Last week I finally made some time to stop in the Red Lion in Wolverhampton, mid run whilst working on a segment of the 79 (and others) bus route. I took my Carling into the room with a pool table and two teles but the teles were out of synch by a tenth of a second or so (fucking digital tv) causing a disturbing echo effect. Nonetheless, a couple of brave souls came in and shot a few racks and chatted a bit.
This was the first pub I’ve been in since around Christmas although I’ve passed a bunch of new candidates on the bus route runs. The novelty is wearing off. Or, a part of me is dying, I’m not sure.
The Christmas Eve run started in Dudley (to take advantage of the gale force wind direction) with a stop 1/2 mile into it at the Malt Shovel. It was just after opening and my porter was lovely. 
Then, the crowds started arriving with the first group dragging two little boys on crack into the main bar. I made short work of the pint and, just as I was leaving, a large pack — perhaps 25-30 — of Christmas jumpered doofusses (or however the plural of doofus is spelled) started shoving their way through the door. These idiots trailed down the road from another bar so it had to be a pub crawl of some sort. 
Looked like more fun than I was having but hard to be sure. 
The bartender (and I reckon he’s also the landlord) stood staring at me with his arms crossed the entire visit to the Pretty Bricks. Maybe he thought I was there to nick one of the Christmas decorations or a copy of the Good Beer Guide from ten years ago. Creeped me the fuck out, regardless.
Leaving Andy’s, I started a bit of a jog I really wasn’t in to but which would get me to the pub quicker. I got there and it had a really stupid theme but I LIKE a really stupid theme when commitment on this level is displayed.
Mad O’Rourke’s is as corny as it gets but I definitely want to return…hungry, sometime this winter. I already know they can take care of my thirst.
I checked the weather as I left the gym for a post-workout run and noted that the winds were south westerly 18-20 mph sustained with gusts to 45 mph. So I caught the first bus out of W Brom that would dump me somewhere the wind would be at my back most of the way home. Lazy, perhaps, but I’m no health nut.
The run wasn’t planned more than that so it was a nice surprise when I passed the Bell Inn (which seems to not only have reopened but been tidied up significantly since the last time I went past…along about the time I got my first COVID vaccine).
It seems to be geared toward dining but the bar staff was lovely and the couple of other drinkers were pleasant enough. It was halftime in the West Bromwich Albion v Stoke City match so I caught the highlights of what went on to be a draw. I feel like that result sums up the weekend for me, as well, but I’m just not in a mood for metaphors.
The Duke Inn had just opened and I was busting for a piss so I just indicated to the barman that I’d be right back, brushed by the pensioner who just pipped me for first thru the door, and found a spectacular loo (the photo really doesn’t do it justice).
I couldn’t linger (places to go, people to see) so it was just the quick beer but this is one of the nicer pubs I’ve been to in Sutton Coldfield so far…a perfect little side street boozer without the pretence or prefabrication of most within a short stumble from here.
I already know the answer: “We are a dining experience, NOT a pub.” So, I won’t ask how they justify the outrageous tolls posted by the bar for using the darts boards.
How else I know The Rolling Mill isn’t a pub is the way the waitron hovered around me trying to get me to take a seat once I finally found the bar at which they were serving. ”I’m just getting a drink,” pointing at the bar.
“Yes, yes! This way, please.”
“Bar. Only bar.” I thought she was going to throw me down in some Brazilian wrestling move. For fuck sake. Served my Neck Oil, finally, I raised it toward her and she backed off slightly; “despite my beer choice,” I swept the arm holding my glass past her compatriots and the couple of occupied tables, “I’m not yuppie scum. Just garden variety scum.” Leaning down to whisper, I added, “you’d do well to recognise the difference.”
Pleasant enough conversation with the mom of this small-but-solid and very clever bulldog. Noveau country music was on when I arrived (I think that was Darius Rucker, of all people, on the telly) but when the blokes came in from a breath of fresh air and tobacco the barman switched everything to metal.
I had a passable meal for the lab Christmas get together at the Old Joint Stock. I have a lot of constructive criticism for the place which, in the spirit of the season, I will keep to myself. The kids who arranged the venue also arranged for the tab to get picked up, somehow, so this is my way of paying back their generosity. As I mentioned in the Purecraft post, I wasn’t really able to take part in the conversations due to hearing loss and loud background noises which might have added to the overall disappointment (and, I’m generally a miserable old bitch at the best of times). Oh, well….
I met Jackie in a restaurant kitchen in 1985 and for the next 10 years I worked, off and on, in various aspects of the hospitality industry … believe me, the irony of the term “hospitality” applied to yours truly is not lost on anyone who knows me. To this day, when we see an incompetent operation — or one simply failing at the most rudimentary, beginner tasks — the urge to snatch the towel off their waists and take over to get them back on track until, at least, our service is finished becomes almost overwhelming.
Jackie is usually the voice of reason: “I wouldn’t do that again for all the money in the world. I really couldn’t.” “Wouldn’t you? Couldn’t you? THEY definitely can’t.” Her Pavlovian response is usually to shake her glass at me to go get another round in.
Our table was upstairs or, with all the marble busts present and the fact that the venue is also a theatre, ‘in the gods.’ Everything was festive. I was able to slip away before being roped into an after dinner beverage out in the Christmas Market this year.
Menu: The starter (I had chicken liver pate from a loaf with a stingy offering of flimsy white bread) and the pudding (pear poached in mulled wine) were surprisingly good and the main (mine a beef-and-bleu pie with seasonal root veg on the side) was what I expected; the professor next to me walked away from the salmon main, and only the most savage of us who ordered turkey managed to clean their plates.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 