Fishers Pond (Eastleigh)

John Keating (Dead Poets Society)

Oh Captain, my captain, this frigging writers’ block is doing my nut.

All that spiel to those dumb Yank kids, and I can’t even string a few lines together for this poxy gig.

Just look at that pub sign on the right there......

All I need is a bit of clever verse and I’ll be quids-in for a night out in London * f*ck Kew Gardens though; the only Flowers I’m interested in comes out of a tap *

I’ve been trying for hours but my efforts are lame.

“Do not go gentle into that good pub,
Rage, rage against the despicable smoking ban”

Too Dylan Thomas I reckon.

“We are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men
Leaning together; waiting to get served at the bloody bar”

That’s got potential, but I reckon Elliot might be turning in his grave.

The thing is, I’ve got to stick to the brief. And that means penning something that focuses on the cask summer ale. Truth is though, if I wanted ale I wouldn’t come to a place like the Fisher’s Pond for inspiration.

Firstly, it’s near Eastleigh, the geographical equivalent of a boil on the cusp of an anus – or Southampton as it’s known. Secondly, the Pond is a family gastro, which means it caters for those who think it’s classy to eat by an artificial river, not proper drinkers who down pint after pint.

Don’t get me wrong. Things could be a lot worse; it’s a boozer after all, and far from the worst I’ve been in. Yeah, it’s full of OAPs stuffing their faces with expensive gastro-tat and kids running amok outside, but that’s not unusual in pubs these days. And true, the service at the bar is truly woeful. But at least there’s plenty of space and the waterside drinking is pleasant enough – at least when the pub's empty.

But a drinking man’s pub this ain’t. If real ale was your thing, you’d certainly take a swerve. As for inspiration; it’s up there with a half hour in front of Heartbeat.

* sigh *

Bottom line; I doubt anything’s gonna come to me toda……… oh……hang on…...wait…..wait……what’s that outside. Inspiration! At last. I’ve got it; a real ale angle too:

Here goes:

The boy stood on the outside deck,
Ale-tray was all a-quiver,
A poet raised his hobnail boot,
Sends him into the fucking river.

Genius that. London here I come.

John Keating’s rating for the Fishers Pond 6 / 10

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  “,….. Why didn’t they live to be 100?Huh? Well, they woz running round all day, hunting mammoths, eating berries,..rumping their little hearts out. No boozing or smoking. They must have been fit as fiddles. Yer Neanderthalls……….I’ll tell you why, it’s … Continue reading →