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After enjoying an energetic bike ride in the Bracknell area, some friends and I found ourselves looking for a nearby pub where we could enjoy a refreshing ale. Through the internet connection on a mobile phone we found directions to the nearest pub: The Golden Farmer.
We entered the Golden Farmer and found ourselves in the pool bar. Though, as indicated in womble’s review, the bar was without furniture or carpet, it was not altogether lacking in noticeable features, among them being several large St George’s flags and a crudely repaired window sporting a head-sized hole in its glass.
While we were taking in the details of our new surroundings, the local patrons of the Golden Farmer took a moment to pause from their conversations to observe us, their new companions. The volume of their banter noticeably dropped. To be fair, we must have looked a little strange with our mixture of regular winter clothing and mud-spattered cycling gear. I don’t believe the Golden Farmer has a dress code per se, but if it had one, it would veer closer to football shirts than to soggy cycling tights.
Our minds turned to the pressing issue of refreshment and we surveyed the range of beers available. A battery of taps offered the standard fare of Kronenbourg, John Smith’s and Strongbow. Our collective ale-loving hearts sank until the friendly landlord informed us of a lone pump in the adjacent lounge bar that dispensed IPA. Our spirits raised and our mouths watered as the amenable barkeep brought our brimming pints from the lounge bar to the pool bar, his many gold bracelets jangling as he ferried our glasses back and forth.
Having sampled the ambiance of the pool bar, we decided to adjourn to the lounge bar in the hope of finding seating for our exhausted group. We begged the pardon of several patrons as we squeezed past toward the lounge. As we shuffled through, we noticed that the broken window we saw earlier was a recurring feature of the fenestration, with virtually every pane in the pub’s façade displaying evidence of forceful interaction. Crazed shards of glass were secured in place by a kind of industrial cling-film, giving no indication as to whether the damage had been inflicted from inside or outside the pub.
We took a seat in the lounge bar beneath the enormous widescreen TV showing the Arsenal vs. Chelsea game. We tucked into an enormous pile of crisps – the only food available with which to satisfy our hunger.
A voice from a nearby table called across to ask us of our allegiance to either of the two sides in the north London derby. One of our number declared an enthusiasm for Arsenal and our neighbour seemed satisfied.
The atmosphere in the lounge bar was noticeably more comfortable than in the pool bar, with marginally more homely décor. A pastoral scene was depicted through the medium of a charming jigsaw, completed, framed and hung on the wall. Helpful notices suggested appropriate behaviour with regard to dogs (always on leads, please) and children (always in seats, please).
There are broadly two kinds of pub in England. Ones that hold a weekly meat raffle, and ones that do not. We quickly learned to which of the two categories the Golden Farmer belongs as a smartly dressed lady appeared at our table clutching a book of raffle tickets. We politely declined her offer and she took to a makeshift podium in the corner of the bar.
It was then that the shouting started.
I say shouting. I think it was shouting. A series of numbers were vocalised with a volume and screeching ferocity that seemed to bear no relation to the physical size of either the landlady or indeed the room, and caused immediate alarm to anyone not expecting such an aural onslaught. As each raffle ticket was drawn from a large plastic bowl, numbers were repeatedly bawled out with a tone and volume that filled the air. We were left in no doubt as to what had caused the widespread damage to the windows of the Golden Farmer.
As the series of numbers continued, each became harder to understand. After about five minutes, the shouting stopped and a final cry was issued – a plaintive wail reminiscent of the death throes of a walrus being savaged by shark. The experience left us shaken, but fascinated.
Though the Golden Farmer was not the exact kind of pub we sought, it obviously satisfied our needs, as we stayed for two rounds of drinks and another pile of assorted crisps.
We will certainly be riding our bikes in the Bracknell area again. Whether or not we return to the Golden Farmer will depend on our thirst, our attire and our chances of winning a bag of lamb chops in the meat raffle.
— Clive Andrews’ review of The Golden Farmer
