“’Ow do?” says the middle-aged bouncer as I
enter the Admiral of the Humber pub. Very well actually, my good chap, is the
answer because this is Hull on a brisk but fair January day, and Sir Robert and
I are about to sample the local football.
For various (mostly happy) reasons, this
may be our last groundhop of the season together. So we’re determined to enjoy
it. As we’re coming from opposite ends of the country, the Admiral is our
meeting spot. A capacious tavern in the modern style, it is one of many fine
houses in the burgeoning empire of that enterprising fellow Mr J.D. Wetherspoon,
of whom you may have heard.
After pints are sunk we head off to locate
our hotel, which turns out to be in the middle of nowhere over the river from
the Old Town. It’s a Premier Inn, perched atop a mysteriously vast seven storey car
park. Who on earth parks here? The way back into town is across a bridge,
watched over rather sullenly by a beached trawler (I think it’s a trawler) on a
mud bank beside the river. I find it rather creepy, but then I think - if you find large fishing boats creepy then
Hull probably isn’t for you. So I quickly MTFU.
 |
| Missed this |
The walk to the ground takes us the full
length of Hull city centre. Typically, when I go to places that have a
reputation for being a little run down – like Wigan – I find they are nowhere
near as weather-beaten or edgy as the chatter suggests. In Hull however, which
after all is fairly isolated from the rest of the UK, it is difficult to avoid
the impression of decay.
It may be that, having once been so
important an industrial and seafaring centre, the town just has far more land
than it actually needs nowadays, and so there’s no real pressure to redevelop the
numberous abandoned sites we pass. Particularly terrifying is the massive, and
massively derelict, Carlton Theatre near the KC stadium. It looks like urbex
heaven, but I would not want to be in there at night. The route from the centre
to the ground also passes a former pub which has almost completely fallen down, as
well as Hull’s gigantic NHS hospital.
The KC itself sits amid parkland, although
you don’t get the best of this aspect if you approach from town. The situation
vaguely puts me in mind of 1.FC Koeln’s Rhein-Energie Stadion, which Sir Robert
and I visited last season. Speaking of which, Sir Robert is a known name in
Hull - by virtue of various of his night
moves which are only murkily known to me – and has been to the KC before. His
local knowledge proves invaluable when it comes to pubs (but not dinner).
 |
| Looking out to sea |
City still have most of their Premiership
squad intact, with recent England international Tom “The Tank” Huddlestone
marooned on the bench for this game. Opponents Charlton are struggling, so the
gathered ‘Ullensians (or ‘Umbrians as I call them) are hopeful of a big score.
They get their wish, as a hat-trick from Uruguayan international Hernandez
enables Hull to completely steamroller their opponents. Final score: six nil to
Hull. Although it creates a jovial mood, sending City towards the top of the
Championship table, it doesn’t really make for a thrilling match. It’s only
January, but Charlton look desperate for their season to end.
Now, there is only one reason for someone
with no business in Hull to come here, other than to watch the football of
course. Well, actually maybe there are two, with the Humber Bridge being the
one I overlooked. Rather than merely overlook it, in fact, I fell asleep on the
train in and missed it entirely. The other reason for someone who has no
business in Hull (and has slept through the Humber Bridge) to come here is the fish
and chips, which are reputed to be among the finest in the land.
However, Sir Robert and I first head to the
Silver Cod, once the drinking den of the feared Hull City Psychos hooligan firm. Just round the
corner from the old Boothferry Park, it is still fairly accessible for
match-goers at the KC but is nowadays almost a family place. Sir Robert and I
have a tolerable pint or two of Worthingtons while watching Villa play
Leicester. Unbeknownst to us, however, in killing time we are killing off our hope of fish and
chips.
By the time we set out for dinner it's
almost eight o’clock. Now, those of you familiar with Humbrian dining habits may
already be clicking your tongues at the decadent lateness of this, but where
Sir Robert and I come from, this is dinnertime. Also, let’s face it, if you’re
the kind of person who researches chip shop opening times in advance then you’re
probably the kind of person who also, say, knows that shops don’t open on Easter
Sunday. In other words, you’re not me. Whatever – all of the local fry-shops
have shut by the time we get out, and Hull is, beyond fish and chips, probably
the worst-equipped city for dining options that I’ve visited. Anywhere. Ever.
In the end we track down a half decent craft burger place in the food court of
a shopping mall.
It will take a pub to save the day.
Fortunately – and here, Sir Robert is on fine form with the local knowledge –
Hull’s Old Town has several very, very fine ones. We visit Ye Olde White Harte, a
Theakston’s joint selling a mean pint of Old Peculier, and Ye Olde Black Boy,
an ancient two-room place that has previously been all kinds of things, including a
bordello. Nowadays it’s a cosy yet trendy boozer with a top range of cask beer,
and the perfect place to relax before retiring to watch Match of the Day on
iPlayer. Ladies and Gentlemen, the great British Saturday night.
On the way back, the Humber Bridge is
shrouded in mist. So of Hull’s beguiling attractions, as yet there’s only one,
City, that I have really sampled. I supposed there’s also rugby league…
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