Reading Railway Club, 58 Station Hill, Reading.
All ‘information’ in this review is ‘accurate’ as of October 2016.
As far back as we can remember, we always wanted to be in a club. Be it the Mafia, the Illuminati or The Beano Fan Club, we weren’t fussed. There’s just something about the idea of unity, camaraderie and the shared rituals and traditions of being in a club, isn’t there? Whether it’s all about whacking off wiseguys, orchestrating geo-political events or discussing who’s better – Roger the Dodger or Minnie the Minx (it’s Roger the Dodger).
We never made it as Sicilian-American gangsters or the world’s shadowy puppet masters. And our Beano Fan Club membership expired 23 years ago. We need to find another club to be a part of. And we reckon we’ve found it. The Reading Railway Club. You don’t even need to work on the tracks to get in. All you need is the ability to walk into the place and not upset the giant owner who could crush you like a particularly soft grape.
In the words of American rapping singer ‘Fifty Cents’, let’s go ‘Into The Club’…
Location: Logically enough, the Railway Club’s near the train station. Equidistant between The Guineas and The Gateway, it’s across the road from The Greyfriar. A stone’s throw from The Biscuit Tin. Do you like how we explained this with the maximum number of internal links? Yeah, that’s right. SEO, BITCHES.
Drink Selection: The Railway Club is a decent size inside, but it’s not huge, so you wouldn’t expect a particularly wide range of boozedrinks. But there’s plenty to keep you going, with one or two or everything and some decent bottles. We’d go into a little more details, but we were fairly pissed when we went in.
Opening Hours: We were told, but we were pissed, weren’t we? So we can’t really remember. Normal kind of pub times in the week, late ones of a weekend (12pm/1am-ish). We think. Our unending search for cold hard facts and dedicated research is what makes SaNSPiR one of Reading’s top twenty pub review websites.
Atmosphere: Depends on what’s going on, but events pull in a bit of a crowd. You’ve got your darts night and all that too. Karaoke, live acts, discos…
Beer Garden/Smoking Area: They have their own self-contained little outside space with benches and umbrellas and the like, which is more than big enough for hunching over and sucking in poisonous fumes.
Pub Games: Your darts, your pool. Looked after, the board and table are decent. The pockets on the pool table are far too small, though. We played a few games of doubles at the tail end of a twelve-hour daytime session and frames were taking about 45 minutes a pop. WE WERE PISSED, DO YOU SEE?
Toilets: Pretty normal, nice and clean. ‘Bog’ standard, you could say. LOL! You don’t get top drawer gags like that in one AA Gill’s poxy Sunday Times reviews, do you?
NB: Watch out for the club’s resident toilet photographer, though…
Sports? God, yeah. A full Sky and BT package makes The RRC a leftfield shout for any sporting event. We’re not exactly spoiled for choice, screens-wise in Reading, are we? And Yates and The Walkabout can just be bleak at times.
Price: You want to watch the game and/or play some pool with a few standard lagerglasses. Pints are less than £3.50 here, ferboozesakes. That’ll be music to your drunk ears if your bank balances look anything like ours (as depressing as The Bell Jar week at a Slough book club for goths).
Decor: The place has been spruced up recently. It’s tidy and snazzed up a bit, but still retains that feeling of a working men’s club. Which is a good thing, obviously.
Punterwatch: Your fellow club members. Your FAMILY. Love them as your own, as your brothers and sisters.
Chances of Picking Up A Working Class Divorcee In Her Early Forties: Pretty high.
You might not want to join Gary Glitter’s gang, for obvious reasons. And the Club club might not be for you if you don’t really care about how much chocolate is on your biscuit. So where does that leave you? Well, you can join the Reading Railway Club. Or just pop in for a drink. Y’know – whatever.
Sorry, this was a bit of a shit review this one, wasn’t it (especially that fucking joke about Sylvia Plath – that was embarrassing…)? Still. This didn’t cost you anything, you ungrateful shit. And we’ll be back on form next time. WE PROMISE.