Ship Inn, Fylde Road, Preston

Some time back I went into the Ship Inn and it seemed to be drifting rather listlessly, lacking purpose or promise.
A once favourite student haunt, the lease was available for a new tenant and there seemed to be little effort, being made to get the place going.
But last Friday after a few pints in the Bitter Suite (see previous post) and a few more in the Mad Ferret, my mate Chris and I were stumbling back home, when the Ship docked in our path.
An acoustic performer was knocking out a few tunes and the assembled crowd seemed to be appreciating his efforts.
Having decided I needed to rise before midday Saturday I was not keen to go in.
But after a moment’s arm twisting, I agreed to listen to a couple of songs and ‘then we’d be off’.
But seeing they were now serving Hobgoblin, I quickly revised my plans and we were soon settled for the rest of the night.
Despite approaching the small hours, it was clear there was more happening than the last time I was in.
Two good live acts kept people entertained when other pubs were closing and with a supply of real ale my plans for Saturday were quickly abandoned.
Whenever I have spoken to students who have studied at UCLan in the last decade, they have almost all claimed the Ship Inn had been as important to their student experience as the university itself.
And with the next intake of students arriving in Preston next month, there may well be hundreds more ready to climb aboard.

*You can follow me on twitter @RobinsonBee
www.theshippreston.co.uk 

Bitter Suite, Fylde Road, Preston

'We've three bands on this evening and the first one's starting in just a couple of minutes', the woman sat at a little exam desk said.

'Great'.

'It's £4 entry'.

'Not so great'.

'Go on then it's Friday night, it's been a long week, a bit of live music might just do the job'.

With the backs of our hands stamped we walked into the venue to join the crowd.

Then we realised we were the crowd.

Just then the band struck up in a thrash of demonic fury.

The drummer brought his sticks down on the helpless symbols like a serial killer making sure the job was done, as the vocalist produced a terrifying guttural groan like the sounds of a devil dog ripping up a rabbit.

I was trembling.

'Do you think will notice if we slip out?', I shouted to my mate.

'Can't hear you, lets just edge backwards towards the door very slowly'.

This was my first visit to the Bitter Suite several years ago and as first impressions go, I was left with more of the 'bitter' than I normally get in a pub.

But last week we decided to make a long overdue return for a couple of Friday night pints.

Despite it being in the heart of the student strip which suffers in summer, it was packed last Friday night with a friendly crowd who have all clear been locals for a good many years.

No gimmicks to try to drag customers in here.

But my attention was very quickly diverted from the happy hum of people's week being dissected, to the bar, loaded and ready with six real ales of my choosing.

I felt like I'd been reunited with a lost relative, someone who'd left for Australia so long ago I no longer recognised their face, until their beaming smile brought it all back.

We excitedly kicked off the evening with a couple of pints of Columbus, then Forest of Bowland's Hen Harrier, before going for some dark, chewy stuff which went down a treat.

And unlike almost every other pub in Preston which displays the same nostalgic old pictures of Preston bought as a job lot from oldpicturesofpreston.com, they have got some brilliant prints of every-day sights in the city from a perspective you had never imagined.

Even if you are not a fan of real ale or friendly locals, I would recommend popping in for a drink to have a nosey at the 'pool room photo gallery'.

I waved goodbye to my long-lost brother with a genuine intention to meet again.

Maybe next time we will even have another go at a band.

*You can follow me on Twitter @RobinsonBee and let me know where I should go next

www.bittersuitepreston.co.uk

The White Hart, Watling Street Road, Preston

Once upon a time Preston built things on a humongous scale.

There were giant mills with enormous chimneys hulking out into the sky, huge factories teeming with workers who lived in thousands of terraced houses with ceilings so high you could squeeze in a couple more floors without having to stoop.

And after a long day spent at work in a huge building, where did the people stop in to relax before sidling through their  100-foot front doors?

A pub the size of the bus station of course.

Nice blooms at The White Hart

Now this potted social history of Preston is based nothing more than a few obscure, baseless musings I conjured the other day, but they seemed to fit perfectly when I arrived at The White Hart in Watling Street Road.

I have passed the pub countless times without investing in it any more of my time in it, than the occasional raised of an eyebrow as if to re-affirm it is still a 'really big pub'.

But the Central Lancashire branch of Camra reported it had starting serving real ale and it has some cracking hanging baskets outside, which was enough to draw me in.

Impressive blooms aside, my first impression of the place remained the same as it had been the countless times I drove past.

It was vast.

But while in its heyday (taking my flawed history theory) thousands of workers would have been pouring out of the mills and filling places like this, at 6.30pm one weekday evening, the appearance of my mate Big Dog Dave and I, was not enough to push the total clientèle into double figures.

With a pint of Young's London Gold we took one of the very many empty seats.

A couple of big screens were dotted around the place and with lots of streamers and banners, they were trying to get into the Olympics spirit.

But everything seemed to be swallowed up into the enormity of the place.

On a Saturday when North End are at home I am sure it gets busier but you could probably get a good portion of a 10,000 gate seated in there, in perfect comfort.

In decades long gone, your typical Preston worker pouring out of say Tulketh Mill at 5pm on a Tuesday, may well have popped into their local for a quick pint to relax after work, while your call centre crew emerging there today is more likely to head straight to yoga or spinning (which is ironically what their predecessors may have been doing all day).

The only solution is to entice more people in and they can do worse than starting with a decent pint of real ale, some cracking blooms and the sense you are in a pub which gives you plenty of room to breathe.

Harley-Davidson cafe, Strand Road, Preston

“I'm off to an American diner at the back of a Harley-Davidson showroom, so what I'm going to do is put my leather jacket on, don my Weetabix helmet and cycle into the car park making throaty revving noises like a badass.”

“For Pete's sake Ben, you're a 28-year-old man, you need to grow up.

“You'll get smacked in the face and they'd be within their rights.

“In fact I'd smack you in the face if I was there...”

“Alright mum chill out, I'll just walk instead”, I said before quickly hanging up the phone mid-tirade.

I met my friends, Bainsey Four Bellies and Big Dog Dave in the car park, before sidling painstakingly among hundreds of hypnotically shiny bikes. Gleaming exhausts stretched my face while a tiny fob sucked it in as I became transfixed by a million distorted images of myself.

Just as my nose got within a hair's length of the handle bars I caught I glimpse of the price which sent me scuttling to the cafe at the back, terrified by all the noughts.

With fixed-table booths, assorted bowling pins and swathes of chrome, Harleys captured some of the authentic American roadside joint.

Instead of savouring a sense of the States however, we took the highway dining theme a little further and sat on the terraced area, off one of Preston's most famous highways – Strand Road.

We barely scanned the menu before making our choices.

“Jeez can you imagine us out on Route 66 pulling over for a cheese and ham toastie?” said Big Dog.

“Yeah that sucks”, agreed Four Bellies.

We were all set for a 'Phat Boy Burger' apiece, which included two hearty burgers, bacon, cheese, salad and relish, (3.95) but Four Bellies hadn't eaten for over an hour and decided it might not sustain him.

So he chose a Cornish pastie (£1.65) with gravy and a hot dog (£2.45) just to be sure.

No mention had been made of French fries and I assumed they were a given but when I checked, I was told they cannot cook chips because the smell and the grease perforates through into the showroom.

My first instinct was to baulk at such a preposterous ideas as an American diner without chips but then all those mesmeric twinkling bikes shimmered back into mind and I could see the problem they faced.

The Phat Boys lived up to their billing perfectly. The waitress borrowed one of United Utilities' cranes stationed nearby to lower them onto our bench and there they sat towering over us.

With the top buns hanging backwards they looked like the mouths of angry ogres bellowing at us (perhaps about the lack of chips).

But we need not have worried because the Phat Boys were more than enough to contend with on their own.

And Four Bellies was also impressed with his plates declaring at least three of his stomachs were full and contented, which had not happened since his infamous 24 hour takeaway challenge of 2010.

With the three sodas the whole bill came to an incredibly reasonable £15.05, which is why I've decided to treat my mum next time she rides into town.

The Sherwood, Sherwood Way, Preston

It is a stark confession but I have to come clean and admit I didn't want to go to the pub.

There are few occasions in my life when I can make such an outrageous a proclamation without falling silent for a dramatic pause, before slapping my leg and bursting out into rolls of laughter.

'Got you again, what a lark', I say.

Oh how they laugh.

But after spending a weekend at my friends' two-day wedding bonanza, including continuous supply of free real ale (with sneaky trips to the pub before and after the service), my barrel was empty.

With Miss Chardonnay Sidekick temporarily unavailable for Sidekicking duties and the entire sum of my friends, saying he was going to the cinema tonight, I was left to slink into The Sherwood alone.

I took my pint of Wainwright and sidled into a seat in the corner, where I settled down to read my paper, slowly sip my beer and mind my own business.

On the table next to me a group of men, including a conspiratorial father and son, jovially plotted ways of continuing their night in town without 'Yer mum getting wind of it', while another small group popped in for a pint to take the edge off a day at work.

To my left a dad and three teenage children scurried through the door, ushered by the rain and made their way to the dining area, to break up the week with a cheap meal out.

As this steady tea-time hum built around me I sat quietly and enjoyed my pint, which seemed to offer me a little more flavour with every lazy sip.

Suddenly I realised, aside from the music (Middle of the Road and The Droaners), I had been perfectly relaxad for the past half and hour, without feeling the need to move at all beyond my left hand turning the pages and the right one to hoist my pint from time-to-time.

'This is a revelation', I thought to myself as I left.

'It's like relaxing at home except better because you're in a pub.

'Wait until I tell the others about this.

'No on second thoughts, it might be better to remain my little secret'.

Eagle and Child, Weeton

Sporting hanging basket head gear, clogs with a story to tell and braces grappling to hold the show together, the Original Garstang Morris Men danced like it was 1972.

The motley troop was once a fixture on the gala day circuit including starring performances in the 1972 and 1992 Guilds, before they danced off into the sunset.

After several of the troopers left Lancashire, with some even moving abroad, commentators claimed the Originals would never perform again.

But like former welterweight boxing champion Ricky Hatton chomping for a return, the Original Garstang Morris Men craved one last hit of glory in the Guild spotlight.

After long and complex negotiations between agents, the troopers dusted off their old kits and met at a top-secret location to begin practising for the most sensational of comebacks.

Within days the internet was awash with rumours the Originals were back. Their spokesman issued a public denial and after several men wearing flowery hats were photographed entering a church hall, he claimed it was a ‘coincidence’.

But later that week a press conference was called and before the world’s media, it was announced they would be performing at the Weeton Gala Day with a Guild date to follow if it went well.

And to the delight of the assembled crowd every clog clip, streamer stretch and tricky twist was performed with the same gay abandon which made them such a hit in their prime.

They formed up among a fantastic array of creativity and colour including a marching swing band,  excited youngsters in fancy dress and a  Muppets float to name just a few.

And what was at the very centre of this fantastic festival of British quirkiness?

Where was its heart? What bound the whole thing together? The Eagle and Child.

Set back from the green, jam-packed with character, tradition, a big beer garden and plenty of real ale, it is pretty much as good a village pub as you could hope for.

But occasions like the Weeton Gala Day show that places like this are much more than jumbles of old wooden beams and tankards, they are the fabric of rural society which turns a scattering of posh houses in fields, into a community of friends.

The Originals are now said to be stepping up their preparations for their Guild gig though they were last spotted enjoying the pub beer garden.          

My Euro 2012 Adventure

Every time the location of a European Championship is announced, my friends and I fly into action with a flurry of texts.

‘Right this year, we’re going to go’, one will say.

‘I’m up for it, agrees another’.

‘No this time I’m serious, we’re going to do it, it’s now or never’.

We usually get as far as searching the price of a pint in said country before abandoning it as non-starter.

Short of traipsing across Europe, the best on trains, planes and automobiles,  the only  way we could be sure to capture a bit of that Three Lions matchday atmosphere , was by hitting the pubs of Preston.

For our tournament’s opener against France, on the Monday cars were abandoned at LEP Towers as we hot-footed it down to The Sumners, in Watling Street Road, just in time to miss the first 15 minutes of the match!

Thankfully however, lots of other people seemed also seemed to have got stuck at work and we were able to get a seat close to one of numerous big screens. Popular with North End fans, I had expected it to be packed out by the time I got there, so a prime seat was an unexpected bonus.

The second match against Sweden was on a Friday night and I was in the mood for letting my receding hair down and enjoying a few pints of ale, so we headed straight for the Old Black Bull.

Ringing with nervous tension I quickly ordered a beer as I scoped out the best place to stand.  By the time kick-off came I was so excited, all I could do was sup my beer to keep me from jumping around the place.

My pint of Duck and Dive was pretty much gone by the time the players had mumbled the national anthem so I dashed back to the bar for a refill. Only then did I realise said beer which I had gulped down was, at 5.9% proof, rather stronger than my usual tipple. It did, however, make for a lively night which on the way home culminated in the enthusiastic re-enacting of several jaunty lunges, based loosely around the beer’s name. The atmosphere in the pub was good too from what I can remember.

For the Ukraine game we headed to The Wheatsheaf, in Water Lane, Ashton.  I knew exactly what I would get from this one; lots of big screens, bargain priced real ale and free snacks at half –time. You cannot go wrong. They even gave three locals a ‘Director’s Box’ treatment with the best seats in the house, along with free beer all night.

For the crunch quarter-final against Italy we decided against one of Preston’s sports pubs and instead went for Hartley’s in Mount Street. In the back room which is often closed off, they had created a ‘Euro Bar’ and invited regulars to reserve tables to ensure they all got a seat.

The room was just busy enough to build that collective tension which makes watching football so exciting without having to be crushed against a wall and because many people knew each other, the atmosphere was jovial (until the end).

Obviously it all ended in disappointment as it always does but at least it gave me more excuses for evenings in the pub.

‘Now to Brazil for 2014’.