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 
Yeah, he’s right. Mad people should be left to get on with it.
I’ve always found the Rutland rather clique-y. I once tried to sit in that seat that you liked so much, it was the only seat in the place, but one among the group of young people sitting around me said someone else was coming to join them, so I stood up for as long as it took to drink my beer and then left. Not a typical experience in a Sheffield pub.
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