The Oddfellows Arms, Stoke-On-Trent

Whacky place in a town that had the Roysten Vaseys about it. The interior, which smelt of boiled cabbages and farts, was freezing cold. Décor was turquoise and red walls (in striking tones), set over in a lower case h-shape interior. A plethora of Marilyn Monroe stuff to look at, JFK would be impressed. No staff in situ, had to holler for service. After receiving a pretty pitiful Cross Bay Nightfall he disappeared again, via shouting at the one other customer for having the temerity to plug he phone into a socket for a quick boost. On heading to the bogs (which looked like they were still decorated for Halloween, expect that the spiders and cobwebs were actually real) I passed a slow cooker, presumably doing Houdini’s lunch which explained the fart smells. I won’t mention the random woman who appeared from upstairs later on who didn’t appear to have anything to do with the pub (I was hoping it was the cleaner for the gents), or the implement behind the bar that looked like it was being stored for the local Triads. It was an experience here that I won’t forget in a hurry, not that I wish to repeat it. 1.5