POLLY’S IN THE CITY OF DAN

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No, not gollies, Polly’s.

Still more fun from Coalville. Or nearby Whitwick, which you can walk from the Stamford (or run if you’ve just nicked Sod’s coat).

Stamford & Warrington
Three Horseshoes on the top right

The Three Horseshoes is another “A511 classic“, not quite as basic as the Stamford & Warrington, but still a culture shock for the American tourist acclimatised to our “Will you be dining with us, Sir” culture.

I’d wanted to show BeerMat the famed City of Dan, one of the many quirky things about Whitwick (note also City of Three Waters).

Whitwick

Last time here I’d brought the boys to an episode of “Robot Wars“, won in unconvincing fashion by Storm 2.  Imagine 200 eight year olds waving foam hands and screaming “Smash ‘im” and you have the concept.

See the source image
A pyrrhic victory

The City of Dan is a quieter place these days.

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Chap near City of Dan sign confirmed as Don

I thought the Horseshoes was a classic a decade ago, which is why it’s not in the GBG anymore.

Possibly that’s due to a change of licensee, but the Guide has lost some gems (e.g. Peggs Green) from mining villages off the A511 of late (see here), the problem of being part of a Loughborough branch where the town has more that its fair share of Proper Pubs.

BeerMat has kindly let me nick a few photos.

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Photo on loan from BeerMat

It’s a more expansive beer range than at the Stamford, and the Guvnor has kindly taken the Sea Fury off so I’m not offended by seeing too many pumps.

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All you need. Ever

Not that the range mattered as I had a coke, but I was still impressed.

Three Old Boys, connoisseurs rather than Professional Drinkers dutifully ignored us and read the Coalville Courier. You can’t do that in a Micro Pub, where you’re expected to engage in dull conversation about how wonderful micros are and how excited you are about their next pale ale.

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This is a Proper Pub

BeerMat was a fantastic drinking companion.  He even let me taste the dregs of his half of Bass.  They were nice dregs, but there isn’t a CAMRA approved dregs scoring system yet. They’re more fussed about how well the broccoli is cooked for GBBF volunteers.

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Waiting for dregs

As Madonna’s “La Isla Bonita” played, a well-to-do couple of septuagenarians came in and asked the Guvnor where the restaurant was, as they were meeting friends there at 2pm.

Restaurant ! We’ve got crisps.”   Confusion ensued.

I’d like to believe this was an attempt by the Stamford & Warrington to sabotage the Horseshoe’s bid for coveted Basic Pub status.  It failed.

In case you’re wondering, BeerMat is absent from these photos for the same reason as me; fear of being attacked mobbed in the street.  His identity must remain a secret, but reflect on this;

Rearrange the letters of LifeAfterFootball839 and who do you get ?

Berti Vogts Picture

Pubmeister sussed  it, but then Berti did manage Scotland for a while, successfully restoring them to their proper place in the world league.

Oh, the outside loos.  Nearly forgot.

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Another Top 10 Basic Pub, 2 miles from the last one.

23 thoughts on “POLLY’S IN THE CITY OF DAN

  1. Attempting the impossible and trying to catch up with your usual blizzard of posts. Berti did indeed leave a legacy at Scotland but perhaps not the one intended by those who appointed him. BeerMat sounds like good company.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Speaking of Bass we finally found it in the most unusual place last night.
    They call this part of Florida the Forgotten Coast because in years gone by when tourist chiefs produced their maps of Florida showing Orlando,Miami and Key West they simply left out this part of the state figuring no-one would want to go there as there isn’t anything to go there for.
    How wrong they were.
    It’s the tip of the handle of the Florida Panhandle,the North West part of the state that joins the Redneck Riviera,with miles of pristine white beaches,million dollar homes overlooking them,remote air bases with Stealth fighters flying overhead and Blackpool-esque places like Panama City where the unsophisticated folk of Alabama and Georgia go to mate with strangers.
    On a deserted road from Apalachicola to Port St Joe with the Gulf of Mexico on one side and thick swamp on the other we came across a single simple shack called the Indian Pass Raw Bar.
    Signs were good – every vehicle outside was a pick-up truck and pride of place was given to a massive mobile barbeque capable of being towed behind a truck and with a chimney smoking furiously like a model steam railway.
    The people sat outside on wooden chairs were mostly very very fat and talking in thick Southern drawls.The only thing missing was the sound of duelling banjos.
    Inside the simple one-room building was a table groaning under the weight of barbecued and smoked meat with a handwritten sign saying ” meat ” and another table with another handwritten sign saying ” fixings ” which had all the foreign muck like pasta and salad on.
    At the back of the room covering the entire wall was the biggest beer fridge I’ve ever seen with hundreds of different bottles of beer.
    And a whole stack of them were Bass.
    There and then I thought two things.
    I want a Bass and I want to let RM know he’s not the only one to find Bass in out of the way places.
    Just as my hand reached out to the door a voice over my shoulder drawled “Can I help you sir ? ”
    “Yes”,I replied to the friendly but toothless old woman, ” I’d like a Bass and one of those thick juicy sausages on the table.”
    ” I’m sorry sir but we’re closed today – this is a private party for Jimmy B the owner ” she said in the friendliest way I’ve ever been kicked out of a bar.
    Crestfallen we retreated to our SUV and drove off,chewing on the thickest,juiciest wurst-like sausage I’ve ever tasted which we pinched on the way out.
    Tonight is our last night in America.
    Mrs PPT,as is the way of women,suggests that we “stay in and pack as we have an early start ”
    Bollocks to that.Packing takes me less that five minutes and I drive better with a hangover.
    There’s a bottle of Bass in the Indian Pass Raw Bar with my name on it.

    Liked by 4 people

    1. And I had thought that “this is a private party for Jimmy B the owner” was only ever said to a police officer raiding a pub that was serving ‘lates’.

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    1. Very good point, Scott. CAMRA should stop whining about broccoli and campaign for proper tasting notes, samplers and jam jars for these obscure beers under the banner “Brave a third, BBBs aren’t all undrinkable swill, you know”

      Liked by 2 people

  3. “No, not gollies, Polly’s.”

    A subtle dig at The Stamford and Warrington. 🙂

    “(or run if you’ve just nicked Sod’s coat).”

    Ahem… Sog’s coat. 😉

    “for the American tourist acclimatised”

    Don’t forget, over here the Yank would be acclimatized. 🙂

    “(note also City of Three Waters)”

    I’ll hazard a guess that the demographic is rather old and the name indicates how many times they get up for a pee in the night.
    (tell me about it!)

    “Imagine 200 eight year olds waving foam hands ”

    Had the blighters been sticking their hands in everyone’s beer?

    “Chap near City of Dan sign confirmed as Don”

    Poor fellow probably has a lisp.

    “All you need. Ever”

    Well, that, plus a loaf of bread and the love of your life* (and maybe some cheese?).
    * – I don’t mean beer. 🙂

    “Not that the range mattered as I had a coke”

    You passed on the Bass(ed)? (shock!)

    “Rearrange the letters of LifeAfterFootball839 and who do you get ?”

    I tried, but it’s still missing a ‘c’, ‘k’, ‘r’, ‘s’ and ‘n’ for a start. 😉

    “2 miles from the last one.”

    Only if you go via Mantle Lane instead of up Whitwick Road. 🙂

    Cheers

    Liked by 2 people

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