Four times I had tried 'Churchills'; it was a now matter of pride and what treasure it yielded was irrelevant. Not since the incredibly annoying and elusive 'St Rafaels' in Eastern Manchester had an exploration made me go back so often to try again.
Always there was a problem. The busy car park at the rear, annoying coppers walking past fitted with the latest technological busybody sensor implants, or worse still that fucking wobbly wall that could almost be blown over.
Walls are supposed to be solid, but not the 'Churchills' wall. It was made up of some substance resembling a combination of jelly and rubber bands. Touch it and it might fall over. In hindsight a sparkling idea except I didn't want to be busted for vandalising this particular piece of jellied brick-ware.
@anidiotexplores and I waited patiently for @lpff to arrive by train. Maybe his presence would intimidate that large black gate flanked by barbed wire and trimmed with evil spikes to miraculously open.
But wait, this time there was a pallet leaning against the wall. Could it be the corner section had a little more glue binding that decaying brickwork together?
Oblivious to the car park attendees I scampered up and peered over the edge. It was a drop but the far side housed a few trees and what's more, the wall was holding.
I hurriedly stuck my leg over and into the bough of a flimsy-looking tree that creaked in protest. As usual, we would worry about getting out later.
The Rose Hill Hotel opened as a beer house shortly after an 1830 Act of Parliament relaxed the licensing regulations for premises wishing to be opened as public houses serving beer but not spirits.
By the early part of 1984 the Rose Hill was bought by Bandmatic, and was renamed Churchill's. It closed sometime between 2009 and 2011.
Source
In the summer of 2022, ‘Churchills’ was ravaged by fire, but that didn't make it any easier to get into as some twat sealed it up tight again almost immediately.
Having traversed the jungle that used to be ‘Churchills’ yard area, we emerged through this hole in the ground and noted there was only one way to go.
Large holes of death lay underneath the makeshift doors and radiator placed purposely by past explorers for semi-safe passage. One bad move and it would be curtains, injury, ambulances, and a stern telling off by the authorities.
We moved quickly into a kitchen area filled with holy light emanating from where the cupboards used to be. Filled with glory and blessings we left the gaudy chair and bottle of holy water behind.
I was taking note of the masses of ancient spider webs, possibly left decades previously by spiders that now could be extinct and missing from our world.
Having been primed, I knew of the fabled snooker table, or should I say tables. Little gauze was left, with no balls and no cues. There would be no game today.
This one was a little better, and with plenty of seating for would-be spectators.
Taken from an acute angle one can imagine what used to be hordes of excited spiders dangling from their perches enjoying thrilling snooker matches from bygone ages.
The cock drawn on the ceiling likely came later and hardly enhances the view. Some pert tits perhaps would have been a better option?
Moving out of the ‘Snooker Room’, what else could ‘Churchills’ throw at us; what could beat that spectacle?
Arachnophobics would not fare well inside ‘Churchills’, although we saw little of the giant creatures that could emerge within seconds and consume us whole.
One daring vandal must have stretched over there to paint that masterpiece. Brave souls had come and gone, and maybe devoured without a trace.
I am quite sure these are the fixtures for the 2002 World Cup. Senegal stunned France with a 1-0 victory, I remember it well.
That writing is remarkably similar. I couldn't write the same thing and then struggle to see any differences. They were separate sheets of paper filled with scribbles. Cleaning could do with some prioritisation I would say.
The filing cabinet for once did open but still contained a decent amount of mandatory rust.
We headed downstairs to the bar area in search of adventure, or otherwise.
That is one boring bar, with no glasses, no pumps, no nothing besides dust.
This area appears to have escaped the fire. That red covering would burn very well given a reason to.
This area was fire damaged but otherwise untouched. Someone had stacked all the crap up together making it tough to get through.
We headed down a corridor and spotted the mass damage, noting what was above our heads. That loose radiator and those doors probably.
To get past this it was either jump and hope the far side floor does not collapse or gingerly edge around the hole with the same hopes. I opted for (b) and managed to get away with it.
Another bar…, more burnt but otherwise as fascinating as the previous one.
I opted not to go for a stroll over there, taking note of the nearby large hole in the ground.
Look at that; so moody.
Seriously, don’t you think it’s a little late for this ‘Churchills’?
I didn't fancy scrambling across a blackened bar to escape so had to thread my way past that dodgy hole again.
The sole evidence left, and from the days when beer was a little cheaper than now.
The bills don’t half rack up if you don’t pay. Scottish Power would have ‘sold’ this debt to the debt collectors. It was a good deal looking at what it amounts to be now, and unlikely to ever be settled.
The Rose Hill Hotel it was before 1984. A small part of the pub has retained its original feature.
Finding an easier way out, we bypassed these signs before emerging once again into the jungle backyard.
This one looks like some American bullshit I am sad to say. 'Paid to lose weight'…, more like pay to slim down your wallet.
£1.50 a pint, now that’s a terrific deal, you do need to bring your own glass though.
Escaping from 'Churchills' was easier than I imagined, the not so flimsy tree helping enormously. With surging confidence, I was ready for the next climbing challenge.
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