41 reasons why I’m relegated to the dog-house with a bowl of something enriched with nourishing marrowbone jelly for me tea

It being Bank Holiday week and also ‘cos I’m in the doghouse yet again – a situation I find myself in so regularly these days the RSPCA are starting to take notice – I’ve been doing a bit of a state-of-the-nation tour around the City’s pubs, some of which I haven’t seen the inside of for way too long. Aside from the bleedin’ obvious, a secondary object was also to leave my calling card – or to be more precise, 125 calling cards in the form of ‘Worcester Pubs Then and Now’ beermats, but… well, it seemed churlish not to have availed myself of the fayre on offer when time (and the drink-drive laws) allowed. So, state of play to date (Tuesday am): Albion (new gaffer Wesley is a kick-boxing champ so if there’s any kicking out to be done, strikes me it’ll be painful!); Anchor (Nic in ebullient mood and gearing up for a busy session); Bell (bustling and busy, and a cracking pint of Hobson’s as per usual); Blackpole (lot of out-of-trim lads in sportsgear shouting at the telly); Brewers Arms (a constant delight where I was told my book is a pain the arse. Oh, why? I asked sweet and innocent. ‘Cos I can’t put it down! came the reply). Brunswick Arms (where gaffer Chris was putting out bunting for the holiday cider festival); Cardinal’s Hat (‘you’ll have to call the manager’); Cavalier; Chestnut Tree (garden full to overflowing); Coppertops (where Seb O’Donnell tells me he’s leaving this week after 2 years); Cricketers (where gaffer Adrian said ‘well you can take ‘em back then’ after being told they were 20p each – a jest, of course); Crown (Lloyds No1); Eagle Vaults (heaving, raucous and in fine singing fettle of a Sunday lunchtime, like pubs always used to be); Goodrest (where I sense summat’s up, but don’t know what); Gun (gaffer Jennie radiant and charming); Hand in Glove; Horn and Trumpet (gaffer Adey Birch effusive about the book and helping himself to an extra 125 for The Courtytard which he also runs); Kings Head; Lakes (where new gaffers Garry and Julie said they’re desperate for beermats as not a single one was left in the place when they took over 5 weeks ago: I left them with 250); Maple Leaf (gaffer Heidi in fine form); Marwood (where I was told the old ‘Green Man’ sign is still on the premises somewhere); Mount Pleasant (where gaffer Rob mistook my request for ‘a quick one on the house ‘cos I’m desperate’ as a demand for a free beer rather than a comment on the state of my overflowing bladder at the time: he complied too, bless!); New Chequers (hulking great gaffer Craig always extending a great beefy hand to shake whenever he sees me – which is often!); New Inn (where I saw them neatly laid out yesterday: some folks were even using them as coasters!); Northwick Arms (where I even used one myself as a soft cushion for a fair pint of Worcester Gold); O’Neill’s (where I was informed I’d have to come back ‘cos the manager’s on ‘er ‘olidays); Plumbers Arms (note to Bob: how come you left it so long to re-visit this friendly little boozer?); Portobello (‘leave ‘um wiv me, darlin’!); Postal Order; Prince of Wales (‘them’s good beermats!’); Punch Bowl; Saracens Head (where I was delighted to hear Steve and Shaylene are now staying after all); Slug’n’Lettuce (where the manager visibly shuddered when I told him about the body bricked up in the wall); Star Bar (where somebody big was visiting – huge guys with surreptitious walkie-talkies and I suspect shooters everywhere; Swan (Barbourne – where gaffer Craig completely ignored me: he’s got his arse in his hand over something); both Talbots (Barbourne and Sidbury); Wheatsheaf (where Kelly posted a lovely pic on the FB group page yesterday of the beer mats in situ https://www.facebook.com/groups/worcesterpubsthenandnow; Vine (where I see a facelift is underway and not before time either) and Virgin – showing off its new astro-turf in the sunshine yesterday. That’s 41 pubs, with 47 still to go – an eventuality I’m hoping to complete over the coming days. On reflection, she might just have a point relegating me to the dog-house with a bowl of something enriched with nourishing marrowbone jelly for me tea. Ah well…. at least my nose will be nicely wet and shiny by the time I’ve delivered them all, though I suspect the neighbours will have taken a dim view of a) me gripping them around the leg with me tongue hanging out whenever we meet, and b) my toilet arrangements with one leg cocked up the lamppost. Bowl of Pal, anybody?  

 

And this year’s winner is… my ex-missis. Again

 

Paul Pry, The Butts

Ms.Catherine Esther Louise Ottaway must be the best pub gaffer in the world bar none (well, I say ‘bar none’ when really I mean ‘bar one at least’; to whit, me, ‘cos that’s just what she did not so long ago on account of something quite innocuous I wrote in the book – and boy, did it unleash a backlash of abuse from the 1400+ members of the ‘Worcester Pubs Then and Now’ FB group https://www.facebook.com/groups/worcesterpubsthenandnow). But I digress. Where was I…? Oh yes, the best pub gaffer in the world…  See, yesterday, the local #CAMRA coven unveiled its ‘Worcester CAMRA Pub of the Year’ – The Paul Pry no less, licensee and dps Ms. Catherine Esther Louise Ottaway. The accolade takes the tally of Worcester pubs that have won the title since 1993 to just four, of which Ms.Catherine Esther Louise Ottaway has, at some stage or another, been very closely involved in three: The Dragon – winners 1999, 2000, 2002 and 2003; The Plough – winners 2006, 2008 and 2011 with no prize awarded in 2009; and, as of yesterday, The Paul Pry. Out of interest, the only other is The Firefly, winner 2012. Now, not having been permitted since last Christmas to set foot in any of the three she’s been associated with, I don’t doubt for one second that the accolade is eminently well deserved, and the local press will surely be reporting this particularly remarkable licensee’s incredible run of success once the Worcester CAMRA spokesman gets his usual two penn’orth in. HIs name’s Bill Ottaway – and if you didn’t catch it first time, here it is again: Bill Ottaway, former husband of said Catherine Esther Louise Ottaway. Look out for it – it won’t be biased in the slightest. Honest.

 

 

Times are hard: we’re down to our last half-Crown

Times are hard. In fact, we’re down to our last half-Crown. The Crown in Bransford Road closed down two weeks ago and I heard yesterday that The Crown & Anchor in Hylton Road has got the builders in: whether or not it re-emerges as a pub is still in doubt. That just leaves the once famous old Crown Hotel (and Posting House) that also shares its name with Lloyds No 1 and so is just half a Crown.  It’s a far cry from the old days when we – Worcester that is – were rich in Crowns: aside from the three mentioned here, ‘Worcester Pubs Then and Now’ lists another seven in the City’s one-time overflowing treasure chest of pubs: Crown, Droitwich Road (1780-1979); Crown, Friar Street (pictured – 1820-1938); Crown, Pump Street (1760-1860); Crown, Tallow Hill (1850-1943); Crown & Anchor, Lowesmoor/Silver Street (1790-1962); Crown & Canton, ‘St Andrews ward’ (1760s); and the Crown & Sceptre ‘near The Foregate’ (1700s).

The way things are going, how long before we’re totally destitute? I don’t think the barred (oh, sorry, that’s me!)  ….er, Bard will mind me lifting one of his more memorable phrases:  ‘uneasy lies the head that wears the Crown’.  Sad.

(Left) The Crown in Friar Street – now a blinds shop. Group member Ian Stallard tells me the little girl in the pic, landlord’s daughter Dorothy, still lives in the City, aged 94. What about the little lad determined to get in the pic… first floor window? (Courtesy Ian Stallard)

 

 

They don’t make diamonds the size of bricks. Or so I like to think.

Seen in Waterstones window this week. The notice, written by manager Paul Burden, reads: ‘By far our best-selling book this Christmas… a must-have for any Worcester-dweller’.

I always wanted to be 6’2”. I’d have settled for 5’10” but didn’t even make it that far.  But the other day I shot up to a full 10 feet. More, maybe. It came when I stopped outside Waterstones in The Shambles to take this (pictured).  As I was lining up my shot I felt a tug at my sleeve and a voice piped up: “… great, that is. T’riffic book. I got one. T’riffic book. You wants to get one y’know. All about the pubs”.  Oh bless, I thought, a fan. Considering it churlish to interrupt, I let him carry on, blushing only ever so slightly and growing taller than I’ve been for as long as I can remember. “I ‘ad it bought me. ‘Ent put it down since I ‘ad it, Chrismuss Day.  ‘Ere, did you know that Wusstuuuur’s got a pub for ev’ry day o’ the yur….?”  Now, as readers of the book and followers of this group site will know, that’s the great myth about the City that’s been put about and has stuck even though the evidence signally fails to back it up: as I’ve stated on several occasions before, there’s not many days some beery soul doesn’t lurch over and trot-out the self-same fallacy which is now starting to wear a bit thin to say the least. “Oh?” says I: “…says that in the book does it?” “No, our dad told me”. “But I think….?”  “An’ me granddad told ‘im”. “So you haven’t actually read the book, then?”  “Well, no – but it’s t’riffic. You wants to get one y’know”.  “OK, thanks. I’ll think about it” I said as I walked away, now feeling that shrinking feeling coming over me, reverting to my original height – or maybe even a bit less – and taking consolation in the knowledge that they don’t make diamonds the size of bricks.  Or so I like to think.

 

A late Xmas cracker and two New Year’s resolutions…

I was never one for New Years resolutions – as someone else once famously said ‘they’re something that goes in one ear and out the next.  But this year I’ve made one.  ‘Oh, aye’ I hear you yawn.  Bully for you. So what yeeeeee-aaaawwwnnnnnnn  is it?  I’ll tell you….  I’m going to maintain and expand this blog on a daily basis – or as near as dammit depending on just how much I want to let-on about what I actually do with my days!  It’ll list the pubs and occasional clubs I go in, record my thoughts on who and what I’d seen that day, run down all the goss and tittle-tattle I hear about Worcester’s pubs and let you know what I think of the a) ale, b) bar, c) crowd and d/e) day’s events. Sadly, given that I’m no longer any great party-animal, resolutely refuse to drink at home save the odd night-cap and/or bottle of vino with a meal, and also that I’m a year and a bit into my various pensions, it won’t be anything to rival ‘Lost Weekend’ – but at the very least it’ll keep the old michael active (Michael Caine…  oh, you can fill-in the rest!).  Additionally,  it might make you smile, it’ll keep me amused and it’ll serve as an aide-memoire as to where I’ve been – a bit like a snail’s trail!  What’s more, it’ll save my doctor continually staring at me open-mouthed, clapping her hand to her forehead and feigning a Jane Austen style fainting fit and exclaiming ‘but that’s enough to sink a battleship’ after I’ve responded to her eternal (and eternally hopeless) question  ‘now Robert, have you managed to cut down your drinking?’  As if.   Fortunately, yesterday proved a cracker…  things to do in the day time, so unusually first pint (Banks’s Bitter) came at tea-time in The Retreat at Norton. Not an experience I’d be inclined to recommend, heartily or otherwise.  Then to the main business of the day – albeit 25 minutes after I’d said I’d be there: the ever-pleasurable pastime of signing books.  Last night’s was at The Mount Pleasant. Great pub.  Great folks. Great evening.  During the session I heard the truth about what happened the night Tom Jones appeared at The Lakes; was given a long list of ‘new’ characters for Vol 2; was promised access to the notes for a book on Worcester pubs that never got written; met a mate (who I was once so pally with I made him one of my daughter’s godfathers) that I haven’t seen in 30 years or more; chatted among others to a twinkly-eyed 91-year old and a lovely young lady that was, as I was forcefully reminded three times on the way home, young enough to be my granddaughter; kicked myself several times for not having ventured in there sooner; blushed several times over comments made about the book; was asked to settle a dispute about what actually happened at The Garibaldi on the night of the murders; made new friends I didn’t know I had; and was transported back at least a decade or two as I saw all around me something of what many of Worcester’s old pubs used to be:  friendly and funsome.  And here’s resolution #2:  I’m going to be going back there.  I finished off the good work nearer home with a couple of bottles of Marstons Old Empire in St Stephens WMC as I chatted to Robbie Reid who last weekend had his hair, moustache and – thanks to me and gaffer Rob Barnett – his eyebrows shaved-off for the eminently worthy cause of St Richards Hospice who pocketed well over £1,000 from his big-hearted sacrifice.  Oh yes, yesterday was a cracker.  And thanks to all who made it so.