Okay, so that title is supposed to be based on former Oxford Utd flair player Joey Beauchamp, always great for me on Championship Manager '93 but frustratingly injury prone. Not really worth it when you have to explain it is it?
|An odd but enjoyable breakfast|
So here we were, my final day down in Essex and everyone's favourite pub ticker and one of the world's nicest humans, Martin Taylor had kindly agreed to help me mop up some obscure rural outliers.
The sun was beating down hard. He gave me the exact co-ordinates to the back of an industrial estate nearby (a bit like something the OCG would do on Line of Duty). He ambushes me and rather than extracting my fingers with pliers, drives us in a Belchamperly direction.
Essex was greening up quicker than Bruce Banner when his milk's gone off, and it would get even better .....
It doesn't get much more obscure than Belchamp Otten. Even with all the technology in the world at our fingertips, it was a bugger to find, leading us to MARVEL at those early-days GBG tickers, before smartphones were a thing.
Arriving at 11:55am, the pub resplendent in pink ......
|OI, COME BACK!|
|Martin about to take some great pub photos|
|Nice isn't it?|
|Incredibly good quality pint|
|Alright pal, nothing to see here, get back to your pint|
Bit of an intimidating entrance at Half Moon, Belchamp St Paul (1846 / 3275) with rusty ancient farming implements on the walls, enough to make your genitalia ache, but again, that could be the eggs and spinach on further reflection. Considering there's MUCH food going on, I'm greeted warmly in that 'thank goodness for simple customers like you' (oi, who are you calling simple?) I notice what a fabulous old musty smell the pub has, one that any amount of 2021 cooking cannot cut through! In fact, the whole pub has a bygone joyfulness. Even more remarkable when you consider the group of elderly flappers behind me. The huge blackboard of specials is causing them problems. The man wants sausage & mash. "But we had it only last night!" squeals his wife. "Oh ... oh yes, I suppose we did....... Haddock?" he replies, with the air of a man who has spent a lifetime keeping the peace with his other half. She eventually replies she feels a haddock/headache coming on. But the problems aren't over yet, as the more elderly crones in their group can't read the blackboard, and don't know if they are allowed to stand up and go closer. I suddenly notice my 27.5 mins is up. 2.5 mins to have a wee, return my glass (illegal?), thank the staff, and find Martin.
|Tell me a worse pub name, I'll wait|