About

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From the moment I stumbled out of my first pub and fell into a bush after four pints of Tennants Extra, I’ve had a taste for beers and boozers.

I’ve sampled delightful drinking dens and dreadful dives the length and breadth of the country from Cardiff to Croydon and Weymouth to Whitby.

Yes, you heard right, I did say Croydon.

These days drinking sessions tend to last a lot longer than four pints and my tastes are somewhat more refined, prefering a Cocky Blonde or a Bishops Finger than a glass of fizzy pop some folk like to call lager.

I don’t deliberately set out to be controversial or overly nice in my reviews, but if a boozer deserves a pounding or praise then I’ll say so.

Ultimately, my reviews are written to reflect the visit I made to a pub on that particular day, night or, in some cases, morning.

Whether you’re part of the flock which follows Shepherd Neame or a member of the quirky crowd bewitched by Wychwood then you’ll find a wide selection of beers and breweries mentioned on this site.

I don’t profess to be a real ale expert, but I know what I like and I hope to learn a lot more through these pages about the stuff that has brought me highlights and hangovers over the years.

The InnSpectre reviews…

The Ship and Shovell has an area called The Snug which consists of a table and two chairs at the top of a small staircase. It provides the ideal place for two lovers to gaze into each others’ eyes and have a blazing row in private – a point well worth remembering the next time you and the missus have one of those make-or-break chats.

The Lion Inn, Blakey Ridge is surrounded by the beauty, peace and tranquility of the North Yorkshire Moors and this is what lures me back time after time. It’s where I come to escape the rat race and the wretched rodents who compete in it.

A young barman at the King’s Head in Deal came right over to me and played the spoons to an impressive standard before wowing his audience by drinking beer from his shoe. Once the applause died down the lad jumped on a table where he danced with a blonde female colleague.

The barman at the Windsor Castle in Clapham could barely take his eyes off television coverage of the horse racing and pulled my pint with about as much vim and vigour as a donkey being led to the glue factory.