Malt Dog: Beetroot, Bellowing, Boothstown.

One of the most dreadful aspects of the internet, aside from the pornbots and collapse of reasonable discourse in western democracies, is that we now have a direct window into the opinions of a plethora of talented musicians. Whilst Lennon was content to have a good old lie in by way of political statement an array of his contemporaries trumpet their dreadful thoughts on Twitter* like a beetroot faced Uncle who’s had more than his fill of Jagerbombs at a wedding. 

If you can put aside that revulsion then one of the many things you’re likely to find agreeable in Malt Dog** is the sound track. Above the convivial chatter you can tune your ear equipment into a hearty mix of Manchester bands and classics from the era of music before autotune and drum loops i.e. before it went to shit. 

Whilst it doesn’t boast the most resplendent of locations, nestled between a rarely open opticians and a closed down hardware store, it does well with what it has. There is outside seating for you to enjoy the comings and goings of an eclectic mix of locals & sup your pint in the drizzle; like a Salford Safari park. 

Inside it’s positively cozy, remarkably well lit & far more trendy that the slightly dilapidated precinct location belies. Best not to look too closely at the finish of some of the refurb if you're a perfectionist as it has a bit of a maniac with a nail gun vibe but the broad strokes are that this is a decent place to be for a beer. 

Beer; of which there is a healthy amount of choice. There’s a rotation of guests changing on the regular alongside some fairly staple offerings (Green Mountain, Neck Oil etc) & a very tasty ‘house’ Maltdog IPA. 

If you’re inclined to snack as you quaff then the modern equivalent of a pie warmer is installed on the bar like a perspex megalith full of sausage rolls and scotch eggs. Regrettably these are at what I’d have to call London prices, a cost that’s likely to prompt a ‘fuck off, I’m not paying that’ from the afore mentioned bell end Uncle. They are annoyingly delicious though & have an excellent meat to pastry ratio**.

Slight downside is that occasionally the clientele includes a group of ‘lads lads lads’ who are stuck on one volume and will be bellowing about topics such as ‘drinking a can in the shed’, ‘who did the biggest shit this week’ and ‘your missus is a slag mate’. Being a small bar with questionable acoustics this can get quite annoying but as long as you don’t make eye contact you should survive the encounter. 

All in all this is a solid little establishment with a lot on offer. Well worth stopping by for a pint and helping an independent community boozer go from strength to strength; just try and forget what a colossal twat Morrisey is if The Smiths comes on (which it will).

*Yes, Twitter, Elon can fuck off into the bin if he thinks I’m calling it X.

**Dog friendly if you hadn’t guessed from the name. 

***Much like Euclid’s Golden Ratio for the composition of great works of art it is said that such a thing exists for sausage rolls though mathematicians have yet to agree on the formula. In fact this schism is rumored to be the difference that led to the Oxford/Cambridge boat race. Oxford backed the Pythagorean ratios (about 50/50 pastry to meat) which Cambridge mathematicians insisted Archimedes had the truth of it (30/70 pastry to meat). To settle their differences once and for all two teams assembled and, fuelled by sausage rolls of their championed ratio, embarked on a boat race. Alas, whilst this was a noble way to settle their differences, sausage rolls are a poor choice of pre exercise snack (unlike a steak bake) and neither boat finished the race; lost to the turd filled waters of the Thames or dying from their wounds, some things never change. In modern times the race is held in memory of those who died that day.