In the spirit of 'magical literalism', here's the story of my pub tour with Anthony. The start was not propitious. The trip began at a bus stop by the A3. You may see the bus approaching, though I didn't. I was too busy taking the picture and almost missed it. I have a new phone and wanted to play with the camera.
In New Malden I stepped off the bus at the Fountain, crossed the road and walked past the boarded up police station.
Then caught the train to Waterloo.
All erudition, and reeking of cordite, the first thing Anthony quoted to me was Liebknecht's description of a pub crawl with Karl Marx; which he took in the spirit of investigating the roots of an old British tradition - Wilhelm not Karl, of course.
'One evening, Edgar Bauer, acquainted with Marx from their Berlin time and then not yet his personal enemy […], had come to town from his hermitage in Highgate for the purpose of “making a beer trip.” The problem was to “take something” in every saloon between Oxford Street and Hampstead Road – making the something a very difficult task, even by confining yourself to a minimum, considering the enormous number of saloons in that part of the city. But we went to work undaunted and managed to reach the end of Tottenham Court Road without accident.'
Wilhelm Liebknecht
This is the best view of London, Tony said. So I took a picture of the view.
Unfortunately, the picture doesn't capture the Houses of Parliament or any of the more important monuments in the immediate vicinity, but you can see St Pauls in the distance. We continued: that, said Tony, is a real wine bar, the oldest in London - it was built in 1890. The establishment was popular in the 50s the 60s and the 70s and it hasn't been done up much. It is what it is.
Certainly the gold lettering of Gordon's Wine Bar needed retouching. Next to the bar, apparently, lived Rudyard Kipling. After a few pints downstairs in the Wine Bar, Rudyard would go upstairs to write his novel: 'The Light that Failed' . He probably wrote a few poems there too.
Past Charing Cross, we went, and up a street to the Lamb and Flag. Here's a picture of me outside the bar toasting with London Porter. It is a lovely experience of beer, it is and all.
The pub is up a sloping side street and the entrance looks down towards the river. Inside it smelled Victorian - of drains and beer and varnished wood. The landlord was a surly gentleman, just reaching that age when the corners of your mouth turn down and you don't give a damn. I'm nearly there myself. Tony explained why he admired the writings of Ian Jack and challenged me to find fault with a piece Ian Jack had written. So I did; ridiculous; full of unaccountable hubris and beer.
The Harp*
London Porter tastes of burnt coffee. There is a real beer that is meant to taste of espresso, but this was probably not the intention of the person who created London Porter which tastes bitter, but refreshing. The bitterness is a black line silhouetting the beer's full-body.
When you finish the pint then the bitterness returns, making you smack your lips. It's a taste that rises up menacingly and then slips away down the backstreets of your throat. I thought I preferred Lion Stout, but now I prefer London Porter.
The Lamb and Flag is the insignia of Preston North End Football Club, the country of Wales and two British regiments. This means little to me, but it means something to Tony. We left by the side door, which opened like a surprise onto an alleyway, and then we made for the next pub; in Covent Garden, the Old Coffee House.
In spite of his expertise Tony had lost his bearings a little, but then quickly reoriented us using a tourist map. I can't remember who served us, all I remember is the beer which was excellent, but right wing. Brodies Olde Ardour. Very good. It tasted a little of ashes. Barbecued bulldog.
The landlord of the next pub, the Dog and Duck in Soho, was Natalie. A very pleasant lady who had time to talk. A second little lady in a raincoat peeped through the window, ducking occasionally below the sill. She had bright eyes and a big smile. When I waved, she waved back and came in and I gave her two pounds. She gave me a hug and turned to ask Tony for some money. He refused, being from the north. Can I ask anyone else? No Pam, said Natalie, only the ones you know.
What's her story, asked Tony. She's 46. What 46! said Tony (who is 46). Yes, and she used to be an alcoholic but she gave that up for the slot machines and she's well known you know. She features in guidebooks and there's a big picture of her in a pub nearby.
But the truth was I didn't like the beer very much Lancaster Red, though I drank two pints of the stuff. On the way to the loo I read the history of the pub on the wall. Mozart had lived nearby. 'Of course you do know - everyone does - I told Tony, that Mozart used to drink here. And before Tony could tell me I was talking nonsense. Natalie piped up. Yes that's right, he did. Good pub, I said. And Orwell, said Tony. Yes look at the sign up there. It said the George Orwell Bar. I see. George Orwell and Mozart in the Dog and Duck. Imagine that.
The walk to the next pub was longer. As I had the camera I took a few pictures. We walked into St James's Church at my insistence and caught a rehearsal for a Piano recital. It was wonderful. The sound of the instrument and I loved the way the notes blurred so that there was a stream of sound. It's not supposed to do that said Tony. I think it is I said. The Piano was a Fazioli. and I think what we heard was a little of Debussy's Arabesques. rehearsed by Julian Jacobson.
By now the afternoon light was low and brilliant: We walked past a shop selling Yachts. This morning walking my youngest daughter to school she asked me why Carlos Slim was so rich. Because he was handed over a state telecommunications monopoly at a low price and he squeezed it. I said. Of course a monopoly on yacht production wouldn't work as well. People can easily avoid buying yachts in difficult times.
The beer gradually took effect and I took pictures of Tony again and then the horse guards parade and even a rubbish truck looked good to me.
Dapper Tony
Rubbish truck
Horse Guards' Parade
Then we crossed over to the second to last pub in Whitehall, The Red Lion in the centre of power. During the week politicians drink here with a bodyguard or two.I ordered the beer Dad used to drink in Chiswick, London Pride and looked longingly at the pies.
An English Pie, something to be proud of
Tony and I sat outside and gradually slowed down and relaxed completely, discussing old girlfriends and how lucky I was to be married. Tony had had a girlfriend in the foreign office and showed me the place where he visited her. But then I realised I had to get back.
Tony said one more. By now it was dark and so we walked to Victoria. I walked past bad memories and by the time we got to the last pub we were both a little maudlin. Tony stopped a fight. Two hooligans were ready to beat up the pub manager and we took the train back to our destinations. That was the arc of the pub tour.
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