I remember the Hobsons – Jim & Lesley, they sold to Phil Bishop who put Billy Carder in to run it. Probably the best days of the pub.
Then came Ashley Brewster and his then wife, Brenda. They had a partner called Nigel Kern. He was called away briefly at the behest of Her Majesty but who returned and attempted an abortive eviction of Ashley & Brenda together with Nigel’s former friend and associate – a shadowy figure called Big Dave (money made in Timeshare and Double Glazing) who had taken up residence in the barn.
During his time away, Nigel had made friends with a West Indian gentleman who, accompanied by a Range Rover full of bailiffs and Phil Bishop, posed as the Sheriff of Norfolk and banged on the door of the pub with a home typed Writ.
Hearing the commotion, Big Dave peered out of the barn window and recognised the so-called High Sheriff as a former cell mate and phoned Ashley instructing him to call the police. This caused immediate alarm in our West Indian friend who immediately ran off up the Road towards Holt. I encountered him en-route and remarked to myself that encountering a large west Indian gentleman in a 3 piece woollen suit sprinting along a North Norfolk country lane was an unusual sight - for a Wednesday.
Apparently,; the whole operation was being choreographed by Nigel on his mobile phone from the car park at the Three Pigs in Edgefield. Nigel eventually regained controlling interest in the pub because Ashley, a dyslexia sufferer had mis signed the partnership agreement.
He continued to run the place, advertised as quaint country pub experience which unusually featured loud house music, a studded and pierced Brazilian barmaid with a bare midriff and musical evenings where the performers were paid in generous helpings of Peruvian marching powder.
Phil Bishop, still not receiving rent, then sold it to Jonathan and his mother who vandalised the bar by cutting it in half, painted the walls pink and served enormous, inedible portions of indifferent food to packed houses of the old and greedy. Drinkers and locals were actively discouraged by waiting staff who barged into them whilst ferrying the inedible piles of shite to the gaping gullets in the dining room.
My friend John who called in every weekday lunchtime for a pint of Guiness and to read his paper in his usual seat was asked to vacate his favourite spot for an ancient pair of these shabby old gannets and so never went back. The cellar was kept too cold for beer in order to preserve the mountains of food, and so the local trade inevitably dried up…. Much like the gravy.
Then came a lady who’s ambition to run a charming country pub was realised by her illegitimate daughter’s father buying her off with the pub as a gift until after a few months she became bored and sold it to the last incumbents who were deliberately so obnoxious that the pub was eventually decommissioned (no doubt their original nefarious intention) and remained in a filthy and neglected state.
A bloody shame and probably the Major’s curse.
I have left out many of the fantastically funny things that happened there,  wonderful locals like Bulldog and Wherry Terry etc. Also the shooting of the chef and many other things …
Allegedly.
So I was told.
Work of fiction, do not quote me.
I am not liable to libel as this has been told to me and is not my experience or recollection.
Without prejudice.
Anon - 24th January 2024.