The Exmouth Arms, Fitzrovia, London

Pub #2295:

The staff at the Exmouth Arms were rude assholes but at least they were British (unlike the American Tragedy we left an hour earlier).  Similarly, the drinks were double the price they needed to be (and triple the price in the Midlands); but, at least the place had seats and no pretentions of “craft beer elegance” or “Millennial hipster cool” or whatever the fuck was going on across town.

Sad that this is the only local in this neighbourhood now that the magnificent Bree Louise is gone.  But, with gentrification this is the pub the neighbourhood deserves.

The Crown and Shuttle, Hackney, London

Pub #2294:

Technically, in Hackney but also within The Square Mile, The Crown and Shuttle looked promising from the outside.  Inside, too, initially as we walked the plank flooring to the old wooden bar.  “Are you ordering food?” the snide American asked us.

“No,” I said pointing at the taps in front of him then arcing my finger across the liquor shelved behind; “drinks, please.”

“The drinkers’ bar is in there,” he said in a tone that implied, “dumbass.”

We walked past more Americans rather enjoying the floor seating (mats …  on the floor … in a boozer).  The American at the next bar begrudgingly served us overpriced tipple while some autotune atrocity blared from the speakers.

“This is what happens when we try to do things that tourists do,” I said.

“Never again,” J agreed as we hurriedly left to find an actual pub.  Or, a British one, at least.

The Rochester Castle, Stoke Newington, London

Pub #2293:

After such a lovely site as the Princess Louise, I was happy that quite another gorgeous, Victorian boozer crossed my path as I tried to run off the meat sweats from the previous night’s feast.  However, the Rochester Castle‘s light is currently cloaked outside by scaffolding so, to get a feel for it, I was forced to enter.  Damn the luck.

“Is the bar open?”
“Not for ten minutes,” the manager replied after consulting the cash register display.
“Coffee, please.” He handed me a cup and pointed me to the refillable coffee station.
“Anything else?”
“Not for ten minutes.”
“Nine minutes, now, sir,” he said with a smile and returned to his table to continue the chat I had interrupted.

It’s rare to find such a well preserved public house as this one in a run down neighbourhood like this, but when Wetherspoons puts in the effort it does things right.

A bloke wandered in from the pavement and checked his watch.  He headed to the bar and was served but the barman withheld the beer whilst watching the register for 10 or 12 more seconds, then taking his cash and handing over the glass in one move.  Ballet.  And, farce all at once.

What this espresso could use, I thought, was a double shot of bourbon.  Now that it was past 9, I decided to set things right.

 

Gökyüzü, Haringey, London

All I can say about Gökyüzü is, “oh my fucking god!”  This … was … lovely.  The huge house (like a half dozen other Turkish restaurants up and down the Ladder), was rammed and lively and efficient and tasty and one of the better dining and cultural experiences you can hope for in London (at least, without remortgaging the house AND cashing in your retirement funds).

Jackie was typically skeptical but took my advice that this would be good (and roughly in the neighbourhood we were staying on the weekend).

There must’ve been two hundred people in the rooms we could see and they still found a table for us. Before we even sat down, a massive platter of salad appeared with some dill infused yoghurt and a giant bowl of pita. Jackie had chicken and I a mixed lamb and chicken doner. We did some calamari to start and wound up with some olives and pomegranate.

The Princess Louise, Holborn, London

Pub #2292:

“My function is not to reassure people. I want to make them uncomfortable. To send them out of the place arguing and talking.” – Ewan MacColl

I’ve suggested the Princess Louise to (easily) a dozen foreign visitors staying in the area but, despite Jackie working not a block and a half away for nearly a year nor my on-foot journeys dragging me past it off and on for the better part of a decade, I’ve never popped in for a beverage. Until last Saturday on the way to the Alexei Sayle recording, that is.

It didn’t disappoint. Little rooms circle the bar making it possible, at slow times, to have a bit of privacy.  These are really like having your own, private bar…they aren’t called “a snug” for nowt.

Cut glass, dark wood, and ceramic is everywhere.  A real gem of an old timey boozer.

But, as Jackie pointed out, its proximity to Denmark Street and the run-down nature of the area in the 1950s made this the perfect venue for some of the folk music clubs during the British Folk Music Revival of the time (see Ewan MacColl as one of the progenitors).  Even on a sunny afternoon, you can feel that atmosphere oozing from the oak panelling.  Reassuring, despite Mr. MacColl’s best intentions.

We left, indeed talking but not arguing, from this venue of one famous communist to catch our gigs of another famous communist…the revolution may not be televised but I believe it is being broadcast this autumn on the unlikely venue of Radio 4.

The Fountain, Seven Sisters, London

Pub #2291:

Nearly a week behind on things as I’m running on IPT (Italian People Time).  Writing this up whilst sitting in the Rome Fiumicino departure area with a bottle of wine and some nearly raw beef masquerading as a salad because it has hearts of plam and some green leaves under it and mozzarella and balamico on top (my life sucks):

The bar at the Fountain in Seven Sisters is a proper boozer and filled with barflies and proper boozehounds. While we awaited a receipt for our room (we had to pay cash despite some of the drinkers using cards and they seemed taken aback that we wanted proof of purchase — again, after a week in Rome, this doesn’t seem so strange) we had some libations to celebrate our triumphal return to the outskirts of The City.

We thought the bar was loud but were surprised that we could still hear it in our space as our room was on the far side of the building and two floors up. Turned out there were a couple of parties going on in the immediate neighbourhood until about 3am.

The room was very hot as there was only a small window and no other ventilation. With the party noise and the meat-and-alcohol sweats (we had several bottles of wine with a pizza lunch and Turkish feast supper plus some other beverages before retuning to the Fountain for the evening), I did not awake refreshed.  On the bright side, they did origami the hell out of our towels:

 

 

Alexei Sayle’s Imaginary Sandwich Bar taping

“Behold my sandwich bar
With baps at bargain prices,
Where all you cheats and thieves and liars
Come for rolls and custard slices.
‘Cause humanity
Is cant and vanity,
But underneath it all, a man’s a man which
Does enjoy his daily sandwich…”

We went to see two recordings of Alexei Sayle’s Imaginary Sandwich Bar this weekend.  The tickets were free but we let a room and ate out at some grand restaurants and had to pay for transport.  Worth every pence, too.  I still think Buck Henry is my long lost father, but Alexei HAS to be a distant cousin — mad as a bag of cats.

About 250 of us got in, easily 200 of us between my age and Alexei and fat bastards every one of us.

 

2018: Is it over, yet?

Just emerging from the holiday house move and realised it is a new year.  No big year end review, this time…just these notes.

Running:  I logged just over 1000 miles this year, roughly half an average effort due in large part to injuries (right leg and hip soft tissue early on and back strain (and possibly a fracture) from a tumble down some stairs under a heavy piece of furniture during the house move last week).  Best bits were the TFL Run Project runs.  Shit.

Family:  Our 33rd anniversary was Monday night/Tuesday morning and that has to be the best thing for us as a couple since the 32nd anniversary.  The mother-in-law, and one each of Jackie’s aunts and uncles died this year.  And, my cat.  Shit.

Pubs: 160 new pubs this year (99 of which were on runs despite the months in recovery); the total now stands at 2198.  They were mostly in London, of course, but I look forward to 2019 in Brum for new territory.  It was a bland year for pubs this go round and none really stood out.  I liked the Red Lion in Chipping Norton well enough to remember it and I made many return visits to the SW9 in Brixton (mostly as neutral territory for meeting a shady character or two) but, in general … shit.

Work: I am currently unemployed (new job starts next week).  The 2018 job (which I have had, essentially, since 2009) has sucked for the last 4 years.  Leaving it was the best thing I’ve done in a long time.  Eat shit, Oxford.

Now less than 2 weeks from our 10th year here, we’re ready for better things.  It can’t get much worse than 2018, I reckon (famine, violent weather, unrest, and whatnot notwithstanding).  2019 holds a bit of promise.

Phoenix, Denmark Hill, London

Pub #2198:

Station pubs are a sub-genre I’m especially fond of but I don’t think the Phoenix qualifies.  It is in the old Denmark Hill Station building but the building is adjacent to (and no longer part of ) Denmark Hill Station.

Still, it’s gorgeous and a good place to kill an hour of a Melancholy Monday afternoon.

Melancholy is one of those Old People’s words you never think you will utter yourself.  The only people I ever heard it from were aristocratic southerners (US Southerners…Deep South) way back in the 60s to mid-70s; they used it to bemoan the way Jim Crow Laws were being overturned and/or women were getting all uppity and/or no one respects them for owning all the land and means of production anymore.  They’re all dead, now (scumbags).

It is not a benign state to be in, but not nearly so bad as the deep, dark depression I’ve been climbing out of these last three months. And in a lot of ways that SHOULD make me feel uncomfortable, it is unwelcome change thrust upon me (and, that I am just about managing) that melancholia is exploiting.

I have friends at work, in London (in the buurt, in fact), and across a strip of real estate stretching from Bristol to Swindon to Oxford to Ely and Cambridge that I feel like I am putting behind me on this move.  I’ve worked hard to know all those areas like the back of my hand.  I’ve had a laugh or two.

I had things important to me end before and reckon there is more of the same in whatever time I have left (no one ever thought I’d live to 30 which happened more than a quarter century ago).  And, this will pass.  Melancholy is bittersweet, as was this superb IPA in the Phoenix … there, now I feel guilty for whining about it.

Happy Christmas, y’all.  And, as for the New Year: I have ashes from which to rise.

Jimmy’s Plaice, Brixton, London

 

Killing time after a meet-up at a hospital that’s part of King’s College London up the road, I spotted Jimmy’s Plaice and realised I was a bit peckish.  I didn’t need this much food but I was still pretty hungry.  “What are you looking for?  Fish?” asked, I assume, Jimmy.  I nodded, still scanning the hot box.  “All cooked fresh.  10 minutes.”  Excellent, I thought.

 

 

I was right, too. It tasted and smelled like there were beef drippings in the fryers, the fish was succulent, and the chips were absolute heaven.  A few streets east of the Brixton Market, if you’re in the area.