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!
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
No comments:
Post a Comment