pub will largely be a one-off event, I’ll be referring to them as Single Hit Inns and Taverns, or S.H.I.T.s to prevent wear on both my fingers and my keyboard. There will, of course, be some kind of point-scoring system in a similar vein to that portrayed in Men Behaving Badly, but that needs at least 3 minutes of my time to come up with something. Failing that, I’ll just watch the episode in question (series 5, episode 2, The Good Pub Guide) and lift the categories straight from it.

 

To begin this F.A.R.T. and S.H.I.T. review, I’ll have to go back 3 weeks or so to a boring Saturday night in, during which I was gripped by an overwhelming urge to visit an unusual pub. So, without further ado, I’ll get the fuck on with it.

 

Tomorrow.

 

Well, later today, probably, I’m planning to visit another one at some point later on today.

 

 

 

 

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