March 2026. Sheffield.
Sheffield is a great city but I can’t spend a whole day there. Mid-afternoon on Monday I headed down to the station, intending to bring you exciting reports from, I dunno, Retford or Adwick.
But there was “trouble beyond Worksop“, and my sister called, and I abandoned my mission at the Rutland Arms.
I really don’t go in the Rutland nearly enough, given its legendary status for imported imperial stouts, chip cobs and jukebox artist bans.
Partly because it’s often packed, and I don’t do vertical drinking. But today it’s quiet (for 10 minutes anyway) and I have a conservative stout from Colbier of Liverpool fame.
What a great seat, so much to take in from those benches,
and company from a bear I’ve named “Floppy” which Mrs RM wouldn’t let me bring home when I sent her a photo. Boo.
It’s not quite as good as that murk in the Black Cat, but a rich and chewy NBSS 4 is a joy.
On the walk back from the Gents,
I note that the forbidden list above the jukebox is down to the permabanned regulars; Oasis, The Smiths, Pulp and the rest of the 6 Music mediocrity.
Instead you get Girls Aloud, Level 42,
and Samantha Fox, clearly ripe for critical re-evaluation.
So good are the tunes, I chat to the terrific barman about the keg, consider the £27 14% pint from Evil Twin, but chicken out with a Left Handed Giant.
He pops up to collect the finished pint. I explain I’m pouring my half of keg into the cask suds of the pint glass. He leaves me to my madness.
retiredmartin 