We provide a good selection of wine and draught beers, and have a weekly changing, locally brewed ‘cask’ ale. There is also a free quiz every Sunday from 8pm with food and great prizes.
The New Inn is packed with community spirit!
Burns night poem 2011
A night at the New Inn, it never ever fails,
With gin, rum & vodka, and well-kept real ales
Chilean merlot, have a tot of good cheer,
Or move on from your childhood, with Crabbie’s ginger beer.
A full choice of bar snacks they always provide,
With the skin of a dead pig, crunchy deep fried.
The crisp choice is narrow, no ifs or buts,
We all gape in amazement at Hazel’s chocolate nuts.
Bev slaves in the kitchen cooking heavenly delights,
But it’s even better when they theme their meal nights.
She’s Essex’s finest, and an Arsenal supporter,
And sometimes when eating, you get served by her daughter.
Our Daisy’s a good lass, with a brain sharp and bright,
She never uses rude words, like “bugger” or “shite”.
Which is amazing really, give her credit that’s due,
‘cos when the kitchen goes crazy, Mum’s words are quite blue.
And George mucks in too, whenever he’s able,
Washing up pots, and serving at table.
Then down from upstairs come Ivy & Pete,
Barking like mad, getting under your feet.
On Fridays Ruth comes from Esk on the pull,
And she pulls and she pulls ‘til your glass is quite full.
Her service is great, she don’t drink behind the bar,
‘Cos she drives home straight after in her own little car.
Enough of the staff, now consider the Locals,
Directors, pensioners, chorus girls and yokels.
From every walk of life we all like to gather,
To sup a good pint, and partake of the blather.
The subjects of banter range far and wide,
Football, rugby, or a perky girl guide.
There’s Last One Les, and Ian the Vulture,
And Gordon the Gopher, who’s into his culture.
Steam trains, lawn mowers, hot tubs and cars,
Good fish & Chip shops, our favourite bars.
There’s Charlie, Brian, and Debonair Doug,
And Trussy who likes his John Smiths in a jug.
Boycey comes to sup with Keith, who’s his boss,
The football lads huddle to review City’s latest loss.
Old Jack perches on his stool at the bar,
It’s an effort to get here, even though it’s not far
Dave Booker remembers every figure and fact,
About football and Soaps, every devious act.
And Telecom, dressed as a Yugoslav fighter,
Comes outside for a fag, and borrows your lighter.
Hazel and Bev are not tall, they’re quite short, (but beautifully formed)
The top shelf poses more of a challenge than it ought.
They both could reach it if only they were taller,
And we love Bev’s bum crack, like a builder’s only smaller.