I’m working on a new book (my first that’s not directly beer-related!) which involved me visiting several seaside resorts last bank holiday weekend.
The good bit was that I finally got to sample Pub du Vin in Brighton, which I’ll review when I’m back home after the weekend cos I came away without my bleedin’ notebook. Suffice to say they have a little library that has a copy of Man Walks into a Pub in it, so I was favourably disposed.
But two days later we found ourselves in Clacton-on-Sea. Now I want you to picture this very carefully. Close your eyes. Ah – you’d better open them again or you won’t be able to read the rest of the post. Imagine a Wetherspoon’s pub, with its curious mix of a good range of beers that are often well-kept, but with a less-than-savoury clientele featuring a large proportion of elderly shouting Irishmen. Now, delete the wide range of beers and replace it with just one – Ruddles County. And imagine what a handpull looks like when it has not been pulled or handled in a very long time. Got that? Good. Now, delete the mad Irishmen and replace them with forty or so families from Essex with screaming bored children. It’s dark outside, three hours before sunset, which may have something to do with the bad weather warning that’s just flashed up on the plasma screen.
Yep, this is the worst Wetherspoon’s pub you have ever been in.
Not just a Wetherspoon’s pub. But the worst. Wetherspoon’s. Ever.
And do you want to hear the most terrifying thing of all?
It’s still the best pub in Clacton-on-Sea. By a considerable margin.