A perfect day in the perfect pub - #6

"My partner 'n my sadness, my story, my wantoness
My wish, my despair, my erasure, my plantation
My white chocolate, my thoughtlessness, my gracelessness
My courage and my crying, my pockets 'n my mistakes

My body and my sex, my gaze and my helplessness..."

It is 2:35pm and the post-lunchtime lull is precious in the perfect pub. She's gone back to work and 'Lions after Slumber' by Scritti Politti invades the airspace. A song that heralds a slideshow of the past... late nights in Meads... daybreak at Birling Gap... a bottle of vodka and white chocolate on a balcony in Brighton. 

Serendipity swings through the door, sunshine trailing in it's wake...

The cricket is going well. Time for me to do some serious watching, accompanied by a cheeky Sancerre (the other half of Tattinger had seemingly gone the way of the first) and The Guardian's sports quiz of the year (held over from December for the purpose of fictional construct). Joined by Slim, breezing in all Hawaian 40's shirt and dangerous wit. He sits at the table and a pint appears (they know him here). We dash through the hundred questions and score a very passable 92 (we were never going to get the equestrian sports but I should have remembered that David Wilkie won the 200m breastroke, not 100m). 

Another flurry of Aussie wickets means we'll be batting before tea! Not quite Trent Bridge but certainly reminiscent of Melbourne 2010. The Sancerre evaporates, as does Slim's Stella Artois. We cover off key topics: the new book about Samuel Beckett, the potential British Lions starting XV against RSA and uncovering the truth behind what happened to the girl we used to go to school with who became a stripper and glamour model. 

I get more drinks and manage to place a bet with David Jenkins & Sons "traditional bookmakers to gentlemen of a literary persuasion". Fingers crossed for 'Bottle of Smoke'... 

A nice 10 minute interview with Michael Holding fills the break between innings. I remember, in the nick of time, that we (Slim & I) always have Cheesy Wotsits when watching England bat together (it's a luck thing). Thankfully the barman was two steps ahead of me. 

A bowl appears along with an ashtray, a selection of Gitanes, Gauloises, Marlboro (soft-pack), Camel and Lucky Strike, as well as a 1965 Zippo that had seen action at La Drang. They know Slim here...

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #5

"Sunshine music, Funtime do it, in Brazilia..."

Time speeds up when she's around. Conversation flits from fact to fiction, present to past and from now until when. 

Elsewhere in the pub, a couple of regulars assume their position in front of the TV. Play has resumed in the cricket and another Aussie wicket has already fallen. In the library a first edition PG Wodehouse is being heartily enjoyed by 'that bloke from the Ad Agency' - the wonderful thing about this pub is that discretion is assured. Therefore, the fact that he should actually be knee deep in a pile of Japanese Anime publications instead of 'The Salvation of George Mackintosh' will go unnoticed back in the carbon and chrome interior of 'SNIDE Inc'. 

The Tattinger eases itself below the half-way mark and another double (although it was only meant to be a single) Vodka comes as she glows. 'Brazilia' by A Certain Ratio fills the pub and smiles break out almost everywhere. Even the barman (more of whom later) manages to contrive a passable samba step on his way to serve Alan Hudson (former Chelsea, Stoke & England player) at the other end of the bar. 

The chess match, on the round table under the stairs, between the Cuban diplomat and the Olympic Couriers dispatch rider is entering its second hour. Another clatter of stumps and the Australian collapse is in full flow. 

An hour has gone and she must return to her office but she will be back, as will the barman with another bottle of Tattinger (where did the last half go?). He takes the empty glasses but not before sharing a tip.

"Fistful of Smoke in the 3:40 at Kempton...". Lenny, the pub bookie looks over. A nod passes between the pair of us.

She rises, smiles, shares a kiss and heads out of the door. 

Looking back at the chess match and 'that bloke from the Ad Agency', a quote from Raymond Chandler slipps into my mind, uninvited like an Arsenal fan in The Rising Son. 

“Chess is as elaborate a waste of human intelligence as you can find outside an advertising agency.” 

That Chandler certainly had a rare and precious view of the world. But not as precious as the one I'd had at our table for the last hour.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #4

"...folded back shirt sleeves, as the sun streams down from the sky"

The fact that there is a slew of London's finest record stores within 2 minutes walk of this particular 'Moon Under Water', reinforces the reason why this is the best day in the best pub. The fish-finger sandwich, gorgeous. The second Guinness, finished. At the Cricket, it is still lunchtime. Outside, the Soho streets fizz with life. 

Leaving my paper and phone on the table. Nobody will steal my phone or my table. We just don't do that here. I climb the three stories to the roof terrace - empty. I'll come back up around 3:40 (tea-time at the cricket). 

Time to pop into Soul Jazz or one of the other record shops in Berwick Street, Murphy might still be around. Skim through the racks and boxes. Pick up a mint condition copy of Weekend's wonderful La Varieté. Put a deposit down on a pristine copy of 'Ascenseur pour l'echafaud' by Miles Davis. Then back in the pub before she glides through the door at 1:30.

My table has been tidied, a bottle of Tattinger is in one of the pubs rare ice buckets (made from a WW1 German helmet picked up at Ypres). My phone has been recharged, newspapers folded and a printed scorecard of the morning's play placed on a silver tray for my perusal.

The hubbub of Soho seeps in a couple of seconds before she does. Despite the fact that the pub is quite quiet (oh the bliss), a palpable silence accompanies her first step through the side door. She knows where I'll be, same table, same seat. 'The view from her room' by Weekend drifts from the jukebox in perfect time. She is wearing a summer dress, her hair short, two degrees south of ebony. She is beautiful, not least because she doesn't know or care whether she is or she isn't. 

She slides into 'her' seat. A double vodka and lemonade (ice, no slice) appears. 

They know her here.

It is 1:35pm.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #3

"The Place I love is a million miles away..."

Lunchtime at the cricket, lunchtime in the perfect pub and a distant dream time on the jukebox. The Jam's 'The Place I love'* is playing. One of my favourite Weller songs, it always reminds of George Orwell's 'Coming up for Air'. 

In which, the main character George Bowling decides to revisit the places of his childhood, in particular he plans to revisit a specific pond with a large fish in that he had tried to capture over 30 years ago. When Bowling returns, he finds the whole place unrecognisable. He eventually locates the old pub where he is due to stay but finds it much changed. His old family home has become a tea-shop. Only the church and the vicar appear unchanged. 

The saddest part is when Bowling sees his ex-girlfriend. She has been so ravaged by time that she is almost unrecognisable and utterly devoid of the qualities he once adored. She in turn, fails to recognise him at all.

Thankfully, 'The Place I love' lingers in utopian days of sanctuary despite the fact that: 

"... the place I love is overgrown now
with beautiful moss and colourful flowers
and goldfish that swim in a pool, there's a small brick wall
with neon lighting, controlled by lightning"

As my mind reaches out for the opening salvo of Rick Buckler's drums on A-bomb in Wardour Street that never arrives, a fish finger sandwich drenched in Heinz Salad Cream, Vinegar and Tabasco does. The barman knows to leave bottles of all three condiments on the table too. The thick cut chips were brought here directly from Mount Olympus and melt on contact with my tongue. A second pint of Guinness has also appeared in a blur of efficiency and gratitude. 

The good news from the cricket is that Jimmy Anderson has already bagged three early Aussie wickets. Meanwhile, Internazionale are interested in buying a decent goalkeeper from Genoa and an amateur British cyclist has been tipped as an outside hope for this year's tour. 

All this and it is only ten past one! 

*I know that 'The Place I love' was never released on 7" 

but this is a perfect day in a perfect pub....

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #2

"This is the day your life will surely change..."

The various 7" singles that comprise the jukebox have been lovingly chosen over the last 50+ years. A surprise selection of The The's "This is the day" adds a delicate hint of melancholy quite early in proceedings (everyone knows that the real pub melancholy hour is from 3:30-4:30pm).

Meanwhile, the first Guinness isn't hurried as today there is plenty of time. In fact there is time to go to the bar and buy a packet of mini cheddars, taking a glance at the newspaper rack (all copies ironed) and surreptitiously taking a copy La Gazzetta dello Sport back to the table. Even though my Italian is very sketchy, fortunately the language of Calcio and grand tour cycling is universal.

The debate about whether a pub needs a television to be good or not is irrelevant. The key is, who is in charge of the remote control? Thankfully, today it is the turn of the Cecil (MCC member and ex-member of the Angry Bridgade). When Cecil (my friends call me Cec' you can call me Sir) Hedges has the remote then we are guaranteed a whole day's play of uninterrupted Test Match Cricket with the sound muted (unless a batsman is approaching a landmark score). The added advantage of this arrangement is, if you have missed any session of play then Cec can regale you with all the details, not least because he completes the pubs ball-by-ball scorebook in a meticulous fashion.

"Whatcha gonna do about it..."

Ah yes, the Small Faces on the jukebox and the mood lightens. First pint finished, the preview of Sampdoria's chances for the coming season completed, along with a retrospective on Marco Pantani and the mini cheddars done... the hum of SoHo traffic reduced by the sound of the Darlings of Whapping Wharf Launderette.

"I want you to know that I love you, baby
Want you to know that I care

I'm so happy when you're round me but I'm
Sad when you're not there
Sing the song now

oh yeah
(Whatcha gonna do about it?) tell the truth
(Whatcha gonna do about it?) she's so nice
(Whatcha gonna do about it?)

I want you to give your sweet, sweet kisses
Want you to hold me tight

I want you to come whenever I call you
And let me walk you home at night..."

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #1

"It's such a Perfect Day..."

Lou Reed simmers on the pub jukebox. I am alone (I imagine) and I have just got my first drink of the day. I got in here around about 11:30am, I ordered a pint of Guinness (it's going to be a long day) and was happy to wait 20minutes for it to arrive.

A copy of today's Guardian, this fortnight's Private Eye and my notebook & artline™ pen rest on the slightly damp (but no longer sticky) table in front of me. There aren't too many pubs that have decent jukeboxes these days; in fact the last one I can recall is Bradley's Spanish Bar in Hanway Street (the other side of Oxford Street)). Anyway, this one seems to have one. It also seems to have a small reading room to the left of the regular's door. There is another door for tourists and PtD's (Part-time drinkers) plus XOP's (Christmas Office Party) at the other end of the pub.

The reading room has two very comfortable high backed leather chairs (which were liberated from Boodle's in a stunning anti-club heist by notorious 'Gentlemen Thief' Peter Strand in 1956). Pub protocol (even in pre-Covid times) dictates that only one person can be in the reading room at any given time, with the next occupant required to use the 'other' chair. The bookshelves are very well stocked with the complete works of the approved 13 + an excellent collection of literature and poetry. Plus every copy of the Wisden Cricket Almanac dating back to 1902.

The 13 (as voted for by the regulars every Boxing Day):

1. George Orwell
2. Samuel Beckett
3. James Joyce
4. Flann O'Brien
5. Marcel Proust
6. Jack Kerouac
7. Albert Camus
8. Charles Bukowski
9. J.G.Ballard
10. Ian Fleming
11. Iain Sinclair
12. Jeremy Reed
13. J-P Satre

My table sits under a painting by Lawrence Toynbee of Chelsea v Spurs, Stamford Bridge 1953 (Practice Match). The first taste of the Guinness primes me for the glories of the day ahead. As soon as the stout hits my stomach the jukebox filters a new mood. The sound of the Modern Jazz Quartet fills the pub and a half smile slinks out from under a maudlin frown... 

It is going to be a beautiful day.

The Moon Under Water

In the course of lockdown, I have had the pleasure of revisiting some of my favourite writers' work. A recent trawl through George Orwell brought me back to The Moon Under Water.

The Moon Under Water is a 1946 essay by George Orwell, originally published as the Saturday Essay in the Evening Standard on 9 February 1946, in which he provided a detailed description of his ideal public house, the fictitious "Moon Under Water".

The essay begins: "My favourite public-house, the Moon Under Water, is only two minutes from a bus stop, but it is on a side-street, and drunks and rowdies never seem to find their way there, even on Saturday nights...."

Orwell stipulated ten key points that his perfect pub in the London area should have (his criteria for country pubs being different, but unspecified):

1.   The architecture and fittings must be uncompromisingly Victorian.

2.   Games, such as darts, are only played in the public bar "so that in the other bars you can walk about without the worry of flying darts".

3.   The pub is quiet enough to talk, with the house possessing neither a radio nor a piano.

4.   The barmaids know the customers by name and take an interest in everyone.

5.   It sells tobacco and cigarettes, aspirins and stamps, and "is obliging about letting you use the telephone".

6.   "[...] there is a snack counter where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches, mussels (a speciality of the house), cheese, pickles and [...] large biscuits with caraway seeds [...]."

7.   "Upstairs, six days a week, you can get a good, solid lunch—for example, a cut off the joint, two vegetables and boiled jam roll—for about three shillings."

8.   "[...] a creamy sort of draught stout [...], and it goes better in a pewter pot."

9.   "They are particular about their drinking vessels at "The Moon Under Water" and never, for example, make the mistake of serving a pint of beer in a handleless glass. Apart from glass and pewter mugs, they have some of those pleasant strawberry-pink china ones. [...] but in my opinion beer tastes better out of china."

10. "[...] You go through a narrow passage leading out of the saloon, and find yourself in a fairly large garden [...] Many as are the virtues of the Moon Under Water I think that the garden is its best feature, because it allows whole families to go there instead of Mum having to stay at home and mind the baby while Dad goes out alone."

Whilst some of Orwell's culinary preferences reflect the wartime diet, the idea of listing the requirements of a London pub appeals to me. So, at the same time as strolling from Brixton to Soho, I'm going to describe the perfect day that awaits me at the end of my meanderings... 

Psychogeographical Meanderings - Brixton > Soho #7

The joy of watching cricket at The Oval never pales. A number 36 bus chugs by outside, as Blowers, Johnners and others mutter their way through a whole days play. The giddy sweet joy of lunchtime drinking. The intoxicating jangle of nerves when opening the batting, flags at half mast for Sir Len Hutton.

Spilling out onto the backstreets, weaving across open ground. The lure of the Queen Anne. Young men flocking on a Sunday lunchtime to the sanctuary of the pool table in the back corner. Peeling portraits of Messrs. Osgood, Hudson, Webb, Bonetti, Hutchinson, Harris and Houseman cling to the wall by virtue of a mix of sweat, nicotine & misplaced lust.

The Danish girl, unfamiliar with local bye-laws, is still spoken of in hushed/embarrassed tones. The pint pot comes round again and it is time to leave. The sun is still shining and the trains rattle overhead, underneath in the Sweeney arches counterfeit money battles for space with a drug factory. It's going to be another interesting day in South London....

Sunday lunchtime in the pub with the papers

It was a BC thing (Before Children). I would wake up late, yet early enough to stock up on the papers. If Chelsea won I'd buy as many as possible (more of a rarity those days and indeed these too!). Normally it would be The Observer & The IoS as staples and then others depending on the news, the mood, the amount I'd had to drink the night before.

Once armed with Fleet Street's finest tittle tattle, it would be a brief stroll, a gentle push and then the pub would be ours. A leisurely couple of hours supping, muttering, thundering or saying nothing. All in all, still the second best way to spend a Sunday.

The Old Coffee House Book Club

Met on a daily basis
welcomed new and old faces
always plenty of spaces
a Beak St cultural oasis

Ashes Victory Celebrations

Yesssss!!!!!!!!!!!

In the pubs and streets of South London, fuelled by joy, exhileration and a couple of rather pleasing bottles of crispy white wine. The celebrations went on, long into the night. E-mailing long lost Aussie buddies, texting 'til the network collapses.

Ricky Ponting, Dame Edna Everage, Kylie Minogue, Kevin Rudd, Nicole Kidman, Rolf Harris, Nick Cave, John Eales, Jono Coleman, Ned Kelly your boys took one helluva beating!!

And that was just in 2005! Sweet, wonderful and thoroughly deserved victory!

Passive Smoking

Someone blowing a B&H in your face, inadvertently stubbing out a Rothmans on your hand or just fugging up the room with the heady blend of Silk Cut and Marlboro. Oh the joys of picking up my clothes from the night before and breathing in a heady mix of stale cigarettes and Chanel No.5...

John Martyn RIP

A brilliant guitarist, singer, songwriter and innovator. Anybody who wrote 'Solid Air' would be missed, anyone who also wrote 'May you never', 'Bless the weather' and 'One world' will be sorely missed.

Solid Air

You've been taking your time
And you've been living on solid air
You've been walking the line
And You've been living on solid air
Don't know what's going wrong inside
And I can tell you that it's hard to hide when you're living on
Solid air.

You've been painting it blue
And you've been looking through solid air
You've been seeing it through
And you've been looking through solid air
Don't know what's going wrong in your mind,
And I can tell you don't like what you find,
When you're moving through
Solid air.

I know you, I love you
And I could be your friend
I could follow you, anywhere
Even through solid air.

You've been stoning it cold
You've been living on solid air
You've been finding that gold
You've been living on solid air
I don't know what's going on inside
I can tell you that it's hard to hide
When you're living on
Solid air, solid air.

You've been getting too deep
You've been living on solid air
You've been missing your sleep
And you've been moving through solid air
I don't know what's going on in your mind
But I know you don't like what you find
When you're moving through
Solid air, solid air.

I know you, I love you
I'll be your friend
I could follow you, anywhere
Even through solid air.

You've been walking your line
You've been walking on solid air
You've been taking your time
But you've been walking on solid air
Don't know what's going wrong inside
But I can tell you that it's hard to hide
When you're living on
Solid air, solid air.

You've been painting it blue,
You've been living on solid air
You've been seeing it through
And you've been living on solid air
I don't know what's going on in your mind
But I can tell you don't like what you find
When your living on
Solid air, solid air.

I know you, I love you
And I'll be your friend
I could follow you, anywhere
Even through solid air.

Ice blue solid air
Nice blue solid air

New Years Eve in Eastbourne

Running around from the Sussex Hotel to Bilbo's, Dewdrop, Dolphin, Frasco's. Nothing else to do but drink and wait for someone to discover where the party is. Then pile in the off-licence, pile in a car, pile out of the car, pile into the party, kiss the nearest girl at midnight and fall asleep in a pile at about 5 in the morning.

That'll be a small glimpse of paradise then!

Last Orders

Crammed into a pub with only ten minutes before closing, landlord just about to call time and you still need another drink. Time to order a couple of double 'vodka limons' that should do the trick before being spewed out into the street at only 11.10pm.

Then of course thay had to spoil it all with 'twenty-four hour opening' and embracing cafe culture. Over here of course things are slightly different with the RSA (responsible service of alcohol) Nazis on the warpath.

Where is the irresponsibility? Where is the rash behaviour? Where is the nearest lock-in?

The Old Coffee House - Soho

Remember a drink is for life and not just for Christmas

On the corner of Beak St and Marshall St. The Old Coffee House, is one of those rare old theme pubs where the theme is drinking. I have been drinking in TOCH for 20 years and it has barely changed at all in that time. Barry & Gerry the husband and wife landlord team are still behind the pumps, the still nicotine stained war posters are still shuffled around once a year and the same old drinkers are still ordering the same old drinks. Many an afternoon has blurred into a long old evening in TOCH.

As an antidote to the modern drinking/members clubs called such cutting edge names as 'Moist', 'Player' and 'Thrush'; the warm red interior, low lighting and proximity to Carnaby Street, Oxford Street & Piccadilly Circus makes TOCH a perfectly decorated and situated establishment. Protected from invasion by too many media types (limited supply of latest Peruvian bottled beer 'Chumpitaz' being the key reason for their absence) it is also generally immune from part-time Christmas drinkers. Those that do make it through are quietly ushered upstairs, where they can don stupid paper hats and pull various assorted crackers to their hearts content without annoying the hardy annuals downstairs.

All in all The Old Coffee House is a veritable home from home. Cheers