You must be getting sick of the Pub Column saying that we live in dee best place in dee werld!
Well, we do doe don’t we?
This thought came to mind once again while on another trip to see Lady Penelope of Pensby and pop in on the Magazine pub in Wallasey.

The last visit to this marvellous 18th century boozer was in the dead of winter five years ago when Yours Truly was in Echo Pub Column incarnation. Accompanied by occasional PC corporal The Tyke we were joined by the Barry The Bastard for a pint or five. By way of explaination for Barry’s monicker it was on pint four when we asked how far it was to the Seacombe Ferry back to the ‘Pool. Our mischievous companion blithely replied that it was less than 10 minutes away. What he failed to explain was that was how long it took pedalling to the landing stage at Chris Boardman-like speed and not on foot. Consequently we missed the last boat and spent over an hour walking through the freezing sleet to Birkenhead bus station.
This time though it was a gorgeous early summer’s evening and the contrast was pronounced
Sitting on the bench outside the Magazine’s front window we were able to see out between the flowering trees across Egremont Promenade over the sun dappled Mersey and ultimately to the Liverpool shoreline a beautiful view which I’d been deprived of by the bleak winter darkness five years before.
Inside, however, nothing had changed and the draught Bass was as sublime as before, with a light head supported by a clear amber body and a moreish sweetness to it that it makes one of the best pints on Earth when it is looked after properly.
Which it indisputedly is by the landlady Linda Hughes. Her care and the pub’s sandstone cellar ensures that not only is the Bass kept at a required temperature of between 52 and 54 degrees but so are the five fine other real ales too.
Besides the lovely beer, this alehouse is as near to a perfect traditional English boozer as you could possibly get.
Built in 1759 it takes its name from the arms storehouse that once stood nearby. Many of the regulars says Linda are old faithfuls who have completed a rites of passage from being introduced to their first pint as a lad by their Dads and are now, after nurturing families of their own, still here in their dotage.
It’s also got a fantastic brass encrusted traditional fireplace on which is a Latin inscription that translates as: “O rest a bit for ‘tis a rare place to rest at.�
But this revery was slightly tainted by the Lady’s insistence on relating a golden memory of her own and how Bowser, her much lamented Old English sheepdog, used to savour snuffling at the used condoms on the beach outside the former Chelsea Reach nightclub at New Brighton.
The magic was restored with the arrival outside of the Mersey Morris Men. In the ignorance of youth men who wore little bells on their socks, danced around like the Flower Pot Men waving sticks and wore blooms in their hats were to be sneered at. But that’s all changed now and there’s something about their ancient ritual which made you vaguely proud to be English as the sun went down.
The only thing missing was a capering nude Britt Ekland to top off another enchanting evening on Merseyside at another boss pub.
“Who could ever want to leave round here?� the Lady was asked to which she tartly replied: “I dunno. Go ask Cilla or Tarbie.�
Quite.

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