Some Thoughts On The Old Cock Inn, Halifax

It is easy to be sniffy about the Old Cock in Halifax. It is, after all, one of the most historic inns in the Halifax area. History drips from its beams like wax dripping from a museum candle. It's been listed, researched, inspected and written about so often that you couldn't blame it if it had a superiority complex. The Halifax Building Society was founded there and endless luminaries have supped ale whilst leaning against the bar or sipped tea whilst sat at one of its tables. It can trace its origins to a town house built in the sixteenth century and it has been an inn for the last 350 years. In an age where the average fast food outlet is considered historic if it lasts a decade, that isn't bad at all.  The Old Cock is part of the heritage of anyone who claims to come from Halifax, part of their history.

And yet the Old Cock survives by selling cheap lager and playing loud music. In the coming weeks you can hear Boneshaker, the Crush and the Marauders there: all no doubt excellent exponents of their musical art, but hardly likely to create that contemplative atmosphere so beloved by pubophiles. But those, like myself, who enjoy nothing better than a tasty pint, a comfy chair and a strong enough light to read a good book by, never managed to get the Old Cock to thrive, and a couple of years ago it was looking sad, unloved and for sale. The prospect of the Old Cock dying was a distinct possibility and that would have been tragedy of Shakespearean proportions (which reminds me that the Shakespeare Hotel just down the street from the Old Cock has now become an Italian Restaurant but that is a different Blog Post).

Old idiots like myself, with our corduroy jackets, designer cloth caps, our love of real ale, and our passion for all that is old, must be constantly aware of the dangers of romanticism. No doubt old Branwell Bronte would have happily drunk a pint of Fosters at the Old Cock if the option had have been available (and sneaked out without paying for it as he had a habit of doing). Maybe all those Halifax worthies who gathered together to create a Building Society to enable the working man to buy his own modest house, were tapping their leather-booted feet to the haunting beat of  Boneshaker's cover of Hocus Pocus. The Halifax Harmonic Club who used to gather in the Oak Room, probably couldn't wait to finish their endless practises of Handel's Messiah in order to down a few Double Vodka Kicks (a steal at just £3.05) and let rip with some Katy Perry.

Good luck to the Old Cock, Long may beer flow through its veins and music rattle its rafters.