James called me on Thursday night and said he wanted “some advice”.
Every dad fears the worst when they hear those words. Was he looking to ditch City after our disastrous 20-21 season and needed help to choose a new team ?
Could he not choose between Crispy Beef and Spicy Squid at Sang Lung ?
No, he wanted to know which beach his mates should go to today.
I thought Waterloo/Crosby beach, iron men, dunes and live music in pubs.
But that’s 2:08 hours from Sheffield; unbelievably Cleethorpes is only 1:19.
So, lock up your daughters, Cleethorpes.
To be honest James and his mates aren’t pub connoisseurs so the joys of Waterloo, the first upmarket beach suburb north of Liverpool, are rather wasted on them.
Not only does Waterloo give you an annual new Guide entry with your naked beach men and cup giantkillers,
they also change the names to confuse the ticker.
Stamps Too becomes the Waterpudlian, and is joined by the Trap & Hatch.
Doesn’t look much like table service, does it ?
But it was oddly wonderful. Perhaps it’s the bald heads reminiscent of Thomas Geaversen (this is Everton territory), perhaps the free dog lick, or the general sense of post-Lockdown euphoria driven by “Tiny Dancer” and “Bitter Sweet Symphony”.
The hazy beer, Chapter’s Out of Pique was a cool 3.5, and frankly if this had been the last pub of the night I’d have settled in and drank the range.
But the pooch was getting bored of me by now, as I refused to buy the scratchings, and I figured it was time to attempt ticks 5 & 6 before the micros filled up.