The Crown Inn, Stockport

SOME customs are bad, some are good. Take Morris Dancing, an easy target I know, but something that should only be allowed under a care in the community order. Ergo, very bad, and not in the way Michael Jackson meant it.

Dogs are allowed, probably because the landlord has his own Japanese Shiba Inu (his name is Mr Miagi – the dog, not the landlord), while lager-loving scrapping scrotes are conspicuous by their absence.

Which brings us to the good – or ooh, goody-goody, accompanied with lots of hand-rubbing and licking of lips - as in the case of the custom of ‘wetting the baby’s head.’ It’s a man thing. We’ve been through the vicarious agonies of childbirth and we need to bond with our mates and down a few beers.

So when the next door neighbour’s weary head popped above the garden fence for a chat on the joys of fatherhood, I offered to take him and some other chaps to the Crown Inn, South Manchester’s new CAMRA Pub of the Year, faster than you could say the real McCoy. Because when it comes to keeping it real, nowhere compares to the Crown. The authenticity begins at the very building, which, framed as it is by an arch of the huge Stockport viaduct, looks straight out of t’Hovis ads. And it’s green and cream – strictly old school, with none of your fancy dan beiges and ivories.

“If this isn’t the best ever wetting of a baby’s head, I’ll eat my flat cap,” I almost blurted out to new dad Ollie, before crossing the threshold into beer heaven. And you know, for the next three hours, during which time each of us put away five pints, no consumption of said retro titfer was required.

As we discussed the merits of breast-feeding, the three-wheeler buggy and the ridiculous price of nappies these days (as if), the night flew past in a real ale haze. So successful was it, I couldn’t remember what we had or how, in fact, we got home. That infant’s bonce was well and truly soaked. Which meant that, in the line of duty, I had to go back exactly three days later – this time with my wife Jane – to do some real research.

But you don’t have to work for MORI to work out what makes the Crown so special – it’s the beer, stupid. As the ultimate free house, the Crown has a constantly changing roster of ales, so no two visits are ever the same. The only constant seems to be Copper Dragon. They are all advertised on a chalk board above the bar and on our visit there were 13 to choose from – all cask, all beautifully kept, all around the £2 mark.

Which meant that we did what’s known as ‘The Crown Thing,’ where you stand gawping at the beer, scratching your head and taking an eternity to decide.

My wife, chocoholic to her core, went for the Marble Chocolate, which I find too chewy and stouty, but which she likes. I chose the Wren’s Nest bitter from the Howard Town brewery in Glossop, an ale which has just been selected to go into the Strangers’ Bar in the House of Commons. It’s a superb number and possibly the greatest breakthrough in democracy in the last 50 years.

The Crown serves lunch between noon and 3pm every weekday and, if you’re a shopper or town centre worker, you’d be bonkers to eat anywhere else.

I normally go for the coq-au-vin, with salad and new potatoes for UNDER a fiver, but this time picked the beef goulash with similar extras for the same price. My wife had a starter of soup of the day and baked potato filled with pan-fried beef and peppercorn sauce with salad, at just over a fiver. It’s all created in the tiny kitchen by a chef who looks like a chef, if you know what I mean, and takes time because most everything is fresh and home-cooked. It was all excellent for the price.

The Crown’s interior is thankfully still sectioned into snugs and a games room off the main bar. The décor looks like it was designed by a Victorian – actually it was restored to its original glory when the new owners took over last year – with green and burgundy leather banquette seating, oak tables, stripped and tiles floors, embossed wallpaper, bells to summon the waiters (decorative only), framed beer pumps and taps, beer mats on the walls from half the world’s real breweries and real wood-burning fires in every room.

Dogs are allowed, probably because the landlord has his own Japanese Shiba Inu (his name is Mr Miagi – the dog, not the landlord), while lager-loving scrapping scrotes are conspicuous by their absence. In fact, if there’s a better clientele anywhere in a Stockport pub I’ve yet to meet it.

You must visit the beer garden as well. On the downside it’s very noisy as the pub is next to a busy roundabout, but on the plus side it must be one of the most dramatic beer gardens in the country. Long and thin, it actually goes under the Euston line viaduct. I can’t image a better place to listen to live music in summer. At the moment that takes place indoors every Sunday and Wednesday, including folk, jazz and even a string quartet.

C’mon, what are you waiting for – get down to the Crown.