The
Cartwheel Pub:
Recently
I travelled to the Cartwheel pub in Bristol. I had read the reviews
and it seemed like a very attractive pub with a friendly ambience. At
least, that is what the reviews were telling me. However, having been
to the pub I can say with complete confidence that those four star
reviews were utterly wrong and I think that the people who wrote
these reviews must have had one too many. That is the only
explanation I can find as to why they were so blinded.
I
stepped into the pub to find that the lights were switched off and
the daylight did its best to filter in through the layers of filth
that had amalgamated onto the window. The distorted sunlight that did
manage to come into the dark pub hit peoples' faces at strange
angles. It seemed like a thriller night in April due to the concave
cheeks of most of the drinkers.
Once
inside the pub, I noticed that the distorted sunlight was only a
quarter of the problem. The air looked thick and as grimy as the
windows. I inhaled and instantly got a whiff of unpleasant body odour
that filled the atmosphere, whilst the disgusting stench of
cigarettes wafted from the leather seats, that were situated around
the room, and hit me like a bulldozer. A corpulent being struggled
in through the back door. His yellow face matched the walls. To be
honest he could have done with one less spare tyre. Layers of far
from his colossal stomach hung over his grey jogging bottoms and his
belly wobbled as he shuffled his feet across the wooden floor. He
wiped his hands over his stubbly chin and greeted his friends with an
inaudible sound. His friends emulated this sound. They looked worn
and weathered, possible due to a tsunami of work. The fat man and his
friends gathered around the glowing remnants of a fire that sat
opposite the bar, whilst the flames cast grotesque shadows of the men
on the maroon, cracked and broken and ceiling.
At
the bar, an old barmaid pulled a pint of Guinness for a hefty biker
type that had large, artistic and brightly coloured tattoos
slithering up his muscular arms, hissing at anyone who tried to talk
to him whilst he was having some quality time with his drink. His
leather jacket lay forgotten on the stool next to him and he let out
a vociferous sound after gulping down his Guinness in five seconds
flat. An impressive record.
The
chattering among the drinkers was shattered as a screech from a
wannabe pop star took to the stage in an attempt to provide the
drinkers with some entertainment. I remember wondering whether I
should get her kicked off the stage. I was half wiling to go up on
the stage myself and replace her act. Anything to stop the atrocious
sound that was penetrating my ears and the ears of everyone else in
the room. Many people seemed in awe that someone could even sound
that bad. With the shock of the sound, everyone turned their heads
momentarily towards the singer and the commotion that came with her
entrance. They all soon ignored the bellowing singer, taking more
interest in the various assortments of drinks.
In
the corner of the pub was a battered pool table that was standing on
his last legs. A couple of middle aged blokes stood around the table.
Pool balls replaced their pupils, as a result of staring at them so
much. One of the guys eventually lined up a shot and the speckled
balls hit each other with such ferocity that they spiralled out of
control over the green ocean as if the slightest touch burned their
skins.
To
the side of the pool table were a bunch of arcade games which stood
proudly. Their gleam invites people in, like meat to a pack of
perished and snarling wolves, to have a go and rid them of the
jackpot inside. Their flashing lights and occasional chorus of music
is their way of taunting and laughing at all of the punters who have
tried and failed to gain some money from these machines.
This
was different from most of the pubs I have been to. In the fact that
other pubs have pine tables, bright halogen lights, fake ornamental
plants, cool air conditioning and a smell of coffee that hits you as
soon as you set foot inside of the pub, not the smell of body odour
and foul cigarettes.
Despite
not wanting to stay, my mouth was very dry so I decided to try a pint
of their Guinness that the biker guy had enjoyed so much. Even though
the stools by the bar looked rather tatty I must say that they were
surprisingly comfy. The old barmaid and I exchanged pleasantries
whilst she was pulling me a pint. Once she has handed over a pint in
exchange for £3.50, I took an eager sip. I suddenly knew why the
biker was making those sounds and I can take an educated guess as to
why this pub got a four star review. If this review was based only on
the drinks, I would give it a five.
So
despite being grimy and tatty, the singers not doing their jobs and
the horrible smell, the Cartwheel pub has promise due to its fine
drinks and staff.
This
pub gets three out of five stars.
***
915
words
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