Before the era of online reviews and star ratings, pubs existed in the collective memory of a generation as landmarks of youth, each with its own unique lore and unspoken rules. For one group of students arriving at university in Nottingham during the mid-1990s, one such establishment became far more than a watering hole—it became a second home.
A Cave, A Local, and A Last-Minute Ritual
The pub in question was the Hand & Heart. Much like the city's famed Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, which stakes a claim as England's oldest pub, the Hand & Heart is carved into Nottingham's iconic sandstone caves. This subterranean setting offered patrons the distinct feeling of being a caped crusader, akin to Batman enjoying a quiet brandy after a long night.
Its location proved pivotal. Situated just a short walk from the student house shared by six friends, it was the ultimate true local. This proximity bred a unique habit. While other students began their evenings at a conventional hour, this group earned a reputation for timing their arrival to perfection, often rolling in just before last orders.
This meant leaving the house at 10.20pm, having a pint in hand by 10.30pm, and, if they drank with sufficient speed, managing to consume two or even three drinks before the lights were flicked on to signal closing time.
The Quiz Machine Mafia and Their Side Hustle
Beyond the strategic drinking, the group honed a particular skill: dominating the pub quiz machines. Eschewing small talk with fellow drinkers, the six would congregate around the Monopoly-themed trivia machine like a tight-knit syndicate of knowledge.
Their combined academic expertise covered a broad spectrum: politics, history, French, Spanish, chemistry, economics, and management. Coupled with the machines' repetitive question banks, they became adept at turning modest 50p stakes into a profitable pool for funding rounds.
Their prowess extended to the Noel Edmonds Telly Addicts quiz machine, a prize game that rewarded practice. Two members, Phil and the author, became specialists, often needing just one or two 50p games to hit the £5 jackpot—a welcome subsidy for the evening's festivities.
The Simple Truths of Sauce and Camaraderie
One might hope for profound life lessons learned in such a hallowed space—the power of collective intellect or the value of shared burdens. The reality, however, was more delightfully straightforward.
The primary goal was using quiz machine winnings to bankroll free rounds of drinks. The night would then invariably conclude with a pilgrimage to the Sheesh Mahal kebab shop, where every customer faced the same crucial question: open or wrapped?
This choice defined one's journey home. 'Wrapped' promised the dignity of a plate and cutlery upon return. 'Open', however, was the more popular, messier option—enjoyed immediately on the walk back, with kebab sauce inevitably dribbling down chins and the remnants disposed of over a convenient garden wall.
This was the unvarnished essence of 1990s student life in Nottingham: a unique pub, trivial mastery, and the simple, saucy joy of a kebab shared among friends.
