Sunday, August 29, 2010

Free admission




I missed a photo a few years ago. They were changing the sign over the pub The Brass Cat, and a guy on a ladder was standing just so his butt was covering the BR...

5 comments:

Bronislaus Janulis / Framewright said...

What can I add, though I had to let you know I'd noticed.

imizea said...

Was industrial Northwest England really the place where Break Dancing was created? Was Christine 'Rigger' Rigby from Leigh really the model for the Jennifer Beals character in Flashdance? Is the Brass Cat in Churchgate, Bolton, really the last resting place for Northern Soul?

I am going to watch Tony Palmer's film 'Wigan Casino', but I am not really expecting to find the answers, as a reviewer suggested it degenerates into a public information film for the town in the second half with a folk song sound track.

Perhaps the author of this blog, a man notorious for his connections to the cultural underground and sensitively in touch with every aspect of the society in which he lives and works, will report back from the BC pub.

Eolake Stobblehouse said...

The Nothern Soul is restless, because unfortunately the Brass Cat has buckled under in the credit crash. :-(
It was the one place in town center you could get a decent burger.
(Well, to be frank, after the owner's wife Elaine stopped doing most of the cooking, it no longer was top notch.)

On the other hand, I had a chicken dish recently in the Barracuda which was great. So maybe I'll try their burger too.

Eolake Stobblehouse said...

Oh, and right opposite Nelson Square, the Olive Press always has excellent food.

As well as Chiao Napoli, their chicken at least.

imizea said...

"...connections to the cultural underground and sensitively in touch with every aspect of the society in which he lives and works"

Oh, well, at least he is in touch with his own alimentary requirements. Shame about the Brass Cat, but at least that's one avenue of research ended.

Perhaps somewhere in the vast industrial wasteland that is the legacy of the Thatcher Years, a restaurant critic (not Michael Winner, obviously) stumbling through the landscape of dereliction may one last time hear the strains of Frank Wilson's 'Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)' drifting over the piles of rubble.

I have exaggerated for effect. Forgive me Bolton.