Judge of our relief, having traipsed panting from the Yellow House to the Revels, servers of sickly sweet Guinness, to discover that this faraway haunt is wont to dole out a decent Beamish (which thoroughly settled Sam Coll's nerves, following the previous twitchy display of hypertension in the preceding joints). On the day in question, it was well nigh impossible to be served amid the bullish crowd thronging the trough of the bar – the voluminous backroom lounge proved a modicum more stately. Pronounced ‘Bug’lers – as in stomach ‘bug,’ FACT! Extensive beer garden was added in covid times where prohibitively expensive chickens spin upon spit roast for those with too much money and a predilection for finger-licking.

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