I spent literally minutes trying to find a Fall track for this post, but sadly M.E. Smith’s “Middle aged Middleton micropub man” remains unreleased.
On the tram back from Bury to Victoria I planned an afternoon in West Manchester,
and admired the lack of GBG pubs on the route.
Ah, the Crooked Man.
Wait, the Crooked Man ? What’s that then ? Surely it’s the Church ?
I fumbled with opening up my GBG spreasdsheet, failed, and jumped up as the announcer boomed “Next stop Prestweeeeetch“, alarming the two French tourists who were clearly lost.
Oooh, a map. Don’t see many of those anymore.
By now the spreadsheet had loaded and the Crooked Man was clearly absent. So a new tick I’d missed, and a chance to explore tourist Prestwich, starting with the futuristic loos.
WhatPub suggested 3pm opening, but we all know that WhatPub hours for micros are starting bids. There were folk insside at 2.34pm, drinking sour DIPAs from tea cups.
“Sorry we’re not open till 3” said the nice lady.
“I’m sure I’ll find something to do for half an hour“. She looked at me sceptically.
What an odd town.
A row of trad Holt pubs with trad names,
a Craft Union with a unique name,
and a shiny new cocktail lounge thing in the glossy square metre of town.
That modernity contrasts sharply with the shopping centre.
But what’s this in the Longfield ?
Nothing on handpump, so I had the Cloudwater Pale as I’m Old Skool.
Two CAMRAs from the 28% faction came in, asked for tasters (spit !) and interrogated the barman about what was cask while I enjoyed my superb keg, all the better for being purchased by contactless.
That occupied me till 3.01 when I returned to the Crooked Man.
“Not YOU again” said the nice lady.
Quirk art, deep sofas, obscure blues, children welcome, a decent stout from Deeply Vale (NBSS 3).
All I’ll say is. Don’t eat black pudding, drink keg and then run for the tram, kids.
You never saw Mark E Smith run, did you ?