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

Liverpool Street Station

So, it's been some time my old friend, constant reader. I'm sure you'll excuse me though after the delays caused by my near death experience and public holiday to celebrate the Great King Rabbit, but it's time to get things back on track and where better to do it than a place full of tracks, Liverpool Street Station.

Actually thinking about it, I can think of 101 much better places to do it as I've done a little bit of drinking around this area already and to be perfectly frank, it's a bit of a dump. I know mainline train stations have their work cut out to be attractive places to go to for any other  purpose that catching a train but compared some of the others on the board (the new Kings Cross is lovely and Marylebone has much in the way of charm) Liverpool Street is definitely on the dumpier side of nice.

 

Liverpool Street Station and a rare picture of Spikey Haired Ed

But the one thing it does have going for it is that it's another square just a 10 minute stroll away from our office location. I did then foolishly suppose that we would have a good turn out for this square, especially as it's the last one anywhere near where we all work. But alas concrete promises of attendance petered away as the week went on and by the night of the tour I couldn't get a volunteer to buy me a Jägermeister for love nor money. So it was a rather depleted crowd of five regulars, Spikey Haired Ed, Charlie, Buddy Rob and Sybil who made up the numbers but on the plus side we were joined by Niresh (who we hadn’t seen since Vine Street) and the lovely Chrissie whose only previous appearance had been to crank the handle of the random pub generator when we did Chance Number 2. Buddy Rob had also managed to get in touch with an old work colleague, Stretch Arm-Max who was hoping to make an appearing sometime during the night. So actually, on reflection perhaps a tour of 8 wasn’t such a bad turn out after all. 

So anyway, the stroll to Liverpool Street was easy enough, especially as it was quite a balmy evening compared to much of the awful weather we've been having and the first pub was easily located as it's right by the main entrance, a huge Wetherspoons emporium called The Hamilton Hall. And for those who can’t get enough of the boring pub facts this place was named after Lord Claud Hamilton, chairman of the Great Eastern Railway Company (1893-1923). The building itself it actually quite decorative with an impressive ornamental ceiling adorned with cherubs and the like, unfortunately Wetherspoons seem to have done all they can to make the place as unattractive as possible by fitting a horrible wooden bar and inviting as many horrible Wetherspoons clientele as possible. Ok, I know they can't be blamed for the latter point but the cheaper beer does seem to attract a less salubrious crowd. The other distraction was a set of scaffolding in the pub which didn't seem to be serving any other purpose than holding up the bunting for the Wetherspoons beer festival. 

 

A crowded Hamilton Hall - Note pathetic awning

Anyway, architectural criticisms apart, Ed was forced into being kitty monitor for the night and bravely forced his way to the crowded bar to get the first round in. Only Charlie was joining me on the ales (lots of pints of lager and a cranberry juice for Chrissie) and I spotted a very interesting looking beer called Ionian Coffee Porter by the Corfu Beer brewery - unfortunately though when it came to pour it the barmaid only managed to squeeze one pint out of the barrel meaning either Charlie or I would have to make do with the next pump along. (Sorry can't remember what this was.) But seeing as Charlie hadn’t expressed a preference he got the alternative! We then retired outside just in time to witness the end of the balmy evening as the heavens opened and we had to crouch for shelter under the world's most pathetic awning.  

The Coffee Porter seemed ok at first, but I don't know whether it was the "last in the barrel" syndrome or just the fact I seem to have lost my beer appetite but the pint soon became heavy and claggy and became a real struggle to get down. I had a sip of Charlie's beer which was much sharper and more refreshing so perhaps the joke was on me for insisting I had the porter as I gamely forged onwards. 

The scan for the Hamilton Hall was one I had already got on a previous visit but it was good to see the certificate hanging available for Ed and Charlie, who in the absence of Aussie Pete were the only two scanners out tonight. 

 

Merchant of Bishopsgate

The next pub was also in the station itself, the recently refurbished Merchant of Bishopsgate, a very smart looking place on the lower concourse which markets itself as a Free House. This also had an easily spotted certificate hanging just inside the door and apart from having to ask the young lady guarding her wheelie suitcase to move so I could scan, it was another capture safely in the bag.  

 

The most boring pumps in the world.

You can't fault the decor in the Merchant of Bishopsgate but it's very much a question of style over substance. A more detailed investigation of the ales of offer showed the most ubiquitous brews available in the UK at the moment, London Pride, Greene King IPA, Doombar, Wadworth 6X and Old Speckled Hen, hardly ones you spot and say "oooo haven't had that in ages!" Luckily there was a more interesting alternative in Bohemian Dark by the Meantime Brewing Company, Charlie also went with the Meantime option choosing a pint of London Pale Ale whilst I think the others all had pints of Heineken mixed with a Carlsberg tops, apart from Chrissie who was making sure her prostrate was getting a good workout with the Cranberry juice. Still not trusting my beer mojo had returned I opted for a half pint of the Bohemian Dark and in the end was very glad I did. I don't know whether it's still a hangover from my recent illness or perhaps I've undergone one of those life changing experiences like RichardHammond where after his accident he now has to eat Spinach with every meal (or something like that......) but the beer just wasn't tasting at all tonight and to my shame I couldn't even complete the half pint.

 

The view of the Railway Tavern from the station. No pigeons cos it's raining.

The aptly named Railway Tavern was the next stop, just a quick sprint up the escalator and out the station by the world's scruffiest McDonalds where you're positively encouraged to kick a pigeon on the way. Again this was another pub which I'd already scanned so with Charlie having made an exit after the second pub, it was only Ed who needed to avail himself of the certificate hanging on the wall. The Railway is a Greene King pub but I singularly failed to notice the beers on offer as I capitulated entirely and ordered a diet coke.  

Apart from the crowds and the big screens showing the Masters Golf the Railway Tavern actually isn't that bad a place. For the spotters amongst you, you might like to visit to see the various ex-train company coats of arms adorning the bar and reminisce about the golden age of the railways. Whether the golden age was actually that golden I have no idea, but I'll say this, the coats of arms of the Belfast andCounty Down Railway Company for example beats First Great Westerns shitty logo any day of the week - and I bet they paid a considerable amount less than FGW did! 

Crests of the former railway companies

It was well and truly exit time then as Chrissie, Sybil and Niresh all made tracks for home, leaving just Rob, Ed, Max and I to cross the road to the Lord Aberconway, a Nicholson's pub which had not one but two Cask Marque certificates on offer. What a shame I wasn't drinking still as this was the choice pub of the evening, a lovely multi-level place; it had a spiral staircase and lots of little booths and cubby holes dotted all over. Again I can't comment on the beer selection as it was the demon diet coke that was my tipple once again but at least I got what I wanted as Ed's none specific ordering of a bottle of Budweiser had resulted in Rob being presented with a bottle of Budvar, something as we know from Bow Street doesn't tickle his fancy. 

 

The Lord Aberconway - Buddy Rob leads the way.

At least I wasn't having any trouble drinking the coke, a check of the watch showed that I should easily be able to make my 22:00 train from Reading station so I left the guys to it, made my excuses and left thinking in my present frame of mind, an early night might be best for all concerned.  

The best laid plans of mice and men though are of course scuppered by broken down trains. I made it to Reading in plenty of time for the 22:00 service but the wonderful company that is First Great Western decided to cancel it when it became stuck behind a broken down train. To cut a very long, very cold and very boring hour and a bit wait on the platform, we were eventually shipped home by bus, with me getting in at 1/4 past midnight - not quite the early night I had envisaged! 

Now I hope you, my faithful constant reader (yep, not optimistic enough to suppose I have constant readers) have felt through my writings that I'm a nice and fair minded chap. If you haven't felt this then you must be reading it wrong, but let me assure you that I am. First Great Western however are slowly but surely, with each delay and cancellation turning me into the sort of person I would avoid in a broken down lift situation, making me a curmudgeon vying for the undisputed world moaning cruiser weight crown. This latest highlight in my commuting relationship with them called for a strongly worded letter much in the style of "Annoyed from Tunbridge Wells" so here it is. 

Petty, point scoring and all rather pathetic, I'll accept all those criticisms as they are no doubt very true but all I can say in mitigation is that they were asking for it and no doubt next week I'll be doing it again! 

Never happens when I'm drunk though..........interesting.......

 

Number of Cask Marque Pubs visited  = 186

 

So BGC, is it the wagon for you? = I don't think so. I may have had a dodgy week but can break the habit of a lifetime just on that.

 

And did Ed drink lager all night? = Oh I don't know, probably not and he'll probably have another go at me for suggesting that he did.

 

Next Stop = Chance #3

Fleet Street

Apologies, apologies, apologies………to all the faithful tour readers out there, a hundred thousand heartfelt apologies. There was no update last week and if each and every one of you have now gone off and are reading blogs about baking cookies or the mating cycle of wading birds then I can only hope you’ve checked back now that you know the Reddish Egret uses bill clacking in its courtship rituals (it’s true – honest) and you just have to know what the Monopoly boys are up to.

The reason behind last week’s no-show was a company music quiz on Monday night and then the gang couldn’t settle on a day for the rest of the week. So we took the ready-made excuse and had a week off, which in retrospect was probably a good thing if not for our livers, definitely for our wallets.

But just a quick note about the music quiz, we didn’t win, nowhere near to be honest although we did briefly hold the lead, but we did receive a prize for the best team name. So congratulations to Charlie, Spikey Haired Ed, Mags for allowing me to name the team Gang Bang Style and winning each of them an advent calendar.

The sort of victorious Gang Bang Style

So onto Fleet Street, that street once famous for being home to the majority of the UK’s daily newspapers and apparently former home of the demon barber, Sweeny Todd. It’s basically a continuation of Strand (remember no “the”) but instead of continuing the tour from West to East, I decided to approach the street from the other end and begin by getting off the tube at Blackfriars. It was but a short hop straight across Queen Victoria Street and into The Blackfriar, a Nicholson’s pub saved from destruction by Sir JohnBetjeman no less. I’m certainly glad he took the effort to do that, and so should everyone else because it’s an absolute gem.

A pointy cornered building.

From the outside it appears as a tiny pointy cornered building perched on the junction of Queen Victoria Street and New Bridge Street, a row of gleaming mosaic tiles shining with the reflection of the passing traffic spell out “Brandies” and the number 174. Twinkling lights peep out from behind the stained glass windows and promise a warming welcome inside, and thankfully the interior doesn’t fail to deliver with carved relief pictures of the Blackfriars themselves cavorting around the top of the bar.

Charlie & BGC, tempted by the twinkling lights....

I could carry on in this vein for more paragraphs so I’ll just end by encouraging all pub fans to seek this place out and raise a glass to Sir John, and instead will turn to the attendance of the tour for this square.

All the faithful were there apart from No-nickname Michael who was having a month off the sauce, so it was Aussie Pete, Charlie, New Guy Micky, Buddy Rob and me who travelled the 4 stops on the tube and met up with the housewives’ favourite Spiky Haired Ed, Munchkin Steve (back down from up t’north on a visit) and a newbie to the tour, Mike who for guessable reasons I will name Bam for the purpose of the tour – We’ve already got one Michael anyway!

Pumps at The Blackfriar

Munchkin Steve and Bam were quick to come forward with their recommendation for a pint of Ding Dong from Andwell Brewery, which is apparently brewed specially for Nicholson’s. It was a good recommendation, a ruby red seasonal ale just right for a gloomy November evening. Not forgetting the real reason we were there, the Cask Marque certificate was easily spotted, framed and propped up on a stand by the door and one scan and one pint later we knew if we were to be able to cover the 6 pubs I’d got planned for the evening we have to move on – a shame really, pubs this special shouldn’t be rushed.

Munchkin Steve & BGC, tempted by the single twinkling light.

Heading north towards Fleet Street, it was a quick detour into Bridewell Place and the aptly named St Brides Tavern, a Greene King pub but on the way there it was Buddy Rob who got treated to the BGC’s very special guided tour. A quick potted history of the area records that when the Bridewell Royal Hospital was destroyed in the Great Fire of London it was rebuilt as a prison which later became school buildings. The original gatehouse has now been incorporated into an office block on New Bridge Street. This can be seen complete with relief portrait of Edward the VI who granted a charter to Bridewell Hospital, and I pointed this out to Rob as we passed. He seemed to be more interested in the office girl that looked as if she’d just been knocked over but you can but lead horses to water! (Oh, and for the record the girl already had a host of people looking after her – we didn’t leave her sprawled in the road!)

BGC fitting well in with the 70's look

Anyway, St Bride’s Tavern – a lovely little oasis tucked away from the crowds and has a feel of a 1970’s working man’s club. The beer, something from Titanic, (it had red on the label but I can’t see it on their website) came in traditional dimpled jugs apart from Ed and Micky’s lager which was something I’d never heard of, Noble, a 5% brew from Greene King themselves. It also came in a very nice stemmed glass and didn’t taste too bad to boot. The certificate was hanging proudly on the wall unfortunately just over the head of a chap with a very dodgy Movember moustache. Now when I say dodgy, I mean dodgy – I know I’m calling the kettle black, and Aussie Pete currently looks like a 1980’s car salesman but this guy looked like a German Porn star and in fact if you have a minute, he looked like a German Porn star that was actually playing the Bontempi Organ (with his socks on). But did that stop Pete starting up a very brotherly-love conversation with the chap. In fact for all the time it took us to drink our pints, for us to try to surreptitiously take a photo of the pretty barmaid, for Charlie to download Cask Finder and get his first scan and various other activities Pete and this dude talked each other’s hind legs off. In fact it makes you rather suspicious as to whether it was just hind legs they talked off.

Charlie demonstrates that the beer comes in jugs

Poor Munchkin Steve had to leave us now as the border to the north closes at 21:00 but the rest of the gang finally reached Fleet Street proper and quickly entered The Old Bell Tavern, another Nicholson’s located right at the east end of the street. Although not as ornate and decorative as the Blackfriar it’s still another lovely olde worlde pub.

Aussie Pete and BGC, tempted by the lights of the shop next door.

We spotted the certificate instantly, as it was hung on the wall behind the bar, but in a dark and dingy corner. I was surprised when the barmaid was more than happy for me to go behind the bar to scan but I needed Charlie to come to my rescue and illuminate the certificate with his phone in order than my phone could “see” it. Pretty soon there were about 6 of us behind the bar all clamouring to get the scan or help others do the same. It was then that the shortest little bar manageress in the world asked what we were up to. “Where are you from?” she demanded, “Just regular drinkers” I tried to explain “doing the Cask Marque thing.” For a minute I wondered if she would think we were actually from Cask Marque and perhaps I should demand a free sample from all the beers………… But I didn’t, and anyway I’d already spotted another guy in a Cask Ale Week T-Shirt and thought perhaps he was a real inspector and he might then challenge me to a “taste off” which I’d no doubt lose in disgrace…………………..and back in the room. 

Bunch of Octopodes getting the scan.

The pints of something or other (see note at end of page) were quickly downed and after a profuse thank you to the diddy manageress again it was back onto Fleet Street to what I thought would be a bit of a slog to the western end of the road, but actually turned out to be a gentle stroll to the next pub, Ye Olde Cock Tavern, which is a Taylor Walker pub and also scores top points for having the words “Ye”, “Olde” and “Cock” in its name – yeah childish I know, but still makes me giggle.

After the Old Bell I was expecting the Cock to be similarly crushed even for a Tuesday but surprisingly it was quite empty with only a couple of its tables filled with drinkers. Pints of Hooky were ordered (for those of an ale persuasion anyway – it was Staropramen for the others) and we retired to an empty table only to find it occupied by a forgotten scarf. Quickly adopting this as my mascot for the night we then began to discuss the problems of trying to drink with a moustache as it doesn’t let you form a seal around your mouth. Well that was my excuse for the dribble down my shirt front anyway. The Cock was another impressively decorative pub with some fantastic low hung lanterns along the bar; it boasts Samuel Pepys and Charles Dickens as former clientele but they didn’t seem to be in tonight. A pit stop of crisps and nuts was called for, anything to stop Pete dashing off to order a three course meal, and then it was up and away to the next place.

BGC & Scarf outside The Knights Templar

Across the road, and slightly up Chancery Lane is TheKnights Templar, a pub whose name conjures up images of chain-mailed, sword wielding, red-crossed men at war and crappy books by Dan Brown. The pub itself is a Wetherspoons emporium and looks and feels like it, occupying the vast interior space that used to be a former bank. The ceilings are enormously high and the artistic suit of armour pinned high on the wall behind the bar looks impressive. What wasn’t so impressive was the stop of our run of 4 consecutive scans as the ruddy faced Irish bar manager explained his certificate had got knocked off the wall and smashed. We made an order for pints of “something” but found that the “something” had run out after pouring three of the pints. I then had to have a pint of Naked Ladies which I presume is this one from Twickenham Fine Ales.

Suit of armour behind the bar - note twinkling lights.

The problem with the big Wetherspoons are that if you don’t have a crowd in, the size of the place can make you feel like a pea on a drum. Although for the Tuesday night the crowd was pretty healthy the place lacked a little atmosphere so we didn’t linger over our drinks.

Finally we came to the last pub of the evening, back onto Fleet Street and the Fullers emporium named The Old Bank of England, which isn’t just a name as it’s the old law courts of The Bank of England. It’s also apparently situated between Sweeney Todd’s barbers shop and the pie shop owned by Mrs Lovett………………it’s all bollocks but it makes for a good story! We were greeted by an enormous Xmas Tree just inside the door and the second bank conversion of the night. I have to say that Fullers have done a better job than Wetherspoons did in the Knight Templar. In the Old Bank of England, the centre of the room is dominated by a massive oval bar and then tables have been arranged around the outside whereas in the Knights Templar the tables are arranged like theatre seats, lining up facing the bar cum stage. Obviously you can take your pick and there’s different strokes for different folks and I reckon that was Aussie Pete’s second chat up line of the night as he moved in on a poor unsuspecting father and son combo and subjected them to ½ an hour’s worth of inane chatter. We, instead, had to put up with a very attractive but grumpy barmaid who didn’t react at all positively to one of us telling her she looked like Pamela Anderson. Bam actually went so far as to ask if someone else could serve us but to give her  credit the poor girl persisted and at least produced the Cask Marque certificate from behind the bar where it was wafting around like a scrap piece of paper.

 

Charlie (or Caspar) celebrating his first scan - this actually happened in St Brides but I don't have any good photos of the Bank of England!

We tried to order pints of “something seasonal” at first but happy Pamela informed us that this had run out (then turn the pump clip round!) so we settled instead of pints of Chiswick Bitter which is a good alternative in anyone’s books. Once Pete had finished chatting up and no doubt organising his three way dad-son-marsupial gangbang, (never thought I’d get that word in twice in a blog entry!) Bam decided to round off the evening with a round of Jägerbombs. I’ve got to say for a tour newbie, he certainly knows how to impress the old soaks.

And finally-finally, I’ll say another thing for the Old Bank of England – it’s got some of the most impressive toilets I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. Excuse me.

Number of Cask Marque Pubs visited = 121 (Speedy Trevor already added the Knights Templar)

“something” beer? = I usually Unttap all my beers that I drink but was cursing the 10-15 mins it takes me out of the conversation to do so. So this time I didn’t and promptly forgot half the drinks we ordered. Normal service will be resumed.

Who’s in the closet? = Not Petey! He’s samba-ing down the street with pink feathers in his hair singing “I will survive!”

Next Stop = Trafalgar Square

Just to prove we were in Fleet Street - Look at the sign, not the tramp in the foreground.