The incredibly humorous pre-Christmas account of life at the Tan Hill Inn by its erstwhile landlord – writer, broadcaster and journalist Neil Hanson – kept us all in fits of laughter, with his quick-fire anecdotes, one after the other.
This was after Dick Birks, Chairman, had presented our retiring club secretary, Graham Snowdon, with a case of well-deserved top drawer claret. Graham has run Stumperlowe Probus seamlessly for nearly a decade.
Neil, originally from Bradford, went to Trinity College Oxford, hinting he’d had more than a great time there not getting a First . In the early years of his mis-spent youth, he’d had many menial jobs, such as a Red Coat at Butlins, while gearing up for more serious pursuits like writing historical novels, the CAMRA Guide, five volumes of the Good Beer Guide and sports titles – in all, 70 published books. His best-known is the controversial “Venables, the Autobiography” which almost led to fisticuffs with Alan Sugar, the Spurs Chairman. He’s also ghost written on behalf of sports stars such as Ian Botham, showbiz folk, a “top” surgeon (what’s “top” mean?) and a spy. The full list of titles can be found at “www.encyclopaedia.com Neil Hanson 1948-”. Many of them look like a good read.
On an impulse he answered an advert to be manager of the Tan Hill Inn, the remotest and highest pub in the land. Its nearest neighbour lived four miles away and the weather was mostly challenging with rain, snow and wind “strong enough to blow the horns off a tup”. It was frequently cut off by snow which could drift as high as the bedroom windows. There was no running water, just a spring, a Calor gas cooker, cess pit, radio phone and a diesel generator which needed cranking to get it going. It was a rat-infested wreck when Neil took over, but was stunning, nevertheless. He and his wife were serving behind the bar within a week of being offered the job. The farmers were cynical at first about an Oxford graduate running their local. “Nah then lad, dost tha ken Swardle yows?” “Pardon?” said Neil. Grumbling to his mates, the flat-capped farmer muttered “plums in his gob”. It wasn’t long, though, before the Inn’s reputation grew on the grounds it was always open, from breakfast until the early hours, long after the 10.30 watershed.
There were police checks but the early warning system, including the local bobby, giving loads of time to hide the drinks and the drinkers before they could get up the valley – a police raid by prior appointment! Normal service resumed after they left. If it snowed it didn’t matter anyway.
Neil told many anecdotes in quick-fire fashion. The aristocratic and elderly Faith, the first customer of the day, always arrived in the back of the post van for one-after-the-other whisky and sodas. Another priceless tale was the visit by the British Naturist Society. Local farmers suddenly appeared from nowhere, remarking that “once you’ve fried sausages in the nude, nothing else can faze you”. Unfortunately, it was a damp squib for the onlookers because of the freezing weather. They’d reckoned without cold-related shrinkage. Once frostbitten, twice shy!
Neil touched on one of his neighbours, ranking him as the world’s tightest man, who would need an anaesthetic to extract his wallet. Getting “summat for nowt” was the mantra in these parts: “Hear all, see all, say nowt. Eat all, sup all, pay nowt. And if tha ever does owt for nowt, do it for thissen”. Yorkshiremen are like Scots without the generosity.
Neil’s anecdotes were endless, all to be found in “The Inn at the Top”. It’s a very funny book. You’ll find Ted Moult, Stan and Nevill, Ruby, Bruce and many of the other characters we heard about in there. My favourite was the TV beer advert with two of the farmers as extras, getting absolutely sloshed keeping their mugs full to the brim all day for multiple takes. It brought back a few memories.