Reading
"In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame"
'The Ballad of Reading Gaol' - Oscar Wilde
Once a season we must go to Reading, chief town of the recently abolished county of Berkshire. This is not a place one would normally recommend visiting, were it not for the fact that once a season we play there, invariably on some inconvenient evening. It is one of those dreary London satellite towns utterly lacking in any intrinsic character. Reading is, however, a great place if you like roads: they've got 'em left, right and centre.
Elm Park had character, but now of course the Biscuitmen play at the entirely different kettle of fish that is the Madejski Stadium of Shite, a space-age ground stupidly plonked down in a field in the middle of nowhere. The first time we played there, in September 1998, the bloody thing hadn't actually been finished. Sure, the stands had been built, there was a pitch to play on and there were even the world's most expensive baguettes on sale at the snack bars, but can any ground be said to be finished if you can't get to it, or can't leave it once the game is over? On our second visit, we were pleased to note that they had at last got round to building a road that goes there. Hallelujah! We will, at least, never have to repeat that twenty minute slippery circumnavigation of muddy wasteland or the two hour queue to leave the car park that Burnley supporters endured that first night. Now you can even catch a bus back to, er, Reading, some miles distant, if you walk most of the way around the ground from the away end.
Best of all, and rather miraculously given the pong when we first visited, it no longer stinks of shit. The first time it was horribly whiffy, a fact that the travelling faithful were not slow to pick up on. But by November 1999, when we came here again for the most boring game of football ever, the stench had completely died away. The fact that we had come prepared with facemasks in preparation for the prospect of olfactory pollution was, therefore, a joke that died utterly on its arse. Ho hum.
One thing that hasn't changed, however, is that since this is an out-of-town ground (oh, those dread words) it is of course miles from anything resembling a pub. In fact the nearest we have found on our visits to date is one of those god-awful Harvester places, which indeed only approximately resembles a pub, and that at least twenty minutes' slog from the away end, apparently on Basingstoke Road. Don't know what the beer was like; that night we only used it to call a cab back to the nearest thing that passes for civilisation. The Madejski Stadium is also home to the 'Jazz Café'. Good grief.
Any drinking is therefore best concentrated on the area immediately around the centre, if you're comfortable with getting transport to the ground. Naturally enough, Reading confirms its status as an identikit southern town by boasting a clean sweep of chain pubs. If you're into Hobgoblins, Hogsheads, MacPaddy's pseudo-Irish Beerhouses and all the other sodding variations on McDonalds that masquerade as English pubs these days, then Reading will be heaven for you. They have at least three branches of Wetherspoon's, for starters.
Much of the beer will be the overrated Fuller's, or, if you're very unlucky, insipid Courage, which once was brewed here on its travels around the country; although you might get a pint of the Swindon-brewed Archer's if you're fortunate. Also note that many of the better Reading pubs are in the habit of closing in the afternoon, which is a little unfortunate for us, given that we always play there on an evening. Surely it's our turn for a Saturday one of these years? Best one was in August 2002, when, thanks to the Thames Valley police's inability to cope with a rock festival and a football match on two adjacent days, our abject defeat was shifted from public holiday Monday to inaccessible Tuesday. (And if that meant you couldn't get there, count yourself lucky.)
Several sources also suggest that central Reading pubs are nervous about football colours, and that if you're wearing any, you'll not get a drink. This is, of course, further evidence that Reading is essentially not a football town.
If you're coming by train, there are a couple of possibilities close to the station. It's a while since I've been in the Three Guineas, right by the station - September 1998, in fact, when it handily provided me with a swift and drinkable pint before the late train home. You can catch the bus to the ground from close to here.
Just across and down from the station, on Forbury Road, there's a Fuller's pub called the Corn Exchange. We drank hard here to alleviate the boredom of that dire match in November 1999. It's convenient, but this pub lacks soul, and always seems to be empty. It's a conversion of a rare interesting building in the town centre, but inside it's bland, and the people serving, although they've been different on each visit, generally seem a bit clueless. It's a Fuller's pub, so the beer is reliable if unexciting, with Chiswick, London Pride and ESB on sale. Use it for what it is - you're less than five minutes from your train when you drain your glass. Upstairs has been turned into an Italian restaurant, curiously enough.
Around the corner from here and into the town centre, the 3Bs was not my kind of place. It's a curious thing, though. This is a café inside the Town Hall. I found the room quite unappealing and characterless. Still, being reasonable about this, the last thing you'd expect a place like this to do is sell proper beer, and yet they had four handpumps. The range was evidently changeable and those on our visit were all from small breweries. I suppose you could compare it to Burnley Mechanics back when it was good, although less successful in execution. Unfortunately my pint was on the warm side and short of its best, while a friend's was cloudy. Worth knowing about if you happen to be around here, as otherwise it's chain bar central. One of the local Wetherspoon's is across the road.
It's a short step through shopping land to the Hobgoblin, on Broad Street. I don't much like Hobgoblin pubs, the people who drink in them or the Wychwood beers they sell. So, these aren't the sort of places I seek out. Nevertheless, we were walking past, so we called in, with low expectations. I was pleasantly surprised. This is obviously something of a local real ale flagship, and attractively un-Hobgoblin-like. It was a little, dark pub which sold a lot of beer. The evidence, in the form of the pump clips, adorned every available surface. On our visit, several entirely obscure beers were available. My only complaint would be that they were all of above average strength. While it's clear from the old pump clips that this isn't necessarily normal practice, it was a bit careless. Pubs offering several beers should always have something weaker to provide choice. But with that small proviso, definitely worth a look. There's a small outside drinking area, if you want to look at some chain shops while drinking.
Onwards to Castle Street and two stops that appeal. It's been a while since I made it in there, but the Horse and Jockey was an honest boozer, owned by (and thus unfortunately a stockist of) Greene King, but with some more tempting beers on offer. Bateman's XB went down well.
Thence to the Sweeney and Todd, about ten minutes down the road and past plenty of other pubs. Resist them, for the Sweeney and Todd is something special. With a name like that, you'd almost expect it to be one more ghastly themed house, but far from it. This place is strange. It's not even a pub at all. In fact, it's a rather upmarket pie shop, making classy pies with extraordinary fillings (lamb curry or Cajun chicken, anyone?) and with a little bar in the back selling proper beer. Go in, pass the takeaway counter, buy a pint at the café upstairs, then sit down and order a pie. Really, what could be more civilised? Get a takeaway to munch at half time if you fancy - it's cheaper than the food at the ground and at least you're not giving the objectionable Madejski your money. No visit to Reading can be complete without a pie and a pint from the Sweeney and Todd. It's so good, you can only wonder what the hell it's doing in Reading.
A little north of all this, on Friar Street, the Bugle was another disappointment, albeit different in nature. It was open, and it looked a small and interesting pub presided over by an elderly couple, but it had no beer whatsoever on offer. They had apparently been drunk dry by revellers at the Reading Festival the day before. It should have been Courage, so perhaps no great loss, but I liked the look of this place.
Across the roaring thoroughfare of Caversham Road, one place you might consider looking in on is the Butler, on Chatham Street. This place held host to the legendary Cheese Survey of 1994 (cheddar won, if you're interested) and is a large, standard and rather characterless - yes, that word again - Fuller's pub, converted from a former wine-merchant's.
At the other side of the town centre, still easily walkable, are some more options. The Eldon Arms, on Eldon Terrace, off King's Road, looked a nice pub. I say "looked", because it was shut when I tried to call in. It closes in the afternoons. They say they close at three. Well, I was there way before three and they were bloody shut, the miserable sods. Sells Wadworth's, allegedly.
A wiggle around Kings Road from here is probably the pick of the town's Wetherspoon's collection, the Back of Beyond. It's not bad, as these places go. Absolutely huge, of course, but at least the toilets are downstairs. Decent beer range on my August 2002 visit, mostly too strong as usual, but my pint was good. Service was friendly and there was the usual food menu, but the portions were large. Real odd mixture of people in here - it's on a tatty stretch of street - from rough looking geezers at the front to people who think they're somewhere posh at the back. It backs onto the canal, and there's a beer garden.
A couple of minutes closer to the centre, on this same road, is a Hogshead, if you're interested, with a little outside patio above the water. Time and instinct were against calling in.
Another place I liked was the Retreat (St John's Street, off Queen's Road). The Retreat was one of those places generally described as a basic, friendly boozer. This is a polite way of saying it was a dive; a decrepit, filthy joint where the locals came as though glued to the barstools and the toilets were best left uninvestigated if at all possible. In other words, recommended. Beers were a real mixture of stuff, too. I bet this place has been sanitised and made respectable since.
However, all the above merely represents a diversion from the irresistible charms of the Hop Leaf, Southampton Street. This pub is at the foot of the A33, which eventually fetches up somewhere near the ground, so a cab from here is a reasonable option. More interestingly, this is one of the few Hop Back pubs in existence, and for the cognoscenti no further explanation is required. Anyone who has ever been tempted by a pint of their glorious Summer Lightning, thankfully these days found widely in enlightened pubs, should note that this is but one of the Hop Back range, all of which are excellent, and all of which may be sampled here. I've got very woozy on the fantastic Entire Stout once or twice, but one of our more ambitious members once tried to work his way through all six Hop Back beers on sale. Sadly he fell one short.
The pub was once another one best described as basic, presided over by a formidable landlady with hair resembling that of 1980s Clarets striker Tony Hancock. She tolerated no nonsense. I once received a verbal warning from her for swearing three times. There would not be a fourth. But underneath that stern exterior lay a heart of gold, for this woman was our friend. She phoned six cabs for us. Would they all come? "They'll come. I've told them to," she replied. They came.
On our most recent visit, our stern friend would seem to have moved on and the pub had received a sympathetic tarting up. But the beer range was unchanged, and as good as ever. This is a glorious boozer. The best in town, bar none.
Serious drinkers with time on their hands might consider exiting the station in the wrong direction to have a look at pubs in nearby Caversham, but we've been there, done that, and got badly caught in the rush hour traffic, so it's not as smart as it seems. The Clifton Arms, on Gosbrook Road, was a nice pub, though, selling quality Brakspear's beers.
One other recommendation, from a Watford supporter, is to head over to the other side of the M4 from the ground to rural Berkshire, where the village of Three Mile Cross apparently has an excellent pub, the Swan.
As for getting to the ground, there's a wide range of confusing and contradictory information on the internet. There are bus services, but it would seem these are liable to change, so information on fans' guides might be out of date. I suppose we must trust the information available on the official Reading FC website. Best bet from Reading railway station would seem to be the 79 service.
I do hate this ground. To me, it's as characterless as most Reading pubs. You're served your expensive food by people with the Madejski Stadium logo on their shirts. You're not allowed to smoke, of course. And if you buy your ticket on the day instead of in advance, it costs two quid more. I'm in a minority here, but I don't even think the ground looks so great.
After the game, do what you can to get on one of the buses that go back to the station - sleep with the driver if necessary. Finish off in one of the pubs by the station, and above all, just be thankful you don't have to come here more than once a season.
Firmo (with thanks to Chris Stride)
Last visited: August 2002
Last updated: February 2004
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