The Divine Comedy Song ‘National Express’ is, in case you didn’t know, about busses (or coaches if you’re being pedantic) but, before you worry that I’m branching out, it’s not that bit of the song which comes to mind when musing on how I feel about this pub. See instead:

‘All human life is here, from the feeble old dear to the screaming child’

Now, normally where non-adult humans or ‘children’ come up in my reviews you can be assured that I’m about to administer a right old slagging. On this occasion though you’d be dead wrong. This establishment successfully treads a delicate line of being a chaotic melting point of local humanity and a perfect people watching spot. 

The sentiment I’m trying to convey here is similar to that of the opening scene of the stalker venerating Richard Curtis film ‘Love Actually’ where a voiceover by a man who turns out to be the Prime Minister (seriously) bangs on about watching people being reunited in airports and how nice that is. Unfortunately I am not the Prime Minister and am certainly not a stalker but there is something to be said for being amongst merry groups of people coming together in a great big pub which is surely better than hanging about for a similar fix in a loathsome airport.. 

Moving on from it’s cornucopia of patrons; Worsley Old Hall is fucking massive. It is a tardis of a pub that just seems to keep on going, which is hardly surprising given that it was once a stately home and has been added to and morphed over literal centuries. As a result this rambling old manse manages to cater pretty much to anyone and any reason for going there at any time. 

Going in for a quiet pint? Sit by the fire or an out of the way spot in the also ‘fucking massive’ and extremely picturesque beer garden. There with a group or a family? Loads of big tables to crowd around. Fancy a proper meal? Generous dining rooms. The sheer size and versatility of the many spaces absorbs all into the depths of this brilliant old boozer.

I’ll also readily point out that it is a deeply pleasant space to be in. Remove the trappings of its current incarnation as a pub and you’d need to do very little to use it as a set for one of those dramas where everyone is wearing far too many layers of frilly lace and the ladies go ‘oooo’ when someone flashes a sexy ankle. If you tear your beak out of your phone there are some superb hidden curios and fragments of local history to be discovered across most of the walls. 

Whilst there is no ‘jolly hostess serving crisps and tea’ there is, as you’d expect, a bar, and a cracking one at that. Dominating the centre of the main room is a full circle of gloriously polished wooden bar top upon which you’ll find around ten guest beers and behind which you’ll find an array of spirits that would make a ghost hunter go weak at the knees (different spirits I know but I do seriously suspect if anywhere is haunted this place is so that joke sort of works). I’ve never taken the time to check if any of the staff has an ‘arse the size of a small country’ but if ample posteriors are your thing then I’m confident you’ll find something your liking amongst the patrons; Worsley is not short of wobbly bottoms. 

So what don’t I like? Not much. The food, aside from Sunday roasts, often falls a little short of the mark (an older companion once eloquently described it as ‘shite’ but she is almost certainly insane so take that with a pinch of salt) but that’s seldom enough to condemn an establishment in my view. What is tangential to that is that far too much space is given over solely to dining. I’d love to see some of the side rooms make way just to casual drinkers when it’s quieter. 

So. When you’re sad and feeling blue, with nothing better to do, don’t just sit there feeling stressed, take a trip on the National Express  to Worsley Old Hall. It’s a banger. Just don’t go by coach as they’re bloody horrible.