Normally I would have rather have hacked me head off with a teaspoon.
But the Pub Column was caught off guard when Lady Penelope of Pensby made a request recently to which Yours Truly readily agreed.

What I’d thought she’d said was how about a skinfull followed by a vindaloo down the Asha on Bold Street?
In reality the agreement was to an afternoon inspecting the Secret Gardens of that well-to-do niche of Wirral, Oxton.
“The horror! The horror!� as Marlon Brando/Colonel Kurtz was wont to murmur.
This is because when I set foot in any of the posher parts of Wirral some sort of subliminal early warning system seems to kick in with the residents. It isn’t paranoia - you know it’s not imagination when the chintz curtain twitches as you pass a picturesque cottage in which the occupier(s) is/are on alert fearful that a) you’ve come to steal their collection of 19th century tea caddies or b) violate their pig-tailed daughter, Matilda.
I’m always tempted to put that old Doddy joke into action march up to their front door knock and announce: “What a day missus, what a day, for saying the Martians have landed!� then ram a giant cucumber through the letterbox.
As it turned out this venture into the back gardens of Wirral’s great and good was an entertaining experience especially when Lady lowered the tone in accepted terms of Wirralian gentility by yelping excitedly: “OOOOOO, look at the size of the stem on that!!!� while examining an especially large garden specimen.
The only problem was that it rained. And rained.
This, however, provided the perfect excuse for alcohol and refuge.
We found it at The Shrewsbury Arms. Run for four years by Ronnie and Stephanie Karlsen it doesn’t just take a rainstorm to pack this place out. We’ve been in a couple of times since, at different hours of the day, and there has always been a healthy, friendly, crowd in here. The food is good, the service cheerful, there is a superb sun trap of a beer garden out front and there are always five cask ales to choose from: a staple diet of Tetleys Cains and Theakston and two guests. On this the Pub Column’s first visit Yours Truly chose one of the latter a perfectly kept pint of Holts’ Fifth Sense, a delicate but strong amber coloured ale with light foam head, which was slightly sweet and refreshing. Locally-born Ronnie is proud of the beer quality which has won it Casque Marque approval and Cellar Person of the Year 2005 award out of 2,000 other Spirit Group pubs.
Quite why then there should be disparaging, snooty, albeit hilarious, reviews about the pub on the beerintheevening.com website is a puzzle. The Shrew is separately described as being a haven for “ignorant Scouse gits�, a “carpeted drinking shed� and a “thoroughly unpleasant, borderline disorderly pub.�
We saw nothing of this and Ronnie believes that the pub’s popularity has worked against it with some former regulars who preferred it as an allegedly quiet, but rather cliquey, local where the great unwashed were kept at bay. Lady Penelope believes that the comments may also have something to do with the aforementioned curtain-twitchers loyal to an ex- landlady who ruled the place with a rod of iron. For instance her brother Carl was once threatened with barring for the cardinal sin of, er, laughing and the Lady herself refused entry for being dressed as an Egyptian Mummy (as you do).
Under Ronnie’s tenure laughing, Mummies and Martians are allowed, which is all very fine by me.

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