By
Rob
A
storm was brewing...
As
we left the Earl Marshal, we stepped out into the grey, overcast evening and
consulted the internet on where to go next. We discovered that The
Brothers Arms, a popular local pub, wasn't too far away. Deciding
we'd pay them a visit, we set off to Heeley.
We'd
been walking only five minutes when the first drops of rain made
themselves known. Once again, I consulted the internet and was
reassured to see that 'light rain' was the extent of our troubles.
Then,
as if to ridicule my online forecast, the hammer of Thor crashed
against our eardrums as thunder pealed across the sky. Lightning
danced amidst the thick, darkening clouds and the heavens opened. In
a matter of seconds, the gentle drizzle had been transformed into an
Old Testament deluge.
The
winds picked up, howling through the streets, while torrents of icy
water came hurtling down upon our heads. We quickened our pace,
fearing we'd be swept away if we didn't find shelter soon. All around
us, people were darting into nearby buildings – the poor folk of
Sheffield taking refuge in any place they managed to find.
Of
course, we could afford no such luxury. We had a pub to visit, and no
elemental forces would keep us from our goal.
Neither
of us were dressed for such adverse weather conditions, and I already
knew I'd be wearing wet jeans until such time as I returned home. In
minutes, my immaculately sculpted hair was plastered to my skull,
while Andy's lipstick, eye-liner, mascara, foundation, blusher,
bronzer, and drawn-on eyebrows all began to run.
Now,
I might be remembering this wrong, but I'm pretty certain one
Arbourthorne resident began quoting lines from Shakespeare's Tempest,
declaring from his bedroom window that "hell is full, and all
the devils are here!" Whether he was referring to Sheffield, or
the housing estate in particular, was unclear.
Suddenly,
Andy grabbed my shoulder, pointing to a light in the distance.
"There!" he shouted, his other arm fastened tight around a lamppost to prevent
himself from being washed away.
I
squinted into the storm. He was right, there was a light.
There
was also a door.
There
was also a sign above the door.
A
pub sign, which read: 'Waggon & Horses'.
Thanking
our lucky stars, we darted inside and shut the door behind us.
Somehow, we'd stumbled across a pub that we didn't know existed, in
one of the worst storms the world had ever seen of
the week.
Looking
around the room, the phrase 'out of the frying pan and into the fire'
sprang immediately to mind.
The
place was pretty sparse: a rough wooden floor, some mismatched and
tatty old furniture, and a glaring fruit machine were about the only
occupants of the pub. That was, of course, with the exception of the
two old men who eyed us as we walked towards the bar.
My
jaw almost hit the floor as I found myself looking at not one, not
two, but three separate real ales on offer. Clearly, my initial
assumptions about this place had been dead, dead wrong. I'd
just started to silently chastise myself for judging books by their
covers when I heard Andy select the ale we wanted, only to be told it
wasn't actually available.
Andy
selected the next ale, which also proved to be unavailable.
Thinking
it might be third time lucky, Andy selected the final of the three
ales on show.
In a
hat-trick of disappointment, the barman revealed that this, too, was
not available.
We
then perused everything else on offer, trying to work out which beers
we'd already drank. As we stood there, deliberating over what to
pick, we clearly gave the barman the (incorrect) impression that we
were some kind of beer connoisseurs, because he immediately began to
apologise profusely for the lack of real ales, assuring us that it
was highly unusual for them to be so completely out of stock.
He
then began rifling through the fridges, trying to offer us various
beers. Eventually, he held up a bottle of Guinness West Indies
Porter. Choosing not to dispel the illusion that we were beer
aficionados, we inspected the bottle and told him that it would, in
fact, suffice.
"Can
we have three bottles, rather than two?" I added, having learned from previous experiences that one such bottle wouldn't hold a pint. The barman
never asked why, and I strongly suspect that this oddball behaviour
only increased his suspicion that we were professional beer-tasters
from the local CAMRA.
We
settled ourselves down and made our way through the Guinness.
Although not the same as 'normal' Guinness, I'd be lying if I said it
tasted dramatically different. Perhaps a little stronger and a little
less gassy, and perhaps even a little nicer – but basically it was
Guinness.
Thankfully,
we both liked Guinness.
 |
| The sort of decoration on the walls... |
The
barman really must've thought we were experts, because a few minutes
later he came over to ask for our opinions on the Guinness. Our reply
of "yeah it's nice" finally shattered the illusion that we
knew anything about anything, and he sauntered back to the bar.
Sitting
there in my wet clothes, drinking a Guinness in a relatively run-down
pub, I wasn't having the best time of my life. However, things
started to look up when one of the old men, in a state of clear
inebriation, decided to shout across the room and tell Andy that he
looked like Justin Bieber.
Although
the pub had few redeeming features, the friendly and attentive staff
did compensate for the shabby surroundings and poor beer choice.
Having said that, with the storm raging outside, the only feature we
really cared about was the roof.
Pub:
Waggon & Horses (236 Gleadless Road, S2 3AF)
Rating:
4.5/10
Brewery:
Guinness Brewery
(Dublin)
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