retiredmartin

March 2026. Nottingham.

My Nottingham gig ends at a quarter to ten so Rescue Rooms can put on a Harry Styles “Fandom Party” (aka disco),

a change from my usual London gigs that start just before 10pm and ensure I’m dashing to Kings Cross for the last train, full of drunk HR professionals from Royston.

That gives me a free 20 minutes to waste in a big city where the entertainment is a toss-up between a punch-up outside the Bell and a queue for Popeye’s fried chicken.

Thank goodness for pubs, then. I have no recollection of the GBG Dragon, must have been in 20 years ago. Quinno sums it up well;

Burrow right in, past the smell of damp and p**s, up the tiered drinking levels,

four decent casks,

an just the sort of snacks I need for the train home.

“What are Filberts ?” I ask the barmaid, which possibly is the sort of unnecessary question you don’t need to ask at 10pm on Friday night, but I’m genuinely intrigued.

She’s polite, being a young person, but bewildered when I have Filberts and a cob, which I then squash into my overcoat pocket and grab the last table near the DJ.

Yes ! A DJ. It’s a low-key party venue, a bit like Sheffield’s New Barrack, and it’s your classic ’80s indie night, which means I have to make my pint of Lenton Lane “I Want A New Duck”, a murk NBSS 3.5, last when The Cutter comes on.

And then a dash for the station, via a loo stop at the mystery pub (Guess !),

and then I find the Sheffield platform half a mile from the barrier on Platform 4a. Why do they make Sheffield folk walk so far to the train ? (see also : Platform 13 at Piccadilly).

Virtually empty train, so no-one to judge me for adding Filberts espresso mix to my cob. Mmm.

It’s NOT dry, Quinno, it’s CRUSTY !