Secret Drinker

The Secret Drinker has tried his hardest to dodge reviewing a JD Wetherspoon pub since his column began — but now he’s broken his duck.

Stepping into the White Horse was like stepping back 40 years.

I’ve recently returned from one of those sunkissed foreign holidays where the price of a pint continues to make your jaw drop.

Age is just a number. And my visit to the Royal Oak is proof.

The Secret Drinker ventures to the edge of the Beermuda Triangle to visit a pub offering salvation to an area bereft of boozers…

As someone who had their first beer back when professional sportspeople necked pints on TV, I can remember the golden age of alcohol adverts.

A village pub has reopened, albeit with little fanfare. Our Secret Drinker went along to see how it was getting on.

If you can’t get to the beach, bring the beach to you.

I always thought those people who built pubs in their back gardens were a little odd.

You shouldn’t always trust your first impressions, but sometimes even I get things correct.

It’s been said that every day is a school day. Well, I left this pub learning two vital pieces of information.

A microbrewery at a renovated windmill, you say? I’d be crazy not to check this out.

I’m going to have to start with the menu. Oh yes, the menu.

I may have learned a valuable lesson in the Great British understatement.

The first thing you notice about this pub is the sheer enormity of the place.

I suppose heading to the pub is pretty similar to going to the football - it’s always more in hope than expectation.

There’s always been something comforting about walking into a pub and being greeted by shelves and shelves of silverware.

A busy car park is usually a good indicator that you’re about to head into a decent pub.

If I had a pound for every time I heard someone say politics should be kept out of football I’d have enough dosh to pay Man City’s legal bills.

A person can live or die by their decisions at the jukebox.