retiredmartin

Before I catch up on last Sunday’s trip to Lancashire’s clubland, I thought you’d like to see some of my highly prized blog comments.

Sadly, none of the comments are from Greenland, so my blog view map still looks a bit forlorn at the top (or bottom, if you’re reading in the South Pole).

In sharp contrast to Greenland, Mrs RM joined me for a day out in the grey bit of lanky Lancashire between Burnley and the Dales.

I thought might be about to alienate my many Barnoldswick (pronounced “Barlick” locally) reader when I turned up at the Rolls Royce Leisure Club, with an anonymous ticker having delivered a withering assessment on the beer recently.

But Mrs RM and I loved it. OK, it’s a bit Spoons-like design wise,

and the main trade seemed to be Sunday lunches in the conservatory, but it was cheery, efficient and with toilets even Mrs RM and Pauline (official toilet inspector for the blog) would approve of.

The playlist was wonderfully naff pop,

and the neatly attired staff wore those headpieces that Britney Spears wears. It was wonderful, a social club open to all, the Drax Power Station Club of the west.

Also wonderful, very nearly, was the beer, two Copper Dragon halves both rating a 3.5.

The banter was of “the hypocrisy of football” as the Chelsea v Newcastle game was previewed, but the star was young chap modelling himself on the finest mannerisms of Peter Kay. No, really;

“Fish and chips freshly out of the Leeds to Liverpool canal this morning !”

“for you, the preparation of certain crustaceans” (scampi for Little Johnny)

OK, perhaps I’m easily pleased, but in a world when many tell us how we must be miserable it was lovely to see such joy.

There was joy down the road at the Hare & Hounds in Haggate on the edge of Burnley, too.

A wedding reception was taking place, and with children running around in waistcoats my photos were a little restricted. So here’s a picture of a digger in the car park;

Now my main concern was being outed as “not a wedding guest” and refused entry, as I was in Esher in 2013 when I gamely but vainly attempted to pass myself off as an 18 year old public schoolboy, but Mrs RM hid in the side room and I tried to look respectable while surveying the roll call of small Pennine brewers. Well, all except Reedley Hallows, anyway.

“Drink up, Mrs RM” I said “It’s a private function“, and she necked a Chinook and a Bowland Blonde in 3 minutes flat.

The withering look from the bridesmaids smoking in the outside porch was worth the visit alone.

Anyway, good luck to Bride and Groom. Unless they’re Liverpool supporters.