No. 80 Number Fifteen

This isn’t a traditional pub – it was opened in the 1990s as an Oirish bar at the height of that particular fashion, but has since had the Oirishness extracted, to be replaced by, well, nothing really. It’s massive and was completely empty when we arrived, apart from a world-weary, half-cut, half mad, middle-aged couple who’d obviously just had a row and were sitting there staring at each other. Good atmosphere all round. Real ale isn’t served, so we drank tasteless brownkeg of some description and left. I wouldn’t say this place is bad – just sort of ‘ersatz’ and nondescript. Probably does all it’s trade at the weekends and on race days. 

No. 79 Revolution

Visited on 25/8/11. Socialist iconography being used to promote a brand. Old Vladimir Ilyich would be turning in his grave – if he were in one that is. Anyhow, there’s one of these in every town now, and they’re all the same. Like a neon sweetshop dispensing syrupy shots and pitchers of alcopops to adolescents, this is what places like ‘the amphitheatre bar’ (No. 76) aspire to. It’s different to the aforementioned in that it’s slick and smart though – something even a bunch of ageing grizzled misanthropes can appreciate. For comedy purposes, we asked what the guest ale was, to which the comedy answer should have been “Bacardi Breezers” or summat, instead of “We don’t do them !” Oh, really ? We then had to go through the rigmarole of ‘tossers night’, for which you get a half price round if you win the toss of a coin. We lost. Tetley’s ‘Smoothflow’ is the closest thing to ale that they sell, so that’s what we went for. It’s frothy man. Of course, for anyone interested, the place is packed with scantily clad babes. Not that we were about to be distracted from our mission, naturally. Two hours later, it was time to move on…

No. 78 The Queen's Head

Visited on 25/8/11. Given its ‘colourful’ reputation, this big old pub on Foregate Street is surprisingly tidy inside. In fact it doesn’t look that dissimilar to some of the more upmarket Chester hang-outs such as Harkers (No. 36). The main difference as far as I could see was the complete absence of paying customers, so not for the first time on a Thursday night, we found ourselves occupying an otherwise empty pub. A fine array of one real ale was on offer – Wells Bombardier. It was very er, ‘Bombardiery’. I don’t know whether or not it’s catching on but this pub is the second we’ve encountered that has an ‘obesity challenge’ on the menu. Consume the signature ‘Mega-death Cholesterol Special’, consisting of 4 quarter pound burgers, 2 chicken breasts, 4 rashers of bacon, 8 onion rings, half a dozen eggs and a leaf of iceberg lettuce – on a bun, in under 5 minutes and you can proudly add your name to the ‘wall of fame’ and qualify for a free pudding. We gave it a miss. Food is probably a key income stream for this place though. Also, entertainment is provided at the weekends. This Saturday they’ve got ‘Dubstep vs. Drum ‘n’ Bass’ according to the posters. I’m not sure if that’s some sort of discotheque type affair or tag team wrestling.

No. 77 The Red Door

Visited on 18/8/11. ‘The amphitheatre bar’ was supposed to be the last venue of the night, but we couldn’t leave it at such a low point. We needed to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Situated in the basement of the Blossoms hotel, ‘the Red Door’ is ‘the Snooty Fox’ re-invented as a cool New York style jazz bar. Without the jazz it would seem. Live music was on, but it was just a couple of yoofs playing Smiths songs and other jangly guitar stuff. They weren’t bad to be fair. The seating is in leatherette booths around a rectangular bar in the middle of the room and the lights are very low. The place seemed to be populated mainly by be-suited business types, who were presumably staying in the hotel upstairs and flexing the old company plastic. The atmosphere was ok, but only bottled ale was available, which is a bit of a shame. As was the friggin’ price. I quite like Samuel Adams beer, but four English pounds per single bottle !? Take a one-way ticket to Palookaville suckers !

No. 76 The Amphitheatre bar

Visited on 18/8/11. The tone was set when we walked into this place and a fat slavering Ted Baker clad dickhead insisted on shaking each of us by the hand whilst babbling something incoherent. Apart from the bar staff, he was the only person there. Fortunately he then left, leaving behind a row of shot glasses, each containing a different coloured fluorescent milky residue. Not only did this place not sell real ale, it didn’t even sell keg bitter, so for the first time in about fifteen years I drank a pint of Carlsberg. It tasted of absolutely nothing whatsoever. It’d be possible to dilute the stuff by about 50% with soda water and nobody would be able to tell the difference. I’m not suggesting this place does, mind. It’s real raison d’etre is to pedal strong liquor sweetened with energy drinks and syrups in the form of shots and cocktails to kids. It’s the sale of alcohol, purely as a drug. And while traditional pubs continue to close, these kind of establishments continue to thrive. And the results of their cynical marketing are evident on our streets and in our casualty wards every weekend. People are handing over money in these places to be poisoned, and no better illustration of this exists than in the state of the gents bogs on this particular night. The first cubicle was festooned from floor to ceiling with projectile vomit. Dripping. No carrots. The staff knew about it as well because there was a mop and bucket stationed outside the door, although no attempt had been made to clean it up. Normally, I’d sympathise, but not on this occasion. For some reason, the pouting harridan behind the bar had treated us with contempt from the minute we walked in. I reckon ‘the Dee Miller’ (No. 71) can now stand at ease. If there’s a worse pub in Chester than this place, I’ll be astonished.

No. 75 The Temple bar (The City Arms)

Visited on 18/8/11. Heading into town from ‘the Oddfellows’ along Frodsham street, the next stop is this place. It used to be ‘the City Arms’ but changed it’s name to ‘the Temple bar’ after extensive refurbishment in the 1990s at the height of the ‘Oirish pub’ boom when for some reason, a butchered church interior including pulpit and confession box were installed. It’s hard to know what it’s called now as both names are still attached to the outside of the pub. Anyhow, the original theme has been dumped in favour of some sort of yoof orientated latin beach bar vibe. Possibly. I couldn’t quite work it out. Surprisingly though, two real ales were on offer. First of all we tried the Brains Reverend James, but sent it back because it was rancid. It was swapped for the other candidate, which was Spitting Feathers Solstice. This might have been on the turn also – but as with most Spitting Feathers ales, it’s often difficult to tell. Maybe we should have gone for a round of Guatemalan Caipirinhas or summat instead. 

No. 74 The Oddfellows Arms

Visited on 18/8/11. In it’s heyday I’m sure this was a charming old street corner pub. Over the years though, innumerable less than sympathetic refurbishments have obliterated all the original interior features and the décor now consists of plain white walls and plain black floors throughout. It’s a bit grim if you ask me, but it seems popular enough. There were certainly old drunks a-plenty in residence when we were there. Apparently the place goes ‘karaoke kerazy’ at the weekends an’ all. Sounds great that. The ale was alright - only Bombardier, but about as good as Bombardier gets. I wonder how many people from outside town arrive here, dolled up to the nines, instead of at ‘Oddfellows’ (No. 43) on Lower Bridge St. Anyone expecting ‘cosmopolitan, funky and sophisticated’ might feel a tad let down.