THE MAGNET

I’m heading down the A6 towards Manchester on a mission. I’m laden with a wonky-wheeled suitcase and a Kaft Sulphur canvas satchel. It is a dreary day, overcast with the faint threat of drizzle. My destination is a pub perched on Wellington Road, that despite being born and raised in Stockport, I’ve waited until the age of 32 to step foot inside.

My target is described glowingly by beer writer Matthew Curtis:

“You’ll know it’s time to alight {from the 192 bus} once you spot its characteristic white-and-sage-green-painted facade, with the national railway line directly behind, allowing trains to pass regularly over the Stockport Viaduct”

The book in which the excerpt is written, ‘Manchester’s best beer pubs and bars’ recently celebrated its first year of being in print. On my approach, however, the facade is sequestered behind a veil of scaffolding - I very nearly miss it entirely.

That’s not a good start.

With beauty shots of the exterior off the table I drag my luggage over the threshold and am presented with a choice of two doors - port and starboard. I choose to bear right and enter into a room not a million miles away from the floorplan of the bridge of a Galaxy class starship, if some Ferengi had been minded to turn it into a late 20th century public house and knock through the LCARS laden back wall, extending into the observation lounge.

To my left is a small serving bar with a few keg taps and a collection of hand-pulls - the majority of the bar is in the room I decided against. I look around briefly to see if there is any space, then turn towards the bar. A barman, who seems miserable to be here, points up at a television on the wall. “Beers are up there”. I’m not quite at the ordering stage but I nod as thanks and have a quick glance before going back to assessing the room.

The interior is a maze of nooks and crannies comprising plushly furnished banquettes upholstered variously in autumnal leaf patterned fabric to the right, and a sage and scarlet tartan number on the left. Directly forward are some steps leading onto a balcony of sorts that seemingly expands outward from where the exterior walls should permit. We’ve gone from the starship Enterprise to the TARDIS in just a few steps. Further on from this are various other rooms, all upholstered in similar patterns to the ones down below, but in varying colours.

The pub is packed, an impressive feat for the biggest pub visited on this calm Sunday afternoon. My scout around the pub confirms, what deep down, I already knew; It’s standing room only.

I’ve come here on a mission to film the pub’s interior. Not only is it busy with wall-to-wall punters, but a substantive number of those present are children. English licensing is another world, and seeing as this pub is showing its colours as a family friendly venue, sans kitchen, I can begin to understand the animosity of English tourists in my neck of the woods when I must turn them, and their under 18 year old away from my own public house.

I reckon I’m scuppered. There’s no way I can film in a pub this busy! The thought of abandoning this one comes to mind when suddenly - an idea! I can write! And narrate! In fact I have an MA in English from The University of Aberdeen - I’m professionally certified to read and write! What a clever sausage I am! From the sulphur satchel comes the Silvine Pocket and a Lamy Safari, also in yellow. The mission is back on!

The magnet lives and breathes beer - the dizzying array of pints on cask and keg include:

*A pale ale from Sonoma

* A cask pale from Eyam, named for the Black Death.

*And somehow, a Bathams bitter!

I’ve just noticed that last one. I’m currently sipping on a pumpkin spiced porter from Wakey Wakey Brew called ‘Nightmare before Xmas’. Bathams, however, is the stuff of legend in its native Black Country and is as rare as hens teeth. Despite having another pub to visit, I decide I’m staying for one more.

Adorning the walls of the pub are framed examples of brewing ephemera - in one, an example from Bank Top Brewery advertising a cask blonde ale, with the sultry depiction of a fair skinned blonde bedecked in primrose satin. Sex sells, even rendered in Gouache. To the right of our fair-haired maiden is an arch in the wall, and through that is another framed print, this time more modern - an advert for the Deya x Magnet tap takeover, promising ten lines and exclusive beers. The juxtaposition of old and new sends a clear message - The Magnet has been here a long time (the building dates from 1840, back when it was a coaching inn) and plans on being here for a long time still.

I’m about half the way through my tulip glass of pumpkin beer, and I’m not loving life. Pumpkin spice may have been the goal but Tesco Value Cola is what they ultimately landed on.

“I WANNA FUCK MY MUM!”

comes a shout from an adjacent table. To my relief, it seems to be a conversation about Freudian psychology.

I’m struggling with this stout now. I love a bullshit beer, me, but I’m close to admitting defeat and calling it.

“You fucking did have curtains when I met you!”

“Nah, I didn’t!”

The argument has moved on.

I knock back the last of my Smartprice cola and head to the bar for the forbidden second half. Disaster! I see from my side of the island bar that the pump clip for Bathams has turned to face me - indicating the many patrons of this pub have since drained the cask of its contents. Coupled with the fact that the already crowded population of the Magnet seems only to have increased since I walked in, a prompt line clean and replacement, seems unlikely.

This is beginning to feel personal. It’s almost like the pub itself is going out of its way to scupper my plans to sing its virtues. To be fair, looking one last time around the bar, it doesn’t look like the Magnet needs any help from the likes of me.