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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bond Street

And it had all the ingredients of a classic Monopoly Tour visit and yet ended in beers, tears and something else that rhymes with …ears. Years perhaps? I’ll deal with the visit first and then the fallout and aftermath second. 

So, here we were, steaming down the final side of the board and reaching the final of the green squares, the slightly more expensive Bond Street. Again for those Monopoly egg-heads and trivia buffs you might know that there isn’t really a single street called “Bond Street” but the place is made up of both “New” and “Old” Bond Streets. The streets themselves join at the elbow so to speak (look at a map and you’ll see what I mean) and there’s just a narrow pathway that joins the two roads together. It was whilst checking this out on Google StreetView that I secured an element that’s been missing from a couple of recent visits, the interesting and historical feature, but more of that later.

 

Exactly what it says on the tin.

 

So we had the venue and as any regular reader of the blog will have cottoned on by now, the organising of the pubs follows pretty much straightforward from that. There was a nice line of Cask Marque accredited places leading down from Bond Street Tube Station, following New Bond Street into Old Bond Street. So it terms of pubs, there were no dramas here, just the actual date of the tour to finalise.  

Without going into too many personal details, it was this week that I had to endure the annual ritual of moving one more year nearer to death (oh how pithy that turned out to be!) so with the agreement of the lovely family, I was allowed to have the tour on my actual birthday, which whilst not the best plan for a mid-week night, with only 5 pubs planned and Aussie Pete’s dad in special attendance what could possibly go wrong.

And whilst on the subject of attendees we’ll just confirm the other folk appearing in this episode; from the office the only original office regulars were Buddy Rob and New Guy Micky although they were joined by the two most dedicated of the female office drinkers, Gemma and Nicole. Both Aussie Pete (including Aussie Dad) and Spiky Haired Ed were on holiday but had agreed to meet us in the first pub so the only new face to introduce was that of James James Morrison Morrison. James had been slightly hoodwinked into this week’s visit after promising to come on the next “local” trip (which would be Liverpool Street Station) but somehow the scheduling hadn’t quite worked out that way and he ended up a rather reluctant extra on this birthday tour. 

 

Not compulsory to "adopt the position" inside.

The first pub was Taylor Walker’s Spread Eagle (which caused some odd requests for the obligatory photo) which is on Woodstock Street, a road leading off Oxford Street. Aussie Pete and Aussie Dad were already in position but the rest of us arrived almost in tandem with Spikey Haired Ed, although the latter was already moaning that he had another engagement and would have to leave early. Anyway just in time to get the round in, in fact, which consisted of some left over “Luck of the Irish” from Stonehenge Brewery, obviously brewed for St Patrick’s Day it was another coloured green beer from this brewery and to be honest they’d do better to concentrate on brewing better tasting stuff than the gimmicky stuff. My faithful ale girls, Gemma and Nicole at least joined me in trying the stuff whist the others had to make do with other beverages, which included James James keeping to his “no beer” promise and having a JD & Coke. 

 

Rob looks admiringly at Nicole's tackling of the green beer. Gemma is googling the treatment for ketoacidosis.

The Spread Eagle is a cosy little place and once we’d terrorised the single little old lady off, we had a nice comfy corner all to ourselves. Also to the pub’s credit the Cask Marque certificate was hung on the wall directly inside the door meaning we got off to a good easy scan start. 

We didn’t linger in the pub but moved swiftly on once the green beer was drunk. The next two places were another occurrence of pubs being located directly opposite each other. Firstly there was The Duke of York at number 8 Dering Street, which was the first of the two we entered after crossing New Bond Street. Another Taylor Walker place it was a similarly cramped but cosy place with much needed spaced dominated by a wrought iron spiral staircase. The beer range was worse than the Spread Eagle though, we could have pints of the green beer again or Fuller’s London Pride. Nicole and I kept the real ale fires burning as Gemma deserted us for horrible cider and the rest were committed to standard lagers although I have to give credit to Aussie Pete and Aussie Dad who were continuing in their own round of English Bitter. 

 

Spiral Staircase in the Duke of York. To give an idea of scale, James James's forehead is 11 foot high.

The chap behind the bar didn’t have a clue about the certificate though, although his one-toothed Irish colleague who he asked, seemed to think he’d seen the certificate once before. But despite much hunting neither of them could lay their hands on it and we had to admit defeat on the scanning front. 

 

BGC, James James & Gemma outside Bonds. After my illness I am now skinnier than both of them.

As previously mentioned the next pub on the list was but a short stroll over the road, to number 11 Dering Street, a rather smart wine-bar looking place called “Bonds” which is ran by the Stonegate Company. Alas though Ed wouldn’t be joining us as he decided that it was time for him to leave after many harassing text messages calling him to his other appointment. All I’ll say is that I bet you wish you’d stayed with us know hey Ed? 

The ale selection in Bonds was rather poor (I seem to recall only Greene King IPA available) but their full beer range was much more comprehensive resulting in Meantime London IPA for most of us. James James’s no beer promise finally cracked, as he joined Buddy Rob in a bottle of bud. 

 

The Duke of York as photographed from inside Bonds

Bonds certainly wouldn’t be my first choice of pub, being a dimly lit trendy sort of place, whereas I prefer to be able to see whom I’m drinking with and prefer a more scruffy bunch of fellow drinkers (not for a minute I’m suggesting the rest of the tour is trendy by the way). But the beer was fine and they had the certificate easily available so I shouldn’t be too harsh especially as I was treated to a nasty birthday Jägermeister shot from the ladies. 

So it was three pubs down, two to go but it was here than the group split. James James was obviously easing himself slowly into tour life as he decided to leave early and the ladies joined him after agreeing that perhaps a five pub crawl wasn’t entirely appropriate on a Tuesday night. Still the tour stalwarts carried on as we travelled slightly more south down New Bond Street and cut down the alley way of Avery Row to the Iron Duke, our second pub named after Arthur Wellesley. This is a small Fuller’s pub which compared to some of their very smart and gleaming premises is a rather muted place although the pairs of leather boots adoring the walls are quite fun. I had a pint of Fuller’s classic ESB whilst Micky treated the rest of the gang to crisps. The bar staff seemed rather indifferent to their clientele though and requests for the location of the certificate drew blank looks and therefore no scan. 

Iron Duke - BGC with cast iron constitution.

The final stop was the Coach and Horses in Bruton Close but first we had to visit the historical piece of interest which I mentioned earlier. Right on the path than connects New and Old Bond Street is a statue of two elderly gentlemen on a park bench. The gentlemen in question are actually Winston Churchill and Franklin D Roosevelt and the statue is called Allies and was a gift from the Bond Street Association to celebrate 50 years of peace.

 

I bet both Winnie and Frankie and well pleased to have fought for freedom for this!

Doing our best to break the peace, we each took hilarious turns sitting with the two statesmen and probably generally took away all the dignity that the statue has. But anyway, if you’re even in this area do look out for it as it’s the sort of thing you miss completely and is well worth a photo. 

 

This apparently is the way to treat statesmen and politicians in Australia.

Slightly retracing our steps to the Coach and Horses which was our third Taylor Walker pub of the evening. This is a rather incongruous black and white half-timbered wedge shaped building stuck in the middle of an otherwise very modern looking street. Not sure whether the pub is totally authentic but we got a warm welcome from the jolly barman even though the beers on offer included the bloody green beer again! 

 

BGC and Coach and Horses - That cocked leg is catching!

There was quite a funny dynamic going on between the two main barmen; one a younger oriental type was quite offhand and dismissive of us, especially when we asked for the certificate. He pretended to know what it was and then claimed he didn’t where it was when asked for its location, but when we asked the older chap he instantly pointed to it hanging on the wall. It was no surprise then who we asked to take a photo of us all having one final sticky Jagermeister for the road. 

The rest of the gang wandered back towards Oxford Street and a famous burger place beginning with M. I on the other hand made my way back to Paddington and a famous burger place beginning with B and the last train home. 

 

Cheers BGC! We'll bring grapes and Lucozade.

And that should have been the end of the night and the tour saga but upon waking the next morning, I had an immediate appointment with the infamous big white telephone, which is unusual for me as if I have a problem with over indulgence, it’s usually an immediate process, i.e. vomming on the actual night, not the morning after. 

Putting it all down to the bad burger I made my way to work via the train toilets and then had several visits to the office loos as well. Things were showing to have gone too far when I ended up not being able to make it in time and (apologies for the rich language) spewed in a little store room which Ed likes to call his “Teddy Bear’s Lair” (honestly, this is true). 

Sent home in disgrace, the rest of the day didn’t improve matters and to cut an awfully long story of aches, pains, lots more vom, chronic dehydration and a visit from the emergency doctor short, Thursday morning saw me in The Royal Berkshire Hospital’s A&E department being treated for Diabetic Ketoacidosis by means of a million and seven different pipes being stuck into various parts of my anatomy, pumping me full of various fluids. 

Friday saw me on a general ward being entertained by my three fellow bed patients, a quite quite mad elderly man who talked constantly to himself and had to be shushed all night by the nurses. Upon being questioned by the doctor as to why he was here he said that he’d “fallen out of a plane and smacked his balls” to which the doctor declared, “you’re fine, lets get you home.” There was also a puffy faced alcoholic who’d taken some sort of tumble. He amazingly turned out to be the same age as me although even my cruellest of critics would say I looked ten years younger than him. Highlight of our interaction was watching him bring up his Friday lunch fish and chips into his lap, an event he then proceeded to tell anyone who’d ring his mobile (which was everyone, every 5 minutes). Finally there was another elderly chap who had short term memory loss, something he never seemed to forget as he told anyone who was either interested or not interested all day long. 

Ah, the NHS, got to love it haven’t you? Still, it made me forget what agony I was in and saw me home for the weekend although I’m not sure Mrs BGC has completely forgiven me for making us miss our Berlin trip which was meant to be my main birthday present. On my return to work Charlie quipped “longest hangover ever that!” all I can say in return is that it must have been the burger. 

Number of Cask Marque Pubs visited  = 180

 

Sympathy number 1? = Mrs GBC screaming that I “have to look after myself” whilst hitting me. So who exactly was in hospital? 

Sympathy number 2? = The “no vomming” sign now hanging on Teddy Bear’s Lair. Thanks guys. 

Next Stop = Liverpool Street Station