There are two burning questions in the world of pub blogging today;
- How is Martin the Owl being treated by the staff of the Cumberland pub where BRAPA abandoned him.
- How is that Leon and I were QUITE so P**** after a mere four pubs on Friday*.
I think it was four. Castleford Tap at 16:07, Pontefract Bakers at 16:42, Robin Hood at 17:32, Spoons at 18:28, which reads like a slackening of pace if anything.
Leon had managed to guide me on to the train home to Sheffield, with just enough time to stop at Wakefield for some fresh West Yorkshire air before hitting the smog of the South.
“14 minutes ? Time for a quick pint !” said someone.
It really wasn’t, and we even ended up ignoring the call of Harry’s Bar and Henry Boon’s, in the unfamiliar bosom of the Black Horse, drawn in by the “Pub and Dining” on the wall, no doubt.
Surely even that no entry sign should have put us off ?
High tables, cocktail menus, Bradfield Blonde; it’s not a Sheffield Hatter pub, for sure.
But I only had 8 minutes anyway, just enough time to sign in, order a pint, make tentative plans to meet Leon in Sheffield, ignore the pint, and fumble with the sign you’re supposed to turn around in the Gents.
When I ambled back, thinking sweet thoughts, Leon was shouting at me.
“Your train leaves in 3 minutes, retiredmartin. Run !”
I took two gulps.
“Your train leaves in TWO minutes, retiredmartin. Run !”
I decked it and charged down Mulberry Way leaping onto the 18:23 as the doors closed.
The chap in front of me, hearing my wheezing corpse, moved to the next carriage. Apologies to him now.
*If Charlotte is reading this, Leon was on Heineken 0.0 throughout.