Perpetual Motion
By
Dominic Horton
Last
Thursday morning felt full of possibilities. I could have gone for a
stroll on the breezy Otterspool promenade and said hello to the
seagulls to blow a bit of booze out of my feathers, I could have read
my book in bed, watched the news and learnt about the previous day's
budget – nothing like getting the heckles up first thing to bring
one to life – or I could sit and make notes in order to write this
tomfoolery: I plumped for the latter option. I was in a Travelodge in
Aigburth, Liverpool as I was attending a three day Read to Lead
course in the locality, run by The Reader organisation.
 |
| Moby Dick. |
Thursday
morning saw me in my modus operandi of having a suggestion of a
hangover having sampled some of the local watering holes the night
before. I hadn't planned to go out at all on Wednesday evening as I
was very tired on account of only having had a few miserly hours
sleep over the previous couple of nights and I was up at 0430 hours
on Wednesday morning for the drive. I set out ridiculously early as I
had never undertook a motorway journey of such a length before and I
was a bundle of nerves, or as Alexander Sutcliffe would have it, I
was shaking like a tap dancer's fanny.
After
the course I arrived back at my travel tavern prison cell, with it's
domineering view of a large bush inches from the window, and decided
that I must get out after I had eaten my tea. As I was trying to do
the trip on a tight budget tea consisted of an executive pot noodle
type affair with cherry tomatoes – the dish was supposed to be
accompanied by black olives to give it a more Mediterranean feel
but the ring came off the tin, rendering it useless. And
although I am a thorough sort of chap I didn't pack a tin opener,
though one will be on my list for the next trip.
Despite
breathing exercises and other tricks of the anxiety trade I found it
difficult to becalm myself after the jumpy motorway journey and a
busy day at the course, so there was only one thing for it – a
pint. I looked on the Whatpub website and there
basically seemed to be two choices: walk a couple of miles to Lark
Lane in Aigburth, which seemed have some runners and riders, though
they looked a bit fancy for my liking, or stroll a mile or so into
Garston to visit a back street boozer, which appealed more to my
Lowlifian tastes, especially as the pub temptingly promised six real
ales to tickle the tonsils with. But first was a visit to the
Toby carvery which accompanies the travel tavern, as
although I know what banalities awaited me I wouldn't be
doing my job as writer of this column properly if I didn't at
least have a quick one.
The
Toby had all the set pieces: surly staff resigned to their fate,
invasive and unsettling piped music, advertisements for Carling cider
pitchers at £13.10 a pop (Carling cider?! How low
rent can one get) and a faltering Wifi that didn't have the heart to
rise to the challenge and overcome its dismal surroundings. My
eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the small bounty of three
hand pumps. But on closer inspection they all vended the same beer.
Of course they did. How dare me to expect otherwise from Mr Toby.
But the pint was in tip top nick, not what I anticipated at all,
which threw me a bit.
 |
| Otterspool Promenade, Aigburth, Liverpool. |
I
hot trotted the fifteen minutes or so to The Masonic, leaving leafy,
affluent Aigburth and entering an earthy world of council houses and
Victorian terraces. Although Whatpub is
useful to discover the best of what an area has to offer it takes
all of the excitement out of sniffing out a boozer on unfamiliar
territory. As I walked down the main road to the Masonic I gazed
longingly down side streets hoping to see a beery oasis adorned with
hanging baskets but I knew full well that it was not going to happen.
Looking at Whatpub had snatched that possibility
away from me. Even reading the real ale buff's bible The Good
Beer Guide doesn't completely shut the door on unearthing a
gem of a pub as not all of the decent ones are in the book. And as my
fellow inmates at The Flagon & Gorses will tell you there's
nothing quiet like rooting out a bostin' boozer only by using the
stars and the aroma of hops to guide you, like Ray Mears sniffing out
a Wetherspoons in the Amazon rainforest.
The
Masonic was tucked away, shyly hidden in a labyrinth of terraced
house streets. In the public bar there were three men and there
seemed to be a customer dress code of shaved heads and shorts
revealing tattooed calves. All hands seemed pleasant enough though.
As I approached the bar the gaffer said, “we've only got one on”
pointing to the six hand pumps. At the this point I hadn't spoken and
I had only been in the pub literally seconds so how he knew that I am
a real ale drinker I know not, either I must just look like the sort
or his gafferly instrincts told him.
 |
The Masonic, Garston, Liverpool, by request
of Toby In-Tents
|
The
gaffer served me the one beer they had on but before I could taste
what looked like an acceptable - but far from mint condition - pint
it was whisked away as he deemed it not to be in adequate condition.
He poured me another pint, which was in better nick, but also gave me
the original one as well, explaining that I could have
the naff one for for free. He charged me £2, so it was effectively a
£1 a pint, which appealed to my meagre budget. After another couple
it was back to the Toby for a nightcap, then bed.
The
following night demanded a change of tactics, so I sauntered the
couple of miles or so to Lark Lane, via a couple of pit stops. After
walking for about a mile and a half passed large houses with
perfectly manicured lawns and Mercedes camper vans on
driveways I encountered seven churches and three Italian restaurants
but no pub. There's too much pasta and not enough pissed-a in
Aigburth and the work/ drink balance appears to be all wrong.
I
finally got to The Old Bank, some three miles down the main road from
The Masonic with no other pubs in between (not counting the Toby of
course, which can't claim to be a proper boozer.) The pub was not
unpleasant but it sported more television screens (three) than hand
pulls (two) and there was only a couple with a dog in, so after a
quick one and a chat with the barman, I moved on.
I
quickly hazarded upon a lively house called the Fulwood Arms, where
drinkers had spilled out onto the street and an Irish folkey band were
in full irritating swing. Ominiously two hand pulls had no pump clips
on them. I asked the gaffer, who himself turned out to be Irish, if
he had any real ale on. “Wha's dat yer mean?” I pointed forlornly
at the hand pumps. “We have some Guinness Porter,” and being the
best thing on offer I had a pint. It was freezing cold and gassy and
gave me the hiccups. Back out into the Liverpudlian night.
I
finally found Lark Lane, which is attractive and a bit boho, like
London almost but you don't have to get on a tube to get there, which
was a relief. I popped in two more pubs with bar staff with perplexed
looks when I inquired about the availability of real
ale. Heading up Lark Lane on my quest for a decent pint I felt like
the beer hunter, in perpetual motion, I was Captain Ahab in Moby Dick
but instead of hunting the great white whale I would have settled for
an average real ale – then I found one, in The Albert. An
attractive building had been ruined internally with garish
advertising, more TV screens than Currys and flashing fruit machines.
An odd contraption behind the bar advertised 'crispy bacon vodka'
which sounds like a Russian breakfast drink. I hankered for home and
the Flagon & Gorses and left The Albert to return, unfulfilled,
to the travel tavern.
 |
| The Albert, Aigburth, Liverpool. |
But
I passed a place called the Rhubarb, that looked on first glance like
a wine bar (which I had earlier dismissed) and I studied it more
closely and it beckoned me in. At last I had found what appeared to
be a normal locals' pub. With people at the bar who talk to you. And
chit chat and chaffing with the bar staff. A mature woman at the bar
asked where I am from and what I was doing in Liverpool. I explained
that I am from a town called Halesowen in the Black Country and that
I was in Liverpool on a course to do with Shared Reading. “I've
nevva eeerrred of dat place. Martin, dis lad's come all de way 'ere
to read booooowks!!!!” Martin - “He's a Brummie dat lad.”
Barman - “No ee's not like, 'ee's from Dudley I'm tellin' ya.”
Dudley: close enough for me. Turns out the barman went to Birmingham
University and has a bit of West Midlands knowledge.
Martin
tipped me off to order as much as I wanted at last orders as the bar
staff don't kick you out but they can't serve after hours, as the
gaffer, who was upstairs, will know by looking at the electronic
till. He ordered four pints of Guinness. I conservatively just had
the three pints of bitter. Finally I had got my catch but unlike Ahab
I didn't pay with my life but with a twenty pound note.
©
Dominic Horton, July 2015.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
No comments:
Post a Comment