BRAPA - Aches not bliss, in Acaster Malbis

Ruby the cat can't bear to watch the latest BRAPA horror show

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  That was to get a Sunday morning bus down to Bishopthorpe, and take the 'pleasant' mile stroll to the village of Acaster Malbis, so close to my Mum and Dad's house in Naburn, but with no bridge across the river, a lot further in reality.

Truth was, I didn't like having a pub 3 miles away from where I live that is in the GBG which I've never been to.  It was playing on my mind.  And I was going back to Mum & Dad's for Christmas tree decorating (plus a bit of Elaine Page, it's tradition!) in the afternoon anyway.

It all started to go wrong when I got on the bus, tried to helpfully hand the driver my change, only for him to shout at me "PUT IT DOWN!"

Despite closely following my progress on Google Maps so I knew exactly where to hop off, I got over excited when I saw this sign and pressed the bell half a mile too early.

I hate it when they put pub signs miles from the pub

The now half an hour walk to the pub was a soggy affair as the rain teemed down, there was no let up, and as I dodged pot hole after pot hole on a barren country lane.  I did not see one car, only a girl on a horse.  It could have been quite 'olden days' if she hadn't been simultaneously on two mobile phones, telling someone called Linda that Elaine would be around later, and someone called Elaine that she should go round to visit Linda.

It was still not 12 noon when I reached the pub, so I peered across the river in search of my parents house.  The pub seems to have split loyalties between Theakstons and Tim Taylors.

I wasn't the only person waiting for the pub to open.  A moody old man was standing very still and staring longingly at the closed entrance underneath a giant Santa Claus.

He better not be one of those pub-ticking idiots

After a bit of staff activity at 11:53am, I decided to bite the bullet and see if I could get in as a door now seemed to be swaying in the wind.  Predictably, and like a sheep, "Still Santa" followed me in.

1190 / 1936.  Ship Inn, Acaster Malbis

The welcome was friendly in a bubbly brunette kind of a way as I removed my luminous hat and coat, and ordered a Camerons Strongarm, just cos I didn't wanna be accused of Theakston or Tim Taylor bias.  There were plenty of locals milling about, a lot of staff - one of those annoying ones where you can't tell who works here, who is a village character, and who is the local drunkard (cos they are probably all the same person).  It was more snooty yokel than friendly local.  I sat in the shadow of the Christmas tree, which strangely had a big pheasant on it.  But the roaring fire was my main reason for getting this seat.  The beer was dull.  I've had better Strongarm, and not just in Hartlepool.  The pub smelt of smoke, in a reassuring old fashioned way.  The other barmaid (the classic P.I.S.S. barmaid, might be a bitch, might be lovely) kept looking at me like "what's his game?" so I whipped out the GBG and highlighted it (the GBG I mean) in an exuberant fashion.  A group of self important people with helium balloons with "50" on them kept mincing through the pub like they thought they were the dog's biscuits.  Idiots.  A young couple with a vague air of "people who live in the village but not for long enough to have been fully accepted" wandered in with a huge dog called Milo.  Owner Sarah thought she had him well trained, but he basically did the opposite of what she told him.  The pub needed more Milo characters.  Dad came to pick me up but was a bit delayed so I got a half Tim Taylor Landlord and it was much better.  But this pub felt like a standard village pub, much like Naburn's Blacksmiths Arms, rather than something of GBG standard.

A welcoming winter scene

Time to go

So that was that.  Another one chalked off.  Ten more before 31st Dec is over to reach my target.  Didn't get anything midweek due to work being crazy and too much going on, so attentions turn to Saturday 23rd and it's mysterious trip to a mysterious land which I'll review tomorrow.

For now, many festive returns, hope you got plenty of nice beers inside ya, and more importantly, a trip to a local (or not so local) pub.  And then remember, a pub is for life, not just for Christmas!

Si

BRAPA - North Shields to St James (more Metro adventures)

Reminiscing on Nobby Solano's Hull City days in the Strawberry

We were halfway through the day, and back on the Metro (pronounced Meh-rawwwwww for the benefit of my North American readers) to 'Shields.  Not South Shields this time, but North Shields.  A new one for me.

We passed something called Cullercoats that looked like an abandoned fairground, and Dad tried to make "colour code" jokes which were valiant but didn't quite work.  Can I just say I think the Metro map is misleading.  It makes it look as though there is a special Metro ferry that gets you directly from North to South Shields.  I don't think it exists.

Anyway, the pub was easy to find when you realised it wasn't a pub.

Bernard and the sentient carrier bag ready for part 2 of the day

1187 / 1933.  Exchange, North Shields

If, like me, you'd imagined North Shields to be full of coal-faced men with Davy Lamps munching pasties, talking to budgies in unintelligible accents, you may have felt a little bit let down that you had to enter a cafe bar, a performance venue, an 'arts and culture' centre.  So through the courtyard, into the entrance area, wipe your feet, turn right, and find a long bar and expectant young bar dude just as happy to serve a mean coffee (so my sources tell me) as a steady pale ale.  A couple in the corner seemed to be playing chess, "Alreet!" they exclaimed which first I thought was Geordie for 'check mate' but they were just being friendly, plus they weren't playing chess at all, the table was just chequered.  The place was warm and hospitable, which you may not expect on first glance, but it had a bit of quality about it.  Some of the artwork though, hmmmm, well let us just say that if it was meant to be Hull City players of old and not rock stars, it was just about acceptable.  They made the Newcy Brown owls in Tynemouth market look like Henry Moore's finest.   I gave Dad a mini pasty to rest on his coffee like an after dinner mint to try and recreate my utopian view of North Shields ruggedness, before it was time for the trip back towards the 'toon.

Pasty coffee combo, could catch on.

Paul Fewings and Stuart Elliott, I presume.

Ray Parlour and Ian Ashbee, probably.

It was just over 20 minutes to the end of the line at St James, where I had two pubs to tick off.  To my great relief, Newcastle were away at Arsenal otherwise it could've been interesting, I was doubly pleased because when they are at the Emirates, I'm nearly always stuck on a train with them on one of my Beds, Bucks, Berks adventures.

I fell asleep and Dad woke me up just as we got to St James, felt like we were practically on the centre circle, the pub was staring us straight in the face.

1188 / 1934.  Strawberry, Newcastle

With the Gallowgate end looming over the pub like an Ipswich sex offender over a prostitute on a dark stormy night, we walked inside to see it surprisingly busy, as I thought they'd all be in London like the die hards they are.  A man once told me Newcastle Utd were the "fourth biggest football club in the world", a 'fact' which still makes me chuckle and as a former Sunderland Uni student, I ordered my drink and headed straight for the loo where I whistled a tune I learnt about Alan Shearer whilst having a satisfying pee, but not poo, I'm saving them for micropubs in the future.  The locals smiled, so perhaps they didn't know the tune, but as we sat down amongst the football decor,  I was astonished that the two player photos facing me were former Hull City faves Nobby Solano and Steve Harper (or was it Shay Given, they are pretty much the same person).  Oh, and Steven Taylor but we don't count him cos he looks like the kind of man who goes to a pub once a year in a Christmas jumper.  This was like the Exchange all over again!  As the pub went, nice enough, beer probably my most average of the day, or I wasn't in the mood for a dark (would still be excellent in London), and when Jeff Stelling announced Ozil (always pronounced in a Hull accent) had scored against the hapless Toon, there was a one second pause whilst everyone registered the news and simply carried on talking.  Not a bad little boozer this, but the Sunderland part of me needed to leave.

Dad trying not to be sinister

A glimpse of Hull City in darkest Toon

Onto the final pub just down the road, around a corner, sort of.  Dad was very taken by the curved Victorian terrace, a very nice location, another one of his 50 he'd come to live in for 6 months .....

All set for final pub of the day

1189 / 1935.  Trent House, Newcastle

I've been trying to get here since BRAPA began, and what's been weird is that although the GBG always calls it "World Famous", as did the inn sign, whenever I talk to Newcastle pub 'experts', no bugger has ever heard of it!  But they should've.  This was the second best pub today, after Tynemouth.  Filled with two things, chatty bald men and beer mats.  Some people don't like beer mats stuck up in pubs (I think blue-tac is okay but sticking them down isn't), but for me it's normally a sign of a good one like the Ale House in Reading.  One of my biggest ever pub regrets is not pinching the 1970's Yorkshire Bank beermat off a wall in New Brittania, Preston in 2003.  It even had an owl on.   Even micropubs put beer mats up, usually about 15 to signify all the ales they've had on since they opened two weeks ago.    Trent House (which sounded like it should be in Nottingham) was a quite cavernous deep place, the set up and love of music reminded me a bit of a more spangly Free Trade just down the river.  Cheap quality ale, best jukebox in town they say, and I can't remember what we talked to baldman#5 about (think he had a wig) but he was great and it probably involved BRAPA at some point, but he did say I should go to the Broad Chare .... yes I know, it's in the GBG! 

Baldman#1 completes a beery transaction under blurry beermats

Baldman#3 and Baldman#4 laughing at losers with hair

So that was all very lovely.  Always rewarding coming up to Tyne & Wear and with only 11 pubs left and a January trip to Sunderland on the agenda, I'm looking at a 2018 finish even if the county doesn't begin with an early letter of the alphabet.  Steady on there!

Si

BRAPA - Oh Whitley Bay, Oh Whitley Bay, We'll Sing All Day

HMS BRAPA arrived in Tynemouth on a frosty December morning, where the good Cap'n Bernard 'Daddy' Everitt and myself stepped onto dry land to find what was a surprisingly large Metro station, engulfed by a huge market on each side.

What 'Craft' really means, Geordie style

After some cheap purchases by rucksack-less Bernard (no, not these above owls), we found our first pub on the left hand side of the main road.  A sign suggested we'd actually walked into North Shields, who'd have thought it?

1184 / 1929.  Tynemouth Lodge Hotel, Tynemouth

With it's tiled frontage and promise of quality Bass and errrm Deuchars, it certainly looked the part and from the second we entered, the warmest reception from a jolly couple, you could even excuse his hideous Christmas jumper.  We joined the "100% of people today" in ordering a Mordue 'Howay in a Manger', even the two old blokes admitted they had been wowed by such a Geordie Christmas pun.  I asked if we were really in North Shields, and within seconds, they were searching for a historical old map to prove we were - you don't get that in Luton.  The pub was carpeted, warm with a much welcome fire, a sign celebrating 30 years in the GBG from 1986-2015 (and still going) - and it was all so effortless, me and Dad had to ask why so many pubs struggle to recreate this same format.  Probably because it isn't really effortless, just a wonderful illusion created from three decades of hard work.  Dad was looking upwards, wondering if he could hire a 'room' and come and live here for 6 months, and then do the same in his 49 other favourite pubs.  It begged the question how long was this 70 year old planning on living?!  I rarely say this in the world of BRAPA, but leaving was a real wrench.  We knew we'd not get anywhere better.   Even the locals said "ho'way canny lads, this is the best pub in the area" so I had to explain BRAPA quickly and run out of the door before they'd registered my words.  Superb.  

I perched just to the right of the fire

Bloke 2 served by 'acceptable xmas jumper cos pub is good' landlord

Bloke 1 reads about pubs not being relevant in 21st century and laughs scornfully

Ho'way in a Manger being pulled.

Nice frontage (the pub isn't bad either hahaha)

Back at Tynemouth station, we dodged further market stalls and made it to Whitley Bay, a kind of cold North Eastern Bridlington with no people and more dog poo on the pavements than I've seen since I went to Portsmouth in 2010 where all the men looked like their shit-filled bulldogs.

In 'outer' Rotherham on my previous BRAPA trip, I told the assembled crowd I was going to Whitley Bay and they laughed, said "ouch" and took a sharp intake of breath.  Yes, this was in the Rotherham area.  So you can see why I wasn't expecting a sparkling seaside resort.

Pub one was just around the corner off the seafront.

1185 / 1930.  King George, Whitley Bay

Okay, so the words "total come down" was the elephant in the room on arrival, but top quality 'Ghost Ships' (cheeky name!) from the local Whitley Bay brewery for £2.75 a go was the high point, beer of the day.  "Care, they might be cloudy, they're ..... VEGAN!" we were warned as though it was a brand new word to Whitley Bay, but as it turned out, they weren't cloudy anyway.  I use this beery filler to my story because there was so little to say about the pub.  Bit chilly, your typical seaside 'bar', minimal.  Dad pointed to the use of flags and banners as a means of pub decor.  "Always the sign of a crap pub, lazy when they can't be bothered to decorate properly!" he said, and I couldn't argue.  The highlight pubwise were two grand German chairs, totally out of place in here you'd have to say.  The people were quite friendly though, and randomly, "Irish Pub" by The Rumjacks (a Scottish-Aussie folk punk band) played, possibly the most random BRAPA song heard in 2017.    On the way out, I went through the wrong door and scared a woman hiding in her crypt.  She scowled as the door hit her.  It was that kind of experience.  A bit like Harbour View in Sunderland without the charm.

On my German throne telling the scariest Jackanory story ever.

Sums up our struggles here.

We carried on down the road and turned left into the town proper, where a micropub was about to make an appearance like Jacob Marley knocking at your door in the middle of the night ......

Me with Dad's now famous carrier bag

1186 / 1931.  Dog & Rabbit, Whitley Bay

Well, well, well, despite the name and the type of pub it was, this was pretty wonderful from the moment the landlord (masquerading as a Texan hardcore punk band roadie) cleaned the windows energetically on arrival.  Then I noticed a carpet, something more micropubs need in my opinion, give 'em that "lived in" feel a bit quicker.  A friendly but watchful barmaid of red headband and lipstick served us whilst an "old character" with ponytail and army trousers told us he was 'quality controlling' the beers so he was working really.  We sat and enjoyed the warm comfort of this friendly little place, as nice Nosferatu (thanks Cooking Lager) tottered around and a man at the toilet made a comment about the weather, there was room for two side by side in the gents, in a micropub, another sign that this wasn't gonna score very highly on my micro bingo board!  Dad then made the 'schoolboy' BRAPA error of leaning back in his seat, smiling, letting out a sigh and declaring "this is really nice, so calm and relaxing".  With the vortex now open, it was no surprise to me when 5 seconds later, a chap walked in with his bobble hatted wife (twife), twild and twog.  The twog was yapping all the way to the bar.  "Don't worry, it shuts up after a while!" declared the bloke, to which I asked Dad whether he meant dog, child or wife.  The twild was exploring the premises like Martyn Hillier on a watchdog inspection, turns out he was called "Noah".  "NOAH, UGH, WHAT A NAME!" shouted me and Dad in unison, temporarily forgetting micropubs are small.  I coined the term "Noah's Bark" which summed up this group of interlopers, and it was time to depart.  Top pub.

The vortex family 

Most of the pub legends in one photo

Typical micropub humour

We made our way back to the station, hard part of the day complete, still three pubs to do in today's quest as we travelled back down the line towards the 'Toon.  Join me tomorrow for the write up of that one, am trying to split my Saturday's in two to make reading them a bit easier! 

Lots of love and beery kisses, 

Si

BRAPA - Santa is a Merry Miller (A Festive Rotherham Tale)

After last Friday's successful trip to the Barnsley area, I didn't want Rotherham to feel neglected, so with just four South Yorkshire pubs left to 'tick' in the 2018 GBG, off I set from L**ds after work on another bitter Friday evening.

I'm quite enjoying this Friday 'ticking' lark as an alternative to Tuesday.  Plus points being (a) pubs are more likely to be open, lively & full of 'characters' (b) I get a good consecutive few days off the beer which must be better for mi' poor ole' liver, and (c) the early part of the week seems to go quicker, and the working week somehow feels less drawn out and painful. 

So this could be a regular 'thing' in 2018, though I've stumbled into it kind of accidentally. 

Rotherham Interchange was feeling harsh and threatening as I arrived, and after a coffee to keep me awake and a quick pee in a giant Tesco, I joined a queue of hardy looking weather beaten folk for the X1 bus going out east of centre.  The first pub was set back off the main road looking warm and welcoming ......

1182 / 1928.  Three Horseshoes, Wickersley 

Of course, it is Christmas Party season and as i approached the bar, I was given the first dilemma of the night as a sign asked me "North Pole (left side) or South Pole (right side)?"  The North Pole had the guest ales, some bench seating, blokes, a twild, two women glowing by a fruit machine and the odd person eating their evening meal.  The South Pole had standard ales, Christmas decorations, a gaggle of blonde party ladies all dolled up for the evening, and two old blokes sneering at said decorations.  It felt a bit less 'pubby' but also a bit more 'real' which is quite a contradiction.  A blonde party lady smiled, necked her drink, then they all left.  This cleared the way to a quiet alcove seating the old blokes.  A barmaid had served me a pint of TT Landlord (good quality, SBS B) and a table was wiped for me.  Barmaid was on top form, offering me a choice of straight or handled glass, and a CAMRA discount - she can spot a CAMRA twat (Twamra) a mile off.   I like South Yorkshire, a very 'giving' part of the world, didn't even have to flash my card.  The rest of the staff wore black and white striped shirts like Newcastle fans, how unsavoury!  So I'd chosen South Pole and felt right at home, even if a few Xmas Jumper Wankers did edge their considerable arses into my space temporarily.  No-one wanted to sit down, despite available seating, like they'd somehow not be in the Christmas spirit if they did!  The two guys finally plucked up courage to ask what a boy like me was doing in a place like this, so I gave them the full BRAPA treatment and they rolled their eyes when I said I didn't dislike this place!  They told me the next pub also offered a discount and it was 'not bad' (a ringing endorsement from this duo I reckon).

The decision is there to be made

"We're the South Pole Three Horseshoes!"

Me and the alcove blokes

Glowing by the light of the fruit machine

A girl's damaged hand after slipping on ice (random BRAPA public safety warning)

Luckily, there was a subway underpass thing to get across the main road, and the bus turned up a few mins delayed to ferry me down t'road to Broom, which comes under Rotherham itself in the GBG as it is a bit nearer town.  The outlook of the pub was fairly similar to before, just on a roundabout too for added peril.

By the light of the stag

1183 / 1929.  Stag, Broom, Rotherham

I confidently strode up to the pub and said 'ow do to the three wise men you see lurking in the doorway.  I was feeling like a proper South Yorks boss by now, buoyed by the last pub experience, if only I'd worn my string vest, got a crew cut, brought my whippet, hand-me-down-toothbrush and ordered a pint of Stones, I'd have been living the dream.  Sadly, the cute brunette barmaid was equally quick to identify me as a Twamra, mainly cos I didn't use the favoured buzz phrase "pint o' Carling luv", so I pre-empted the 'CAMRA discount' question and soon we were chatting on the Three Horseshoes, to which she scowled and said "ugh, it's like Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares in there, I'm poaching all their staff!" which was both cryptic and potentially sinister enough to leave me puzzled.  In fact, over the course of the evening, a few people said "Three Horseshoes?  That's the one still doing food isn't it?" as though food in pubs is soooo last century.  I WISH!  Our brunette whippersnapper was now on the other side of the bar cleaning tables, noting my confused expression as half the pub was in darkness and reserved.  "A band are playing, but they are half an hour late!" she explained, so I sat in a bravely high octane seat close to the bar and admired the same tacky Christmas decorations they'd had in the last pub.  It soon looked like I'd sat there purposefully to watch the football as Sheff Wed v Wolves appeared in my eyeline.  A rumbustious Sheff Utd fan sat down with me, and reckoned he'd rather watch his side lose 2-3 and play entertaining football than win 1-0 and be dull.  I don't expect Sheff Utd fans to act like real human beings, but this just felt wrong.  As I got the GBG and green highlighter out, a nice man called Richard stood behind us was like "you BRAPA innit?!" (to paraphrase him) and said he follows me on Twitter which is nice.  He was a Sheff Wed fan the poor thing, as Wolves were looking a class above already, but I had a bus to dash for, the band I noticed were finally setting up but the entire pub seemed to give zero shits, perhaps this changed later on.....

These men have never been offered a CAMRA discount

A man sits and contemplates life

The football's about to start, better pretend to be interested

How much tip did I leave for the staff?

The bus turned up late again, and though I vaguely flirted with the idea of getting a bus out to Kimberworth for another tick, I decided to rest with a half (best beer of the night) in the wonderfully underrated Bridge with it's excellent landlord, locals and amazing drippy toilets.  How this isn't in the GBG this year and the Rhinoceros is, well Rotherham CAMRA must know something I don't!

I could live in here

'Twas a good night and I got mi sen back to York via L**ds ready for Saturday's trip up to Tyneside.

Si

 

BRAPA : The Thing from Tring (Part 2)

More Brilliant Pub Folk of Tring

So just to re-cap, it had been a tough start to the day.  Dagnall had been mean spirited, Aldbury a total let down, but at the King's Arms in Tring, I'd finally found reasons to be cheerful as somebody once sang.  Could the Castle (or was it Caaaaarstle?) live up to it?  The above picture tells you all you need to know, but here goes anyway.

1179 / 1925.   Castle, Tring

With the late fading already and no Hull City updates yet from Dad, I wandered in to find a very similar experience.  Two characterful blokes at the bar, but this pub was arguably even more welcoming than the King's Arms.  "You a Luton fan then?" says one guy, pushing me in the neck where my now famous orange scarf was wrapped around me.  "Nahhh, Hull City!" I said, almost proudly.  "'Ull, Ull, Ull" chants the guy and starts jigging around.  The more sedate man on the left glances over.  "You wouldn't know he was a secret millionaire who owns his own company would you?" he says to me.  I admit I wouldn't have picked it.  "And that's what is great about this pub ..." he continues, warming to his theme, "anyone can be anyone 'ere, it don't matter!" The barmaid seems lovely too, less impatient than the old one down the road, she tells me that if she had mince pies (she didn't), I'd definitely have been offered one.  We chat BRAPA, millionaires, and slag off almost every pub in Bucks and Herts between us.  It is perfect therapy.  "I've got a lifetime ban from the Red Lion at Dagnall" the secret millionaire proudly tells me, "bunch of inbred weirdos in there, very unfriendly place!" This is music to my ears after the morning I had.  They even agree the Valiant Trooper isn't so great, but tell me my next pub, the Robin Hood, is.  I think there's a link between here and there.  It was one of those "if you ask for so-and-so and say someone sent ya, and scratch your nose at right angles, you'll get a cheap taxi back to the station, save you that 40 min walk!" they tell me when I admit my six pub aim is in jeopardy.  I don't remember much about ale or pub other than I liked both, but it doesn't matter when the people are this good.

Their more serious expressions

The short walk to my final Tring pub brings news from Dad, Hull City were losing 0-1, then it was 1-1-1, now it was 3-1.  What's going on? 

Christmas Teddy brings pub into disrepute

Another less festive angle

1180 / 1926.  Robin Hood, Tring

So Fullers then.  They always manage to sneak a pub into your day when you least expect it, never mind though cos I got a winter guest called "Wise Men".  A Hull City omen perhaps to get them through to full time, not cos of former player Scott Wiseman because Nick Barmby was once asked his favourite song.  He responded "Wisemen by Elvis".  Classic Barmbs.  I couldn't hack a third Tring experience like the last two, I was exhausted, and whilst this pub had a warm friendly air, it was less basic and rugged, a bit more demure, so random chatter perhaps didn't lend itself to the place quite so easily.  Having said that. two minutes after ordering my pint, I remembered I could get an ultra cheap efficient taxi to help me make up time, but needed to act quick.  Well, the barman was on it like a car bonnet, showing me the phone, letting me hear the call, and this was after a few locals all got involved and said if the timing was different, they'd ran me back.  WHY IS TRING SO FRIENDLY?  I'm honestly a bit in love with the place.  And here was me thinking it was just another town!   Hull City had conceded and were threatening to mess it up, as I perched in an alcove radiator thing with an old duffer, I didn't want to get dragged into dining central, someone might buy me a drink, kiss me or give me a tenner knowing Tring, it was like Dublin in July 2000 without the Corrs or Harp lager.  That's the best thing I can compare it to.  The taxi was here, my Wisemen had gone down a treat.

"Waaahs men (by Elvis)"

Locals probably discussing who loves me the most

Crazy green dude almost offered me a life, alcove radiator oldie didn't.

The area of the pub I didn't want to get lured into.

And the feel good factor continued as the the train was 2 mins delayed, meaning I got the connection to Euston easily, plus Hull City had won for 5th time since like ever, all against rubbish teams beginning with a B.  Hurrah! 

I'd forgotten my Oyster, so my sixth pub had to be walkable from Euston / Kings Cross area.  I still had one to do in Bloomsbury.  I've been lucky recently with the "London Saturday night pubs".  We've had the Seven Stars at Chancery Lane, the Wenlock at Hoxton and the Calthorpe Arms at Bloomsbury, all good pubs.  Compare that to the 2016/17 shit-fest I encountered on a monthly basis.  Could this be another good one?

1181 / 1927.  Lamb, Bloomsbury

Had the staff not been so lackadaisical and served me in a timely manner on arrival (let's face it, despite the busy atmosphere, I was stood almost unchallenged with enough room to swing a twog), I'd have been able to grab the green corner bench seat and this could've been so different.  But by the time I finally had my disappointing pint of Redemption Blah Blah Blah in my hand, a guffawing bunch of cat women had taken the seat and I was left with what can only be described as one of longest fruitless 'tours' of any pub building to find a place to sit.  What a decent sized pub for London, I thought, as I went up the traditional narrow staircase to an upper room, thinking I'd struck gold, when a bearded Scottish wanker walks over and says "och aye, private party, sorry mate".  I paused, looked him in the eye, took an overly dramatic sip of my sub-standard ale.  He looked petrified thinking I was gonna protest / stand my ground, but then I finally said "ok, no problem" and walked off.  The Scots breathed a sigh of relief, cracked open the Special Brew, got out their thistle whistles and cranked up the Proclaimers to 11, and I walked downstairs disconsolately,  and wedged myself pathetically between a nice etched glass thing and what the GBG tells me is a working polyphon.  This place was suffering from the classic 'probably a lovely pub if it wasn't for the crowdedness'. 

Nice toilets, nearly drank my pint in here.

Polyphon thing

Etched mirror ruined by baldie, he's probably Scottish

Hologram serves people coffee to speed up staff productivity

My beer had taken an age to drink, and I had to power through to make the train back from Kings Cross, which I did after slipping over a cobbled pavement slab straight onto my front teeth.  Ouch!  I looked like I'd had collagen implants all the way home!