Super Tax

Can the last tour have really taken place on the 5th of May? Can it really have been 3 weeks since we last went out for a drink? Could it really be that no-one reads my emails?

Well the sad truth is that's exactly right, although some of the delay in getting this particular square finally completed wasn't all down to a lack of enthusiasm to venture out once again and had a lot to do with scheduling it to revolve around someone's busy diary and permission to go out being granted from their mum.

Just some of tonight's tourists. The biggest tour ever. Come on Jesus, snuggle in - we don't bite!

 

For those who have lost the plot as to where exactly on the board we are as we limp like a wounded lobster round the final squares of the game, we've hit the penultimate square, Super Tax, that dreaded penalty square that separates the two most expensive properties and leaps up and grabs you just before you hit Go.

Readers may remember that we did a tax square once before when we visited Income Tax although that now seems many moons away in the dim and distant past that a much younger BGC and an infant Spikey Haired Ed completed 3 pubs along the south bank of the Thames.

Determined not just to visit another HRMC office again I was casting around for different inspiration for completing the Super Tax square when Big J suggested that perhaps the "Tax" could be short for taxidermy and maybe there was a pub with a massive stuffed hippo in the front bar. Well they may not pay their own taxes (topical joke there) but the evil people at Google do provide the possibility to type in the words "pub" "taxidermy" and "London" and discover that there's a place just north of Moorgate called The Jugged Hare, which not only is Cask Marque accredited but has a whole back bar full of stuffed furry things. So it was only left to suggest a date and as Big-J had come up with such a sterling idea it would have been most churlish not to deny him the opportunity to attend especially when he had a conference appointment at "The Brewery" which is literally just next door to the pub.

More about "the Brewery" later......

But if they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder then not touring for so long must make the taste buds thirstier as when the date finally came around there was a huge gang full of tourists ready to hit the road once more, and like a massive dysfunctional family we eventually stepped out on a humid Tuesday evening to sample again the delight of  ye olde London Town. You'll pick up who was actually there as we proceed but just a quick mention of a new face in the throng in fresh faced Nick who shall be known as "Jesus Christ Fenton". (This was Charlie’s idea, not mine.)

The Globe

 

As previously mentioned, The Jugged Hare is not far from Moorgate station so I'd arranged a pub right outside this place that we could visit before we would move on to the joys of the stuffed vertebrates. Moorgate is also not a million miles away from our offices so we took the option to walk there rather than risk the vagaries of the Circle Line during rush hour. The Globe is a big corner Nicholson’s pub and one that Buddy Rob is most familiar with as it's a pre or post match watering hole when's he's going "up the gunners". He promised the place would be rammed and his words proved sadly prophetic even though I thought that a Tuesday evening might promise to be less busy.

By the time the longer than expected walk got us there, we ended up arriving in separate parts as Charlie and Jesus had strode ahead whilst the rest of us waited for menu-collecting (don't ask) and cash point using. Aussie Pete was also making his own way to meet us there as he had visitors over from down under that he was bringing along on the tour.

The Cask Marque certificate nailed behind the bar at the Globe.

 

As previously noted the place was quite full with drinkers spilling out onto the pavement and it took far too long to get served. When our group finally got the attention of someone (after a tetchy exchange between the Irish barman and me) it was 4 pints of Old Man from Long Man Brewery, 2 halves of Old Man, Becks for Ed and bottle of Peroni for Buddy Rob. The Old Man didn't go down well........amidst comments of how it smelt, tasted and even looked like an Old Man, the bitter coffee roast wasn't winning any fans amongst the girls. Personally I thought it to be a fine brew but I'll give credit to Nicole, Brenda and Gemma all finishing their pints even though Gemma looked to be winning a Somerset gurning competition.

Mmmm, I love Old Man (Men)

 

The Cask Marque certificate was easily spotted but sadly looked to be nailed to the wall behind the bar and due to my earlier disagreement with the barman I didn't feel like asking to see if we could scan it. Aussie Pete, who duly arrived later along with Aussie Nathan (happy birthday) and Aussie Jodie (not happy birthday) did manage to get it scanned, no doubt by sweet talking anyone who would listen. Due to a very cramped position in the bar, texts from Big-J asking if we were on our way to the Jugged Hare yet and surprisingly no-one wanting a second pint of Old Man, I gathered the troops and left.

BGC outside The Brewery

 

The route to the Jugged Hare took us past Big-J's work location for the day, The Brewery which is a conference cum events cum hotel centre built on the former premises of the Whitbread brewery. Apparently it’s still possible to see some of the old brewing paraphernalia and this was sort of confirmed by Big-J who'd enjoyed talks and lectures in rooms like "Upper Sugar Room" and "Mash Tun".

Unfortunately for us there were no talks or lectures but just the 50 or so metres to the Jugged Hare, an impressive pub perched on the corner of Chiswell Street and Silk Street. The pub is owned by the ETM group and readers who remember far more than is probably healthy might recall that we went into a sister pub of the Jugged Hare, the Angel and Crown during the Trafalgar Square night. Interesting to note that the beer on that evening was called "Jugged Hare".

The stuffed exhibits at The Jugged Hare

 

Tonight I couldn't see any Jugged Hare beer but there were brews from Adnams and Otter, so I plumped for Otter Amber which was the lighter, fresher beer I choose to try to win the female taste buds back on the side of beer. Although I can't say I totally approve, the beer was served in chunky iced tankards, produced from the fridge and whilst they might have had a detrimental effect on the beer, they certainly made for a impressive sight. Ed choose to eschew the Otter and instead plumped for an interesting pint of Adnam's Spindrift which I'd never heard of before, whilst Rob bemoaned that fact that we were already on the second pub and neither of them were selling Bud.

The Otter going down better than any Old Man.

 

By this time everyone had either arrived or been met up with (Big-J it turns out had walked down to the Globe, missed us, then had to walk back again) and we totalled a  very fine 14 which is a tour record for the most people out on any night.

And talking of impressive the Jugged Hare is certainly that. The stuffed animals I've mentioned but seeing the whole walled bank of them is certainly eye catching if not a little creepy. As I said to someone that evening, there's no way I would come down to the bar in the dark to lock up! Again I couldn't see the certificate for love nor money although once more Pete ended up finding it whilst the rest of us scanners all missed it.

Artillery Arms - Almost exactly the same as it was a year ago!

 

The next stop was something of a "closure" journey for me. Casting your minds back even further than Trafalgar Square or Income Tax, the very second square I did, Community Chest #1 saw me enter the Artillery Arms on Bunhill Row, sneakily take the scan and then leave without buying a drink. I did have the excuse that I was on my own and feeling just a little bit lonely but I've felt guilty about this ever since so here was my opportunity to make amends. Especially as the Artillery Arms is such a lovely pub. It’s a Fullers place which immediately suggests a certain standard but this one has a brilliant traditional little centre island bar and a cosy historical feel to it. It also has very friendly barmaids were seemed to be quite interested in what we were up to and recommended Fuller Red Lion when we visit Mayfair.

So finally I paid my dues and I bought my beer there which was a superb pint of HobsonsMild which Charlie and I voted best pint of the evening. For the others I choose Discovery apart from Ed who had a bottle of Honey Dew (memories of Income Tax again) and poor Buddy Rob who was having to make do yet again with a bottle of something that wasn't Budweiser.

Those who have visited this pub will know that it overlooks the well known Bunhill Cemetery and research had told me that as well as being home to quite a few graves of the famous and well known two of its most renowned residents are Daniel Defoe and William Blake. Ever the one for a dramatic piece of historical interest I thought that an open air recital of a suitable Blake poem might be a interesting item in the evening's proceedings. It was certainly more suitable than the main discussion which centred around whether the word "mott" was more appropriate than the word "gam" (you had to know the context I guess) but unfortunately my best laid plans were scuppered by the big silver padlock adorning the cemetery gates.

Still, never mind, I pointed out the obelisk that is Defoe's grave and promised them all that Blake's is right next door. I'd love to be able to explain that as a scholar of classical poetry I was already familiar with a suitable poem that would be suitable for the occasion but I'm afraid that if I’m to be truly honest it was Mr Google again who assisted me to find "The Little Vagabond" via the words "Blake", "Poem" and "pub".

And over there is buried my dignity. Ed ducks for cover.

 

I'll let you make of the poem what you will, I still don't think that it rhymes properly but maybe I'm missing the point. The tourists who all had to put up with my dulcet tones labouring through it all seemed to think that it did rhyme so maybe I'm just a poor judge of what makes a good poem. Anyway, here it is in all it's glory and I'm presuming that as Blake's been dead for 185 odd years I don't need to pay anyone any royalties.

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm;
Besides I can tell where I am use'd well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.

But if at the Church they would give us some Ale.
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale;
We'd sing and we'd pray, all the live-long day;
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray,

Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring:
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church,
Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch.

And God like a father rejoicing to see,
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.

Had we been able to walk through the cemetery as planned we would have found ourselves on City Road and could have walked past Finsbury Square Garden to the final pub of the evening. Alas we rather boringly had to retrace our steps slightly but still managed to find our way to the Flying Horse on Wilson Street without too much distress.

The Flying Horse

 

It was swirly patterned carpets, a hideous laminate bar and TV blaring with Aussie Rules football that greeted us as did the two smiley barmaids who both originated from south of the equator. Aussie Nathan seemed to get on best with them both especially as he ended up with this classic pub photo, certainly one to impress the boys with back home. I had to make do with the pints of the aptly named Flying Horse ale to impress the tourists with which can't have been that good as as soon as I'd looked away for a minute the ladies were all taking big swiggs of vodka based party drinks in preference to anything barley based.

Who would think that this happy chappy would end his birthday collapsed in a pile of puke on the tube?

 

We did however break our certificate duck of the evening, well everyone but Pete that is, by spotting the certificate rather crudely blu-tacked behind the bar. The barmaids though were more than happy to pull it down and let us scan it for posterity.

I think it was a combination of Brenda and Rob who suggested tagging on one final pub for the night. It must have been Brenda's thirst for Bombardier and Rob's thirst for Budweiser that did this, but Brenda promised that the Red Lion, just a little further down Eldon Street would at the very least not have unfathomable sport on to distract us all. I must say even my eyes were constantly wandering to the mullet headed muscle bound Gibson lookalikes were running around chasing a bouncing ball.

Seriously pubs, just because you have a TV in the bar, it really doesn’t need to be on!

We found the Red Lion as promised (even passing a Fuller's restaurant looking place (TheFleetwood) which doesn't seem to appear on the Cask Marque map) and although it was a pretty bog standard Taylor Walker pub, it really didn't have any distracting sport on.

The drinks orders really spiralled into chaos now as I joined Big-J in a cola based beverage, Charlie had a nasty cider and lordy only knows what the rest partook in. Rob did finally get his bottle of bad though so to that extent all was finally right with the world and not at all taxing.

 

Number of Cask Marque Pubs visited = 42

Can you belly dance? = Gemma can. BGC can't.

Will the finale attract more tourists = We might have to wait a bit to find out.

Next Stop = Mayfair

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Park Lane

“When two worlds collide.” Stuck on the train writing this I can't remember whether this was the name of a song or the title of a book but it sounds like something Annie Lennox might have warbled about whilst simultaneously making us feel guilty for living in the west. So why did I start this episode with that title? Well all may come clear dear reader, all may come clear.

At first this square didn't get off to a good start. After the measly turnout that was Chance #3 I immediately emailed all the previous tourists asking them to respond with which day of the following week would be suitable for the next instalment. Out of an audience of several thousand, guess how many replies I got?  Well if you guessed anything over 2 you were dead wrong.

The first was from Munchkin Steve, who actually should be credited with much kudos in that he’s managed a phenomenal amount of tour appearances considering his actual living location in the wild remoteness of Lancashireland. Anyway, he declared that if the tour could be run on the forthcoming Wednesday night he would gladly come along before dashing off to catch the iron-horse back up to the coal face of a different degree latitude. The other reply was from Aussie Pete, who has been conspicuous by his absence on the last few tours, but who also declared that Wednesday would make a suitable night out. 

To the rest of the people who didn't reply, I can only cry a House of Commons style "shame" and say that I won't ever ever ever invite you again. Wait a minute, that's what they want isn't it, the sneaky so-and-sos…….......right I'm going to invite you all twice a week from now until the end of the tour! I’ll break you down eventually! 

 

Park Lane - Exactly what it says on the tin.

So Wednesday it was, leaving the only other decision to be made was to mark out the pubs nearest to the featured square, the second most expensive on the board, Park Lane. Upon checking the Cask Marque website I was dismayed to find so few pubs highlighted near to this main thoroughfare. There were several near to the south end of Park Lane, but I wanted to save those for when we do the Mayfair square, but at the north end, apart from one Wetherspoon’s just across the road from Mable Arch there were none until you were reaching into the areas around Edgeware Road or Marylebone.

 

Marble Arch in the sunshine.

Surely something was stinking in the state of Cask Marque-land so I fired off a quick email to my tame Cask Marque employees and sure enough they discovered that all the pubs of a certain major chain, for one reason or another (far far too boring for this blog) were not showing up on the map. Quick as the flash of a hand-pulled-pint the issue was rectified leaving me which a much healthier choice from which to plan this week's tour.

So, date and venues sorted, it was just the actual tourists to fall into place. Munchkin Steve and Aussie Pete had their seats reserved so it was just New-Guy Mickey (another one who's missed far too many of the recent squares) to put in a welcome return and that old perennial BGC wannabee, Spiky Haired Ed to make up the numbers.

But then (and this is my reference to the two worlds) I heard from me old china TimThomas, he of the local CAMRA branch newsletter editing fame who'd previously appeared on the Community Chest #3 feature. Tim was in town as he's really nothing better to do with his days that stroll round art galleries and visit pubs (really, he literally lives the life that us working idiots only dream of) so thought he might hang around in the big smoke and catch up with us on the tour, especially as he knew the first pub of the evening, the Tyburn on Edgware Road.

Spiky Haired Ed wasn't finishing work until 18:00 so in a great show of sympathy we told him to catch us up in the first pub and made our way there via the endless tunnels of the Monument/Bank station (see last week's episode for full details) and a long drag along the Central Line. We popped up though directly on Park Lane, which allowed for a quick snap of the road sign and then a death defying dash across Oxford Street and up to the pub where Tim was already installed. So all that was left to do was make the quick introductions between my two worlds.

 

Horrible, bland, boring Tyburn.

The Tyburn is a perfect example of a Wetherspoon’s and highlights everything that’s both right and wrong about these particular places. This is a modern building and is obviously being looked after by the Wetherspoon’s team as it was clean, neat and tidy and doing a healthy trade. The service, along with the handy location of the certificate at the end of the bar, was fine, just a short wait for the two pints of Heineken (£4.05) and the two pints of Titanic Brewery’s Molly Brown Ale (£3.05 – Hey, you do the math(s)) - but yet it's still a horrible, horrible pub. Bland, uninspiring and without anything approaching a soul, the most interesting thing was the bowl of lemons on the bar which we tried to convince Steve were complimentary. 

 

I think Steve did suck one of those lemons.

The beer was fine though and on a hot day that promises a great summer, was quickly downed which led us to the quandary of what to do as Ed still hadn't turned up. Move on to the next place or stay in the Tyburn and wait for him there? I suggested an alternative in that I explained the Tyburn took its name from the Tyburn Tree, the old gallows that used to stand near the site. Apparently at its peak it could cope with 24 simultaneous hangings, which is quite something no matter which side of the capital punishment debate you sit. There was, I'd heard, a commemorative stone set somewhere to mark the exact site of the gallows, so full of intrepid adventurership we elected to kill the waiting for Ed time by locating the thing and recording it for posterity. Needless to say we didn't find it. We found a massive horse’s head standing next to Marble Arch and some pretty fountains and some bemused tourists which Steve decided to entertain but that all aside, there was no stone to be found.

 

I'm not sure whether finding the Horse's Head deserved a kiss Steve?

Adventure over we returned to the pub and Pete, Steve and Mickey were given ownership of the kitty and directions to the next place whilst Tim and I hung around on the street corner like the two most uninviting prostitutes in the world. After a suitable delay Ed sauntered around, picked us both up and we ambled down Seymour Street to the next place.

The ThreeTuns is a Taylor Walker pub and I have to say one of their better places. It cuts a nice line in pubby kitch (rows of jugs along the mantel piece) without being too false and charms you in a way that the Tyburn wouldn't be able to do even if Benedict Cumberbatch was taking a shift behind the bar. Behind this bar however was a devilishly dark Irish girl who poured my pint of Ghost Ship very well and Ed's Stella Black (“I’m going back to the old days” he cried before ordering) as well as the mechanical pump will let a barperson. 

 

Steve seemed to do a lot of standing the middle of roads waving this night. A sulky Ed paces in front.

Another certificate was located although this time in a slightly awkward position of directly behind the main door. The door was chained open for reasons of easy access and also air conditioning so we had to run the gauntlet of unchaining it, closing it, taking the scan and then reopening the door all before either someone wanted to get in or before someone inside fainted. 

 

Inside of the Three Tuns.

We’d managed to secure a cosy little corner table complete with banquette and in other circumstances could have probably whiled away a very pleasant evening, but time stops for no Monopoly Tour and we had to move on.  

The next place lay south of Oxford Street so again it was a brave negotiation around the bus which decided to stop right on top of the pelican crossing and a short jaunt down North Audley Street to the Marlborough Head another Taylor Walker place which a huge decorative painting of (presumably) the Duke of Marlborough above the front door. (The pub is named for Blenheim Palace, the Marlborough ducal seat.) 

 

Marlborough Head. Exactly what it says on the tin.

Although bigger than the Three Tuns, it lacked any of its charm and the service seemed to be creaking as the three bar-people gamely tried to keep the bustling crowd satisfied. I took my cue from the falsely red headed barmaid and order BathAles Ginger Hare for Pete and me, whilst it was three pints of various lagers for the others.

The Ginger Hare deserves a mention on two counts, firstly unlike a lot of beers that are brewed with a "special" ingredient this one had struck that magic balance of being able to instantly tell that there was something special in it, in this case a massive whiff of ginger on the nose, but still being a well balanced beer that you can drink. The other count is the note advertising the ale on the “beer blackboard” which will remain a mystery as to whether someone on the staff was having a joke or just really didn't know the difference. But the other mystery is how Steve managed to get the two strange blokes to participate in the snap I wanted for the blog.......he literally will talk to anyone.

 

"Quick Bill, point at this sign before the little munchkin fella kicks off!"

Before he turned into a pumpkin Tim had to make a move for home so we left him finishing the dregs of his pint and made our way down to Grosvenor Square and walked past the American Embassy to Carlos Place and the short jaunt to the final pub of the evening The Barley Mow. Another Taylor Walker hostelry this one was even more crowded than the previous two, possibly something to do with the European Cup semi-final that was playing on the many television sets hung around the pub. The bar staff here were struggling to cope though and I seemed to have picked the worst spot to stand in, as the waiting queue moved forward I seemed to get pushed out to the edges and away from the serving action in the centre of the bar. 

With the finishing line eventually in sight I could tell that a huge lanky chap in white trousers (who had definitely joined the throng after me) was readying his money to flag the barmaid’s attention and before I quite knew what I was doing I'd challenged him to his position at the bar. Of course he deflected my peevish irritation with a suave smile and a gracious "arr, sure you can go first" delivered of course in a lilting Irish brogue, making me look like a little red faced tit, which is of course exactly what I was behaving like. At least I did give him what I hope was a similarly gracious apology in return after I'd been served with the two pints of Welsh Red Ale (sorry brewery name forgotten), Hoegaarden (complete with lemon slice) for Mickey and pint of yellow coloured fizz for Steve.

 

Barley Mow. Exactly what it says on the tin.

We escaped the noise of the television, the press of the crowd and any chance that my charming Irish man might decide that the little red faced tit needed teaching a lesson by retiring to the pavement. Perhaps it was the cool of the evening air but everyone seemed to instantly turn into a copy of Nuts magazine and started whoar-ing and grunting at anything of the female sex that walked past. Luckily no-one was uncouth enough to wolf whistle but for a time I think it was a close run thing. 

Nurse………..! The Trains!

 

Number of Cask Marque Pubs visited = 193

Strangest thing seen = This football graffiti in the gents at the Barley Mow. French? Mais non! Apparently it's for Derry City?

Did the two worlds collide? = No, they got on very well I think. I'm very choosey about who I drink with you know!

Next Stop = Super Tax