THIS week Pub Spy paid a visit to the Chestnut Tree or simply ‘the nut’, a nickname in no way intended as any sort of reflection upon the clientele who seem a sane if slightly zany bunch.

I had been to the pub in Lansdowne Road, Worcester, before to watch a football match on the big screen with a friend of mine (yes, Pub Spy has friends). One of the first things that strikes you about the place (aside from the massive beer garden) is the plethora of fascinating portraits of comedic icons including the Two Ronnies, Laurel and Hardy and Tommy Cooper.

The place resembles the colourful home of a brilliantly eccentric uncle. There are so many remarkable curiosities to look at it leaves you a little dizzy, an experience as intoxicating in its own way as the drinks on offer. This is part of its charm.

Anywhere with a life-sized cast of a beautiful naked woman mounted on the wall gets my vote. The pub has a reputation for being a hub of musical talent and boasts a large stage. A band called Salt Road (playing Blues and Americana) did not disappoint.

A word of warning - beware the cat. He may look cute but I would rather place my unmentionables in the maw of the Beast of Bodmin Moor than stroke him again.

This ginger Tom, named Archibald, lulled me into a false sense of security by mewing pathetically to coax me over.

When I responded the tinker promptly sank his fangs into my knuckles and sauntered off as if nothing had happened.

The nut does not really do food in the traditional sense though it does offer crisps and pickled eggs. I ordered a pint of Holy Grail and a pint of Pravah for my friend, one of Worcester’s great legal minds and a veritable colossus in the courts.

I won’t embarrass him by naming the modest chap but, by my description, his identity should be obvious to anyone at the bar (the criminal bar that is). Needless to say he prosecuted his pint with his customary alacrity. The beverage disappeared down his neck as swiftly as Worcester’s villains descend into the cells after he’s finished with them. The cost was £7.60 for both pints which seemed pretty reasonable to me. However, by this stage I didn’t care as I was completely wasted.

The barman had good craic and showed himself to be a charming and knowledgeable young fellow with a sound appreciation of boxing and other pugilistic arts of which I am myself a connoisseur. It was at this stage I was jostled by one of the Hairy Bikers dressed in a psychedelic Hawaiian shirt. So blindingly bright was his attire that I convinced myself I had hallucinated his very existence. But then this apparition spoke and informed me (I’m paraphrasing) to move my backside. Sensitive about the size of my posterior, Pub Spy was immediately affronted and was about to ask this chap outside. However, I was informed he was the owner and thus thought better of it.

I was by now intrigued - the pub, like it’s owner, appears to be a true original.