The Poacher’s Arms: A Place for All
It doesn’t matter that the future of the pub may be dying out to make way for dance bars and nightclubs, I will always find home in one pub that will never leave me: the Poacher’s Arms.
This is your classic pub of yesteryear: a basement bar with dim lights, dart boards in the corner, sticky floors and tables, cold beer, and surly bartenders; everything you can ever ask for in a pub.
I’ve been coming to this dank watering hole for almost fifteen years, and it never gets old. Whether it’s for a night out with friends or a Sunday afternoon watching football, nothing is better than “The Poach”.
My favourite times are after watching a great match on a Sunday, I get up to leave and get blinded by the repugnant natural light from that evil object in the sky, the Sun. I usually quickly make a U-turn and go back for “just one more” so that my nemesis in the sky can have time to retreat by into the heavens.
The Poach is the only place that my wife doesn’t mind me going to. She knows that this blessed drinking hole is my salvation from the dregs of the world; from the stress of everyday life. In fact, she mostly joins me on my journeys, where she’ll usually drink me under the table.
But the greatest thing about The Poach is the staff. Their traditional surly ways always puts a smile on my face. Oh how I am sick of seeing sexy barkeeps ineptly pouring my pint while they are waiting for their next botox appointment. Go back to the nightclubs, you strumpet! That’s why the ugly, grumpy barkeeps at The Poach receive my highest praise: a bartender does not have to be beautiful to do their job; they have to be able to pour a drink!
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