“What the f***?!” Whilst I’m no prude, the use of profanity in public isn’t normally my thing. But if you’ve ever ventured into the Cross Key’s on a Monday night – I defy anyone not to mutter the same three words. From the outset the Cross Keys seems a good bet, a semi-historic venue, a stones throw away from the Minster but looks can be deceiving. Upon approaching the venue at around two minutes past seven (funny how you remember the little things when you feel you’re going to die) “Surely”, I thought “Nothing can possibly be that bad”. Boy was I wrong.
The layout of the pub – if you can get past the broken glass and overflowing ashtrays – isn’t too bad. A large horse-shoe shaped bar dominates (and divides) the bulk of the peculiar shaped room. I witnessed two groups of males at either side of the bar, glaring at each other over dirty pint glasses. Monday, as it turned out, was £1.50 a pint night. There are various other offers. A single vodka coke is a measly £1.50, as would a bottle of Carlsberg. But at what price? The so-called football thugs were whooping with delight when a woman closely resembling Dorian from Birds of a Feather staggered inside! So, if you don’t want to end up like Burt Reynolds in that movie Deliverance or spend an hour talking to some senile old guy about his rheumatism; avoid the Cross Keys. The risks far outweigh the rewards.