I used to live in an area of Bristol called Crew’s Hole, which was a valley tucked away on the outskirts of the city centre. There’s a pub, still there, called The Bull, and the landlord was an absolute legend. As I was young at the time, with a modest amount of drinking stamina, I was a regular at The Bull and was involved with much that went on in there for the years I was living there.
The first night I went into the Bull, it was packed. We’re talking 2005 so the pub trade was still alive at this point. There was a band playing, and so I squeezed into a spot at the end of the bar and got served. Being a lonesome newcomer I simply stood at the bar, drinking my pint and surveying my potentially new local; wall-mounted cigarette machine, two fruit machines, pool table, wide range of draught beers (I became a cider drinker again after 2010) and potential pussy dotted about the place – I have always been an optimist.
As I surveyed the place, I noticed a glass shelf about ten foot above the bar that had a range of glasses and trophies on it. The band’s bass was making these glasses tremble towards the edge of the shelf. So, being the good guy I try to be, I told the girl behind the bar, who then told her dad (the landlord) who spent the rest of the night smacking the glasses back with a big broom.
And so began my time at The Bull, the best pub I’ve ever been associated with.