Blog Tracker
29-08-2023, 07:11
Visit the Shut up about Barclay Perkins site (http://barclayperkins.blogspot.com/2023/08/collingham.html)
Do it yourself bacon sarnie again today. Not that I mind. It’s a pleasure to cook bacon on an eye-level grill. So much healthier, too. Why do continental cookers never feature them?
Dave has already made tea. And has French TV on again. A news channel, this time.
I have to break up my tea with a spoon, it’s so strong. Does the job, mind.
When the kids have dragged their sorry arses downstairs, we watch the Women’s World Cup Final. To be fair, Alexei wasn’t up that late. And looked human when he rose. Unlike Andrew, who’s in mumble mode again.
A ketamine and rum binge today, Andrew seems to have been on. For, at a rough estimate, six days. With maybe just a smidgin of 2CB on the edges. He has a wild, but subdued air.
“Tea, Andrew?”
“Ugh.”
“Is that a yes?”
“What do you think?”
“No?”
“Just pour me some tea and shut up.”
I love our morning interactions. Exactly why I became a father. Though, at least one of the kids is in a good mood. Or, at least, inquisitive.
“When are we going to Spoons. Dad?” He’s been asking that since we arrived. Before, really. About a week before we left Amsterdam.
“Soon, Lexie, soon. We’ve still plenty of time.” Or maybe not.
After checking on the interweb, I notice that today is its final day. Better get there quick, before all the booze has gone. The plan is to eat at Spoons and then continue on to Collingham, the village about seven miles outside Newark where Henry has his Cat Asylum brewery.
Dave phones for a taxi. It takes a while to get through.
“Not too bad. It’s coming at quarter to four.” He reports.
“That’s crap. It’s only half past one.”
“Oh, I thought it was later.”
Yes, you senile old hippy. It’s a fucking hour later than you think. I only say that in my head. I hope. Dave hasn’t reacted. I must be in the clear.
Eventually, our taxi arrives. And whisks us to downtown Newark and Spoons (https://www.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/nottinghamshire/the-sir-john-arderne-newarkontrent).
We take the back way in. Where new estates have filled in all the fields between Balderton and town. Detached houses, but packed tightly together, with almost no gardens. Lovely. That’s typical of the new homes around here.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUO8H-SI21Zsgo9pi7s64c6QEMUrPjaXqGdPEInnqtLHejRXTZ1IAdLK EQN1ehvb6OhxVORKIC2TAgg0xJxmhMoIEVAPc71JJZnNWZXuWh 4Q9TUlcACoKwe6eNorxqdYyPNXKk9Bet1721s276CBGRiVmsF0 zJI9CQy0BkW8XtZ7iKSmhuvM-j8-e3JVY/w640-h502/last_day_of_Spoons_2.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUO8H-SI21Zsgo9pi7s64c6QEMUrPjaXqGdPEInnqtLHejRXTZ1IAdLK EQN1ehvb6OhxVORKIC2TAgg0xJxmhMoIEVAPc71JJZnNWZXuWh 4Q9TUlcACoKwe6eNorxqdYyPNXKk9Bet1721s276CBGRiVmsF0 zJI9CQy0BkW8XtZ7iKSmhuvM-j8-e3JVY/s2729/last_day_of_Spoons_2.jpg)
Spoons is reasonably busy, but not packed. Obviously, there’s no cask. Hardly anything on draught at all. The kids are lucky: there’s still some cider. I have to make do with whisky.
The kids haven’t had lunch. Or breakfast, in Andrew’s case, and are hungry. But there’s hardly any food, either. Not really a surprise, I suppose, just a few hours before they close their doors forever. Luckily, they still have burgers. Both get one with chips. Nothing left tickles my fancy.
The fun begins when we try to get a taxi to Henry’s. Nothing doing with the numbers we call. Henry suggests that we try the rank by the stabby club.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjU1yBwKPtAfx7-GOPGoXwiyFIPMFJeOe0aZzg2EOD4dMcCAfQIC4QKaQljMrAI27 gDa-IfuRu5oevUnVyRhlFIJgt9fw52oVBTyMufJveESxyN-cRdGkffgOphrrw4sS1FDQyaxKXrkReUSAimVFVmJxGks15yNmO TWDTBWJvp-0NKrHJ4ywpfNtiUXU/w640-h480/Newark_market_place.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjU1yBwKPtAfx7-GOPGoXwiyFIPMFJeOe0aZzg2EOD4dMcCAfQIC4QKaQljMrAI27 gDa-IfuRu5oevUnVyRhlFIJgt9fw52oVBTyMufJveESxyN-cRdGkffgOphrrw4sS1FDQyaxKXrkReUSAimVFVmJxGks15yNmO TWDTBWJvp-0NKrHJ4ywpfNtiUXU/s4000/Newark_market_place.jpg)
After a quick walk through the deserted Sunday streets, we get to the rank. We’re in luck: there’s a lone taxi there. That’s relief.
“I thought we were going to have to walk.” I quip.
“Be serious. We remember how far it is.” Andrew replies. “I suppose we could get the train.”
“It’s still quite a walk from the station to Henry’s.”
“You could carry me piggyback.” Alexei suggests.
“I’d be radgebacked before we got two steps.”
“It would be funny, though, Dad.” Andrew interjects.
I’m starting to think the ungrateful gits are trying to hurry me on my way to perpetual oblivion. No, not another bender in Hong Kong. (I’ll never go for all-you-can-drink spirits again. The blood. So much blood. All mine, fortunately.) A permanent oblivion.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3mt4lL3h-6NVdHDplb3Q8jOP8RI-Ur-_Q1NU2XjtsdRVu43qJsuW0feI5-dqoQXLxv5xPEb5LJ8N8mjQWFWXbTo_SGpqN60wB-EnXBvGJ7NnqQcj21LLrHR4UQL26LGN1L9PNYKwGvxkLHMyrmDN wwcbiZ_87uq7ZyOSIQkrFDfE4dfYu73TaQ9Vftc/w640-h478/plough_workshop.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3mt4lL3h-6NVdHDplb3Q8jOP8RI-Ur-_Q1NU2XjtsdRVu43qJsuW0feI5-dqoQXLxv5xPEb5LJ8N8mjQWFWXbTo_SGpqN60wB-EnXBvGJ7NnqQcj21LLrHR4UQL26LGN1L9PNYKwGvxkLHMyrmDN wwcbiZ_87uq7ZyOSIQkrFDfE4dfYu73TaQ9Vftc/s5764/plough_workshop.jpg)
The sun is still out and Henry is sitting in the garden with a few mates (http://cat-asylum.com/). Including Chris Cunningham, his salesman and general helper in the brewery.
Lounging outside as the fading sun bathes us in soft, orange light is very relaxing. Birds chirrup and dart across a cobalt-blue sky Then a lorry thunders by a few metres away. Rather spoiling the bucolic scene.
Aren’t villages were supposed to be quiet? The road running past the brewery isn’t exactly a major artery. And it’s a fucking Sunday evening.
I’m drinking a Stout. I’d tell you what it was called, but the bottles are unlabelled. Nice, that’s what it is. Don’t really give a toss what it’s called. Apologies for the totally useless tasting notes. I’m in holiday mode.
When the sun finally drops exhausted below the horizon, and the other visitors have fucked off, we resort to the tap room. That is, the plough workshop. As was.
Wow. He now has a proper bar counter. With casks stillaged behind it. And a proper cash register.
“This is looking scarily professional, Henry.” I remark.
“I thank you for your lack of faith.”
The contrary is true. I’m quite impressed by his current setup. But I’m not going to tell him that. What do you expect? I’m English. We don’t compliment each other unless we’re after a job or a shag. Except our children. Often, not even then.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsHQyw9aJhJ-Q7E-q7GSC2p57i6R7uPwGYdmf3kFjYXryjFv_3EKrE4u4kh0ko3bAi N6ww-TncKTXIJbbF_lysYUP-AxQ54zJCT918aYds7F-y0EergZtbgsLG44K3UZD6pHby-_a1vQlxsXy8QcMKcmV9diKKcxRIkjMra7THUgJz-IOFWJn9SDfpxc/w640-h476/Henry_in_action.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsHQyw9aJhJ-Q7E-q7GSC2p57i6R7uPwGYdmf3kFjYXryjFv_3EKrE4u4kh0ko3bAi N6ww-TncKTXIJbbF_lysYUP-AxQ54zJCT918aYds7F-y0EergZtbgsLG44K3UZD6pHby-_a1vQlxsXy8QcMKcmV9diKKcxRIkjMra7THUgJz-IOFWJn9SDfpxc/s4019/Henry_in_action.jpg)
In a corner there’s a decibel meter.
“We have to be careful of the noise when the tap room is open. A neighbour complained and we need to make sure we keep below a certain level.”
Every time a lorry goes past, the decibel meter sprints into the forbidden zone. I guess they aren’t a nuisance for the neighbours.
No craziness today. On our other visits, everyone ended up totally plastered (http://barclayperkins.blogspot.com/2017/08/cat-asylum-here-we-come.html). Is today an improvement or a disprovement? Tomorrow will tell.
Despite my concerns – abject dread, really – we can get a taxi. We can all still walk and have our phones. It’s wins all around. No-one has lost any teeth, either. Or sustained any stab wounds. A really top day out.
We catch Dave before he goes to bed. The kids hacking into their slab, while I sip whisky in a sophisticated way.
“Is that a quadruple?” Andrew asks.
“More like an octuple.” Alexei ripostes.
“Can you two just fuck off and let ne enjoy my whisky?”
In unison: “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
The Sir John Arderne (https://www.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/nottinghamshire/the-sir-john-arderne-newarkontrent)
3 Church St,
Newark NG24 1DT.
Tel.: +44 1636 671334
https://www.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/nottinghamshire/the-sir-john-arderne-newarkontrent
The Cat Asylum Brewing Co (http://cat-asylum.com/)
12 Besthorpe Rd
Collingham
Newark
Notts
NG23 7NP
info@cat-asylum.com
http://cat-asylum.com/
More... (http://barclayperkins.blogspot.com/2023/08/collingham.html)
Do it yourself bacon sarnie again today. Not that I mind. It’s a pleasure to cook bacon on an eye-level grill. So much healthier, too. Why do continental cookers never feature them?
Dave has already made tea. And has French TV on again. A news channel, this time.
I have to break up my tea with a spoon, it’s so strong. Does the job, mind.
When the kids have dragged their sorry arses downstairs, we watch the Women’s World Cup Final. To be fair, Alexei wasn’t up that late. And looked human when he rose. Unlike Andrew, who’s in mumble mode again.
A ketamine and rum binge today, Andrew seems to have been on. For, at a rough estimate, six days. With maybe just a smidgin of 2CB on the edges. He has a wild, but subdued air.
“Tea, Andrew?”
“Ugh.”
“Is that a yes?”
“What do you think?”
“No?”
“Just pour me some tea and shut up.”
I love our morning interactions. Exactly why I became a father. Though, at least one of the kids is in a good mood. Or, at least, inquisitive.
“When are we going to Spoons. Dad?” He’s been asking that since we arrived. Before, really. About a week before we left Amsterdam.
“Soon, Lexie, soon. We’ve still plenty of time.” Or maybe not.
After checking on the interweb, I notice that today is its final day. Better get there quick, before all the booze has gone. The plan is to eat at Spoons and then continue on to Collingham, the village about seven miles outside Newark where Henry has his Cat Asylum brewery.
Dave phones for a taxi. It takes a while to get through.
“Not too bad. It’s coming at quarter to four.” He reports.
“That’s crap. It’s only half past one.”
“Oh, I thought it was later.”
Yes, you senile old hippy. It’s a fucking hour later than you think. I only say that in my head. I hope. Dave hasn’t reacted. I must be in the clear.
Eventually, our taxi arrives. And whisks us to downtown Newark and Spoons (https://www.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/nottinghamshire/the-sir-john-arderne-newarkontrent).
We take the back way in. Where new estates have filled in all the fields between Balderton and town. Detached houses, but packed tightly together, with almost no gardens. Lovely. That’s typical of the new homes around here.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUO8H-SI21Zsgo9pi7s64c6QEMUrPjaXqGdPEInnqtLHejRXTZ1IAdLK EQN1ehvb6OhxVORKIC2TAgg0xJxmhMoIEVAPc71JJZnNWZXuWh 4Q9TUlcACoKwe6eNorxqdYyPNXKk9Bet1721s276CBGRiVmsF0 zJI9CQy0BkW8XtZ7iKSmhuvM-j8-e3JVY/w640-h502/last_day_of_Spoons_2.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUO8H-SI21Zsgo9pi7s64c6QEMUrPjaXqGdPEInnqtLHejRXTZ1IAdLK EQN1ehvb6OhxVORKIC2TAgg0xJxmhMoIEVAPc71JJZnNWZXuWh 4Q9TUlcACoKwe6eNorxqdYyPNXKk9Bet1721s276CBGRiVmsF0 zJI9CQy0BkW8XtZ7iKSmhuvM-j8-e3JVY/s2729/last_day_of_Spoons_2.jpg)
Spoons is reasonably busy, but not packed. Obviously, there’s no cask. Hardly anything on draught at all. The kids are lucky: there’s still some cider. I have to make do with whisky.
The kids haven’t had lunch. Or breakfast, in Andrew’s case, and are hungry. But there’s hardly any food, either. Not really a surprise, I suppose, just a few hours before they close their doors forever. Luckily, they still have burgers. Both get one with chips. Nothing left tickles my fancy.
The fun begins when we try to get a taxi to Henry’s. Nothing doing with the numbers we call. Henry suggests that we try the rank by the stabby club.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjU1yBwKPtAfx7-GOPGoXwiyFIPMFJeOe0aZzg2EOD4dMcCAfQIC4QKaQljMrAI27 gDa-IfuRu5oevUnVyRhlFIJgt9fw52oVBTyMufJveESxyN-cRdGkffgOphrrw4sS1FDQyaxKXrkReUSAimVFVmJxGks15yNmO TWDTBWJvp-0NKrHJ4ywpfNtiUXU/w640-h480/Newark_market_place.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjU1yBwKPtAfx7-GOPGoXwiyFIPMFJeOe0aZzg2EOD4dMcCAfQIC4QKaQljMrAI27 gDa-IfuRu5oevUnVyRhlFIJgt9fw52oVBTyMufJveESxyN-cRdGkffgOphrrw4sS1FDQyaxKXrkReUSAimVFVmJxGks15yNmO TWDTBWJvp-0NKrHJ4ywpfNtiUXU/s4000/Newark_market_place.jpg)
After a quick walk through the deserted Sunday streets, we get to the rank. We’re in luck: there’s a lone taxi there. That’s relief.
“I thought we were going to have to walk.” I quip.
“Be serious. We remember how far it is.” Andrew replies. “I suppose we could get the train.”
“It’s still quite a walk from the station to Henry’s.”
“You could carry me piggyback.” Alexei suggests.
“I’d be radgebacked before we got two steps.”
“It would be funny, though, Dad.” Andrew interjects.
I’m starting to think the ungrateful gits are trying to hurry me on my way to perpetual oblivion. No, not another bender in Hong Kong. (I’ll never go for all-you-can-drink spirits again. The blood. So much blood. All mine, fortunately.) A permanent oblivion.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3mt4lL3h-6NVdHDplb3Q8jOP8RI-Ur-_Q1NU2XjtsdRVu43qJsuW0feI5-dqoQXLxv5xPEb5LJ8N8mjQWFWXbTo_SGpqN60wB-EnXBvGJ7NnqQcj21LLrHR4UQL26LGN1L9PNYKwGvxkLHMyrmDN wwcbiZ_87uq7ZyOSIQkrFDfE4dfYu73TaQ9Vftc/w640-h478/plough_workshop.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd3mt4lL3h-6NVdHDplb3Q8jOP8RI-Ur-_Q1NU2XjtsdRVu43qJsuW0feI5-dqoQXLxv5xPEb5LJ8N8mjQWFWXbTo_SGpqN60wB-EnXBvGJ7NnqQcj21LLrHR4UQL26LGN1L9PNYKwGvxkLHMyrmDN wwcbiZ_87uq7ZyOSIQkrFDfE4dfYu73TaQ9Vftc/s5764/plough_workshop.jpg)
The sun is still out and Henry is sitting in the garden with a few mates (http://cat-asylum.com/). Including Chris Cunningham, his salesman and general helper in the brewery.
Lounging outside as the fading sun bathes us in soft, orange light is very relaxing. Birds chirrup and dart across a cobalt-blue sky Then a lorry thunders by a few metres away. Rather spoiling the bucolic scene.
Aren’t villages were supposed to be quiet? The road running past the brewery isn’t exactly a major artery. And it’s a fucking Sunday evening.
I’m drinking a Stout. I’d tell you what it was called, but the bottles are unlabelled. Nice, that’s what it is. Don’t really give a toss what it’s called. Apologies for the totally useless tasting notes. I’m in holiday mode.
When the sun finally drops exhausted below the horizon, and the other visitors have fucked off, we resort to the tap room. That is, the plough workshop. As was.
Wow. He now has a proper bar counter. With casks stillaged behind it. And a proper cash register.
“This is looking scarily professional, Henry.” I remark.
“I thank you for your lack of faith.”
The contrary is true. I’m quite impressed by his current setup. But I’m not going to tell him that. What do you expect? I’m English. We don’t compliment each other unless we’re after a job or a shag. Except our children. Often, not even then.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsHQyw9aJhJ-Q7E-q7GSC2p57i6R7uPwGYdmf3kFjYXryjFv_3EKrE4u4kh0ko3bAi N6ww-TncKTXIJbbF_lysYUP-AxQ54zJCT918aYds7F-y0EergZtbgsLG44K3UZD6pHby-_a1vQlxsXy8QcMKcmV9diKKcxRIkjMra7THUgJz-IOFWJn9SDfpxc/w640-h476/Henry_in_action.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSsHQyw9aJhJ-Q7E-q7GSC2p57i6R7uPwGYdmf3kFjYXryjFv_3EKrE4u4kh0ko3bAi N6ww-TncKTXIJbbF_lysYUP-AxQ54zJCT918aYds7F-y0EergZtbgsLG44K3UZD6pHby-_a1vQlxsXy8QcMKcmV9diKKcxRIkjMra7THUgJz-IOFWJn9SDfpxc/s4019/Henry_in_action.jpg)
In a corner there’s a decibel meter.
“We have to be careful of the noise when the tap room is open. A neighbour complained and we need to make sure we keep below a certain level.”
Every time a lorry goes past, the decibel meter sprints into the forbidden zone. I guess they aren’t a nuisance for the neighbours.
No craziness today. On our other visits, everyone ended up totally plastered (http://barclayperkins.blogspot.com/2017/08/cat-asylum-here-we-come.html). Is today an improvement or a disprovement? Tomorrow will tell.
Despite my concerns – abject dread, really – we can get a taxi. We can all still walk and have our phones. It’s wins all around. No-one has lost any teeth, either. Or sustained any stab wounds. A really top day out.
We catch Dave before he goes to bed. The kids hacking into their slab, while I sip whisky in a sophisticated way.
“Is that a quadruple?” Andrew asks.
“More like an octuple.” Alexei ripostes.
“Can you two just fuck off and let ne enjoy my whisky?”
In unison: “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
The Sir John Arderne (https://www.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/nottinghamshire/the-sir-john-arderne-newarkontrent)
3 Church St,
Newark NG24 1DT.
Tel.: +44 1636 671334
https://www.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/nottinghamshire/the-sir-john-arderne-newarkontrent
The Cat Asylum Brewing Co (http://cat-asylum.com/)
12 Besthorpe Rd
Collingham
Newark
Notts
NG23 7NP
info@cat-asylum.com
http://cat-asylum.com/
More... (http://barclayperkins.blogspot.com/2023/08/collingham.html)