Posted on 19 June, 2026

Rugby Love-Inn

Town’s seventies Bull, first date with the one
I came to Rugby for, from Northampton.
The Duck, the Windmill, Tavern-in-the-Town
As was, along beside unaltered Crown.
Webb Ellis, Prince of Wales reign on as well,
Like old Queen Vic, and George, the Raglan, Bell.

I learned of the Love Rugby Festival poetry competition from a writing group friend (thanks again, Audrey) on 28 May with the deadline for submissions 1 June, so did not have time to agonise over my versifying. I was pleased and proud to be among those whose lines were chosen to be displayed in the town (see pic, near the Rupert Brooke – statue, not Spoons of the same poet’s name) and its library. My effort in full for those interested is below. 

RUGBY LOVE-INN

Town’s seventies Bull, first date with the one
I came to Rugby for, from Northampton.
The Duck, the Windmill, Tavern-in-the-Town
As was, along beside unaltered Crown.
Webb Ellis, Prince of Wales reign on as well,
Like old Queen Vic, and George, the Raglan, Bell.

At Clifton’s Bull one eighties day we wed,
I favoured Tommy Cross, United Red.
The Clifton Inn was Jolly Brewers, though
As cheerless as the Merry Monk, you know.
The London House – good Pedigree, that dive –
No London Calling, ’cept from nine to five.

Years commuting, weekend relaxation,
Pool at Graziers, snooker by the station.
In nineties still a bar at Marriott gym,
A Sunday pint while taking kids to swim.
Some Saturdays we’d trot to town to eat,
Their Sarry, sorry Courthouse garden treat.

By noughties home again from years abroad,
The Empire gone, yet I could find reward
In other clubs, like Rugby Golf, the Rail
And Peacock last stop on the homeward trail.
Three-storied, boozers’ palace of delight
Now flats – Time, Gentlemen, it said goodnight.

Half Moon in tens I drank whole-heartedly
(More so than efforts at sobriety)
Rediscovered Seven Stars, found Alex.
Ice-cold or not, Heineken or Four-X,
Guinness Burton Chum, lager or real ale,
No drink that pubs can serve beyond my pale.

As twenties will be seventies again
Dun Cow, the Railway where I’ve waked my dead,
And happy Bulls, Quigley’s, the Cross remain,
If not now walkable, bus serves instead.
Spoons barrels on, under young soldier’s name.
I know it’s not for all, this drinking game,
But till my flag’s half-mast at RGC,
The pubs of Rugby will be dear to me.

All the best, David.