The first time I came here the barmaid waited until we had all decided on a drinks order before informing us that the place was shut. When I tried to find it again the other day my sense of direction, often described as akin to a homing pigeon with a SatNav glued to its brain, led me halfway to Formby. I think the gods were conspiring against me ever visiting. Since I eventually found it, I presume I defeated them.
Standing all alone at the top of a car park , the Pig and Whistle looks like either it was invulnerable to whatever catastrophe befell the space now left vacant, or it was grossly over-optimistic about the number of people who would be driving here. Inside, the pub is split into a traditional old boozer and a leather-chaired back room unnervingly close to the gents that looks like a dentist's waiting room. The atmosphere is one of curious depression and it won't be until I'm old and twisted beyond recognition with bitterness that I'll truly feel at home here. God I envy Future Me. read more