Strand

OK, let’s get something straight. It’s not “The” Strand, or Strand “Street” or Strand “Road” or any other combination of road related words, it’s simply “Strand”.

See - Strand. Now move on.

OK, clear enough? That does mean of course the composers of “Let’s all go down The Strand”, a certain Harry Castling and C. W. Murphy no less, have a lot to answer for but maybe we should forgive them their poetic license. Perhaps the “ ‘ave a banana!” chorus didn’t scan right without the all-important “the”.

Anyway we digress much too much and we should concentrate on the beginnings of the red topped squares and the start of our third side of the board.

For those of you who are glued to every episode of this famous saga you’ll remember that when we did the first of the Chance squares we inadvertently encroached onto Strand (sounds weird with the “the” doesn’t it?) already but luckily for the tour there are lots of possibilities along this street and a nice conglomerate of three pubs at the east end of the street seemed to excuse us the necessity of any repetitions.

But before we slake our thirst at the first of these hostelries we need a quick word about why we were out on a Tuesday night which in anyone’s book is hardly the party night of the week. In short other engagements between me and Aussie Pete (that’s engagements we each had, not an engagement between the two of us!) meant no other day this week could be arranged and it was either go on Tuesday or miss the tour for the week. As we hadn’t had a “proper” tour last week I was keen to ensure we didn’t miss a week and although at first the lads all moaned and groaned it was a still a very well respectable if not understandable but definitely comfortable 4 of us who set off for the legal district of Temple and the three pubs which I'd arranged for tonight's sojourn.

First on the list was the ancient George on the actual Strand itself. Currently run by the Capital Pub Company, a smallish chain of 35 pubs across London. This is a marvellous "ye olde world" half-timbered building which looks to have been here since the great fire but was actually built much more recently give or take a couple of years.

Outside the George - Rubbish photo doesn't do it justice.

The inside is just as amazing as the exterior with low black beams, stained glass partitions and an amazing selection of 9 or so gleaming real ale pumps. The purple legginged barmaid quickly served Aussie Pete and me a lovely dark pint of Dark Star Stout, whilst New Guy Micky ducked out of my recommendation circle and plumped for a pretty average pint of Fosters. At least Spiky haired Ed pushed the boat out somewhat by choosing a pint of Meantime London Lager which he declared to be "very nice". A compliment of the highest order no less, especially from someone who thinks fine dining is picking up a rotisserie chicken from Waitrose! The Cask Marque certificate was easily spotted on the wall just next to the doorway and in terms of scans we were off to a flying start.

Although the pub is an amazing building, unfortunately it does have a slight tourist feel about the place, as if it's almost theme parked to look like an “ye olde world” English pub rather than being the authentic thing. That's a shame because it's much more than that and shouldn’t need to play on this sort of thing.

By George! The range of pumps inside the George

As previously attempted with other pubs, I'd tweeted the pub yesterday that I would be in with the tour, hoping for a red carpet welcome, but unfortunately it wasn't until we were long gone down the lane to pub number three that I saw they had actually re-tweeted the tweet and, high five glasses in the air, actually "favoured" my tweet also. So although we've still not achieved the accolade of being welcomed into a pub by the power of the Tweet, this was at least a step in the right direction. (Quick postscript on this factor – when looking at the George’s website when arriving home it was my Untappd Tweet that was featured on their page!)

Fame at last!

We moved on and slipped silently down the next door passage of Devereux Court into The Devereux itself. This is a secret and silent Taylor Walker pub, tucked round the end of a side street so unobtrusively that almost no-one would know it's there. Which is a shame because it's a little quiet oasis only a couple of hundred metres away from the West End but yet has a local feel about it that The George would probably give its right arm for. That said of course, if everyone knew where it was it wouldn't be a quiet oasis, but leaving stating the obvious aside, it's still a nice tidy place. Unfortunately for all the merits of it's quietness and speed of service, the Hispanic barman couldn't lead us to the certificate and although he threw us a line of "ah, yes, there was someone yesterday looking for it but we don't know where it is", it smacked more of desperation that actual customer concern. Aussie Pete managed to record my bar pump pose for posterity so once again we'll have to rely on Magical Trevor to add to the scans, which also is a shame because Spiky haired Ed was on course for his 25^th scan and that would mean celebrating his Cask Marque bottle opener!

Feel pity for Trevor - This is going to land on his desk sometime today!

One beer did for us at the Devereux and it was only a short hop down Little Essex Street to the oddly named Cheshire Cheese for our third and final visit of the night. Now I say "oddly" but in reality it seems that this is a not uncommon name for a pub. Firstly, not too far away in Fleet Street there is a much more well know pub called the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, a Sam Smith's emporium which boasts such historical luminaries as Samuel Johnson and Charles Dickens having drank, played dominos, arm-wrestled and flicked dry roasted peanuts at each other in times past. Also there's another pub called Cheshire Cheese just further along to the east in Crutched Friars, not a million miles away from our work place (which we'll be visiting on the Fenchurch Street Station stop in a couple of weeks time – so stay tuned!). So quite why we have plenty of pubs named after this particular brand of fermented curds and not after Cheddar, Gloucester or Leicester I'm not too sure……..answers on a postcard please.

Outside

Inside

Anyway this particular Cheshire Cheese is a lovely little boozer (with a ceiling full of chamber pots) again seemingly tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Theatre Land. Obviously it was a Tuesday night so perhaps fearing crowds of swilling drinkers was a wrong assumption but the local type feel to the place was a lovely difference to some of the pubs we've been in lately. The Cask Marque certificate was on display right next to where we chose to sit (well actually there was no choice, it was the only free table) but it allowed Aussie Pete and I to pull a classic pose for the  tour and showed off Aussie Pete's bright yellow jumper to the best of its garish and  gaudy ability.

Note manly difference in Movember 'taches

One pint led into two and two led into three, especially as New Guy Micky kept the salt and vinegar crisps flowing and charging each new round to his credit card, which certainly was generous if not a little misguided.

It was perhaps one of the more sedate evenings on the tour and certainly I was able to put my new tablet to good use typing the story up on the train home rather than the last time I tried to use it and it looked like a cross between a Tourettes sufferer and Stephen Hawkins had tried to type up the adventure.

A final postscript – Those of an observant nature will see that the appearance of the blog has changed somewhat – This new styling is all down to the design skill of New Guy Micky and my skill at wheedling this marvellous work for free. Micky is available for all types of design work and can be contacted at his cousin’s strip club……………..

Number of Cask Marque Pubs visited = 108 (with one to come)

Fashion Advice = Yellow isn’t always mellow

Relationship Advice = Don’t play ‘Indecent Proposal’ with Spiky haired Ed

Next Stop = Chance #2

Chance? #1

Just as when I encountered the first Community Chest square, I was left slightly wondering what to do for Chance? There were some obvious suggestions, stick a pin in the tube map, or use Google's “I feel lucky” search to find somewhere, but it was Aussie Pete who came up with the pearling idea of visiting the National Lottery offices of Camelot.

Apparently they used to have offices just off Piccadilly Circus, but now seemed to have moved all their main functions to Watford, no doubt saving them millions of pounds in the process, but they have kept a small Corporate Affair presence in the capital, located in Brettenham House, just on the end of Waterloo Bridge. So it was on a glorious sunny Thursday evening that I confused tourists by having my portrait was taken for prosperity, clutching my lucky Euro Millions ticket for the following day.

"Who wants to be a millionaire?" - Well I have to replace a rail ticket now!

I was accompanied by the same group who had visited the Angel Islington, minus Spiky haired Ed who had decided to join a rival works outing. So we were without the youth but at least we wouldn’t either be delayed for hair styling reasons, or get knocked over by London transport.

First notable point of the visit was the amazingly attractive young lady on the tube whose short summer dress and gravity defying cleavage rendered us all into giggling schoolboys. The walk from Embankment tube through Victoria Embankment Gardens was no better with seemingly crowds of young nubile females descending on the capital for no other reason than to make 4 middle aged men question their moralities.

Once the photo op was captured outside the Camelot offices, it was just a short walk across The Strand into The Wellington, a well positioned Nicholson’s pub, right next door to the Lyceum Theatre for all those thirsty Lion King visitors.

The Wellington - Note lack of mash outside.

It’s certainly an attractive pub, with lovely original features, long wooden bar, moulded ceilings, and neo-gothic exterior. Ok, I got that from the website, but it’s all true! Alas the experience wasn’t up to the expectation. Firstly, there was no Cask Marque certificate to be found, the first barman I asked didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, I might as well have been asking for a barium enema and the second guy earnestly took me to the Cask Marque sign outside the pub. Once I’d explained that I needed the certificate with the QR code he fell into that last retreat of all bemused staff – “Oh, I’m not sure then. You’ll need to come back tomorrow and speak to the boss, she’ll know where it is.” Well, she might know where it is, but she should have it on the wall and she should have told you what it’s all about! 2/10, try harder and how about serving decent potions of mash with your sausage and mash?

Charlie demands more mash in his pint at the Wellington.

Leaving as soon as we could, it was a quick hop back across the Strand, into Savoy Street and the fantastically named Savoy Tup. This, from the exterior signage would seem to be an old Young’s pub but seems to be an independent free house now. The interior is light and fresh and alongside the selection of ales was quite a range of lagers, including one I’d certainly never heard of before, Brauhaus Riegele. The website calls it an “ale” but I’d suggest it’s a standard Bavarian Pilsner, but whatever, it came in a brilliant handled mug and was cool and refreshing on a hot evening. The jolly barmaid also seemed very chuffed that someone was scanning the Cask Marque code (note to the Wellington – there it was proudly displayed on the wall!) – “It never works for me” she commented, grinning when I showed her the pub now sitting in my list of pubs visited.

Savoy Tup, note handled glass resting on belly. Note rail pass falling out of pocket.

The pub was heaving with other drinkers and we stood outside to enjoy our drinks and it was at this point I innocently placed my suit jacket over the top of my man-bag to free up a hand and made the mistake of the evening which was only noticed when we reached the final pub, The Coal Hole a hundred yards further west down the Strand.

My rail pass was gone! I can only presume it had tumbled out of my inverted suit jacket pocket but however it had actually disappeared there was no sign of it even after retracing our steps a couple of times. This obviously brought somewhat of a dampener onto the evening, no matter how many times the boys tried to take my mind off it. Even a fine pint of Purity’s Mad Goose ale, another easy Cask Marque capture from the wall (Wellington, looking at you here!) and a bottle of Duvel failed to raise my spirits and I rather missed all the fine points of the Coal Hole in my depression.

The only photo of the Coal Hole. This was my depressed expression rendered impossible by the botox-ing property of the Duvel

There was a last minute stay of execution for “good times” when a chatty American girl in McDonald’s was tempted by my Hot Chilli Sauce (?) but this was soon snuffed out by the £4.20 charged to go from Embankment to Paddington (get a grip Boris!) and the rail replacement coach laid on by First Great Western.

So much for chance hey!

Number of Cask Marque Pubs visited  = 44

Rallying cry for the next visit = More Mash Now!

Did we miss Spiky haired Ed? = Too bloody right. None of this would have happened if he’d been there with his jack the lad attitude and devil may care trousers.

Next Stop = Euston Road

P.S. There is an obvious Post Script to this in that I now realise I’ve visted three pubs in The Strand when of course I have to visit The Strand later in the tour. Hopefully there’ll be another Cask Marque pub somewhere along the street!