Peel ale

Pub 94. The Robert Peel, 30th June 2012.

Oops - forgot to do this one at the time. But no matter - I'd say that I can't remember much about it now but to be honest there's not much to remember about it. Not that that means it's unpleasant at all, quite the opposite really. I popped in after getting my bike serviced just up the road, and it was a pleasant relief to a very warm day outside.

I can't remember what beer I had - it had a locomotive on the pump clip I think, and a couple of the locals at the bar were intrigued as to what it tasted like. Very nice I was able to tell them. I would have stayed at the bar for more chit-chat but retired to a little corner where discrete photography was less likely to be rumbled. Shame though, because I could've told the nice bantery barmaid about the Union Jack faux pas.

Basically it seemed quiet and pleasant and relaxing, everyone seemed locals and were dotted around in small groups and couples engaged in quiet conversation. One chap had his own pewter tankard.

The toilet was full of flies, and the view out of the toilet window was intriguing. I like views of urban abandonment like that. Thankfully the beer garden was much nicer looking. Well, a bit.

After leaving I went to take an exterior photo and then went back to my bike chained up right outside, one of the punters at the bar approached me. I thought he was going to ask me why I was taking a photo, but instead he just struck up a conversation about the weather or my bike or something or other I can't remember. It seems that the less enticing a pub might look initially, the more friendly it may well be. As they're the ones with the regulars. I shall remember this when visiting the really rough ones I currently scurry past with nary a glance!

The Beautiful South

Pub no. 93 - The Lord Southampton, 27th October 2012.

Why has it taken me so long to go to this pub? I've walked past so many times, thinking to myself "I bet that's a charmless dump..." but as we've found time and time again judging books by the covers makes an ass out of u and me!

Ok, so this is based on one visit and therefore I accept accusations of hyperbole but I think this could be the best pub in Camden. Let me explain.
As I approached I peered in the window by the door and it looked pretty dead so I went round the corner to the other door and went in kind of expecting everything to stop and everyone to turn and stare at the stranger in town. Not a bit of it - well there were only two people in. And the door-choice was irrelevant anyways as the three original bars (a saloon bar, public bar and a private bar + a separate off-licence and what looked to me like a snug) had been knocked into one. But no matter as it doesn't feel like one huge empty room, and the bar is still kinda-partitioned. I'm not a fan of open plan.

There's two ales, Greene King IPA and Sharp's Cornish Coaster. And as it happens I had several of both throughout the evening, and both were very pleasant. And both were £3.10, very reasonable indeed. I nipped to the loo through the old offy bit, which is now a hallway / art-gallery / cloak-room / charity book shop and within minutes of coming back was engaged in conversation with the other two chaps in there, mainly about Ikea and the Isle of Man and Jersey as holiday destinations, and then we drifted on to hockey. See - a stranger walks into a pub and with a quarter of a pint is chatting away with the other punters like nobody's business. After a while Dave from Yorkshire has to go and catch Merlin so I have one more. Or that was the plan... I get chatting to the landlady. A friendly Irish lady called Martha, who unbelievably has been running the place since 1972! She kept me entertained for hours with tales about barring Bill Nighy for being a dick and drinking with Peter o'Toole who was very nice. Karl Marx used to drink there too. She explained the history of the building, and pointed out the refrigerated shelves that I'd imagine are fairly unique - and run off the same pipes and chiller unit that was there when they moved in. Before here she used to the run the Bree Louise in the 60s, then known as the Jolly Gardners.  And despite not drinking herself and not really a frequenter of other pubs she was up all the Camden pub gossip and knew all the other publicans.
She modestly claimed that she thinks they're the long serving publicans in Camden. "In London!" I proffered - "In England maybe!?", "No no - there'll be those that were born in the pubs" she countered. Good point.
She also urged me to go to the "other" loos, which are interesting as you have to walk over a small bridge to get there. How many Camden pub toliets are accessible only via a bridge? Also, from the bridge you can see a door that opens up... well, into nowhere! She had no idea what that door was for. A mystery indeed!
It was first my visit and Martha treated me like an old friend - including all the trials and tribulations of her family. What a charming lady.

The decor is pure "1970s proper pub". Wood panels, carpet, foliage, pvc banquettes, trophies, photos of locals and a huge stuffed pike. Despite the telly being on, and fruit machine flashing (albeit quietly) and then the telly being replaced by behind-the-bar music that was a mix of easy listening and Rod Stewart's greatest post-Faces hits, it was a wonderful cosy comfy place to be. Some would describe it as "tatty" or "shabby" or "in need of improvement", but it really really doesn't. And what do those people know about anything anyways? They'd want everything redecorated every few years according to their fads and whims - a recipe for a pub and heritage disaster. It felt like being in a pub in some unspoilt sleepy Cotswold village, not in the middle of a north London housing estate.

Understandably Martha wants to retire, so the remaining ten years of their lease is up for sale. I think she doesn't want to sell to just anyone, but whoever takes it on is bound to ruin it, ie. tart it up. Get in there while you can. I'm going back there this afternoon - and many afternoons to come!

The Lord Southampton hasn't escaped the notice of Camra's list of historic pub interiors and rightly so! There's only about 15 or so in the Camden. I hope it helps protect it though, and not just record it. I doubt it though.

Hard Graft

Pub 92. The Grafton, 6th October 2012.

Oh dear, what is becoming of pubs these days? I'd never been in the Grafton before as when I was passing I was always going somewhere else and although it never looked univiting it never really looked very inviting either. Just bog standard lager & Sky. Then it closed down for a couple of months, new managers... new ideas. Hmmm.

Apparently they'd spent a hell of a lot of money on the decor. Obviously this needs recoping as quickly as possible which they are doing by cutting electricity bill by having the pub in almost complete darkness, even when it's still light outside. Then to help a bit more they are charging an eye-watering £3.85 a pint for very ordinary ales. My London Stone wasn't even very nice. I think they're also saving money by employing gormless bar-staff. "Three-eighty-five?!" I exclaimed to the fresh-faced floppy haired young barman in his black pub-logo'd t-shirt, he replied with a wide-eyed excited nodded grin, which seemed to be saying "Brilliant!".

Any electricty savings made by having no lights must have been negated by having the music very loud. Why on earth do publicans think that people want to sit in a pub with such loud music? There would not be one fewer person in here if they had no music. I'm sure someone at some point will suddenly realise and say "Hang on... what's this music for? Oh, to entertain the bar-staff."

As I passed the couple so bored of each-other's company they take their laptops to the pub with them, or they've had their usual unsecured wifi access from down the road suddenly password protected - the swines! - I encountered a piano. Always a nice sight in a pub. "Do you have people playing that?" I asked another barman, 

"No, why - do you play?" he said.

"Not me, but I know a lady who does who might be interested for a quid and a couple of pints."

"Oh great - what's her name?"

I tell the man the pianist's name.

"Cool thanks" he says and then just wanders off without any attempt to write it down or ask for any contact details. I see.

The toilets are adorned with old Beanos and the like. Oh you quirky things you!

By the loo a notice invited me to COME UPSTAIRS AND LOOK AT OUR FUNCTION ROOM! which I did. As I peered round the door, sat on the floor (I think) in the middle of a large and sparsely furnished room was a young 'person' with some DJ-type equipment blaring out Massive Attack (I know these things) so loudly it drowned out the racket from downstairs. He looked up and saw me and triumphantly punched the air with both hands, like a victorious cyclist or an angry chimp. Or a knob. I closed the door and left him to it.

I was already fed up with this place, but tried to find a spot of light to carry on doing my crossword. The place was so dark they need candles behind the bar. Well, obviously they don't need them but they look cool and trendy and sophisticated. Young modern types don't want pubs with electric lights! They want gloom and candles because they want to look cool and trendy and sophisticated.

Everywhere I looked something depressed me about here. A clothing exchange?? De riguer Sunday roasts, but no beef?! Children welcomed until 7pm, a nice effort, but it was 7.30pm when I left and there was still at least half a dozen little screamers running about.

It was very busy, although it was Saturday and I'm sure there was new-pub-novelty value, but I predict now that this place won't get any bar-propping regulars, which is the sign of a poor pub. They'll all be down the road at the Tapping the Admiral. Or any number of nicer, less so-desperate-to-cool places within a 10 minute walk. This place is hard Graft! (See what I did there?)

Real life lottery

Pub 91. The Gloucester Arms, 6th October 2012.

There are so many pubs facing closure or 'gentrification' in the Borough at the moment I can be bothered to list them, and I'm sure in most cases it's because they're not getting used eg. the Old Oak at Gospel Oak which may or may not have closed recently but it certainly won't be the same, for better or for worse. So it's well worth taking a look before they go under the hammer / paintbrush / wrecking-ball.

The Gloucester Arms on a Saturday afternoon is lively enough, with a good age range of punters. It seems nice and comfy, although of its two bars I'm not sure I'm in the lounge bar or public bar - I doubt there's much of a distinction these days.

No ale here so a pint of Guinness suffices. The landlady / barmaid proceeds to pop two down in front of me. Oh no - just one please! I say, but no worries - one is for someone else. But at £3.20 a pint I probably could have afforded two.

So it's a weekend and everyone's letting they're hair down but is there any need for an ear-splitting disco at this time of the day? The people watching the footie or having a quiet chat or the numerous kids running about don't seem to mind. Barely touched my Irish and it was doing my head in.

A lady came up to me asking if I'd buy some raffle tickets. Yeah, right - what a scam. I enquired as to the cause and when she told me the charity it was one I was familiar with and I tried to engage her with my story of doing a little something once for said charity. She didn't bat an eye-lid but just wanted her quid for a strip of 5. Fair enough, I didn't actually doubt for a minute it was a scam.

After a little while when they actually called the draw for the raffle I was somewhat surprised to be honest. And when they came to usher everyone into the other bar I went. I was the only one that went! Oh well. The draw went on for ages, and many fine prizes were claimed. Beauty treatments, packet of felt-tips, etc. The winners seemed genuinely chuffed, apart from the felt-tip kid who handed them back. By now though I was more interested by the mural above the bar of what looked like a medieval market scene. Peculiar, but nice. I wish now I'd seen the 'scenic painted beer garden' that they used to boast of outside.

Quite a cosy pub this, apart from the ear-splitting music - but I guess that drowned our the noise of the kids running about because thinking about it now I didn't really notice them. Or perhaps it's because they didn't seem to come in the first bar (lounge / public) I went in. Who knows? Who cares? Not anyone in there. A pub full of real life.

The "Cal-torpe" Arms,

Pub 90. The Calthorpe Arms, 25th August 2012.

The last time I came here it was wonderfully shabby. I like that. but now it's been spruced up - and thankfully they haven't ruined it, although it does look a bit like the decor has come on the advice of Sir Walter Scott. 
The photo above, by the way, is nicked off Google and shows it pre-tartan tarting up. The doorway incidentally is handy for loitering in while watching for your bus coming, which I was doing on my last visit.

The usual Young's fare on offer, reliable as ever. Although the eastern European barmaid caused some price confusion thus:

"Tree-tur."

[I took this to mean £3.10 and presented her with £3.20]

"Tree-tur please!"

"Yes, there's three tweny."

"No! Tree tur!!"

"How much?"

"Tree turrr!"

She meant three thirty. Three pounds and thirty pence please. "Tree tur"??? What does that mean? It certainly deosn't mean you should give me a look as if to suggest the confusion was all my fault and I am stupid.

There was a gang on regulars round the bar, and it was nice and quiet - the telly with the sound down. All jolly good. 

Then a bemused looking German tourist came in sat down and perused the menu before getting up to order the gammon, and sat down to eat it while engaging with his iPhone.

Then a few minutes later another bemused German tourist came in, sat down to peruse the menu before getting up to order a lasagne, and he sat down to eat it while reading his book. 

They didn't seem to know each other, so what an odd coindence I thought. And how annoying that now the pub stinks of fried food.

Grey area

Pub 89. The Yorkshire Grey, 25th August 2012

I only had time for a quickie in here, as as soon as I got to the bar I was told they were closing soon for a private party. This really annoys me when pubs do this. It's a public house! PUBLIC! Where's your function room? It was never allowed in the old days. Oh well. When I said no problems, I just want a swift half and the toilet they helpfully & eagerly pointed me in the direction of the toilet. I really had to convince them that I wanted a drink too. But the bar-staff were very nice all the same, although one of them spent the whole twenty minutes I was in there pounding some white powder in a large glass jar with a long metal implement like a medieval alchemist's apprentice. God knows what he was doing.

The beer was nice - although I can't remember what it was now. The one on the right in the photo, which I can't make out. The pub was very pleasant, a bit smaller than it looks on the outside though. Look out for the man on said Yorkshire Grey at the top of the building, very nice that.

Clerk is unwell

Pub 88. The Clerk & Well, 25th August 2012.

I don't really know what to say about this pub. It's awful. It's not rough or unpleasant or horrible or loud or dirty... it's just so dull and bland it's awful. Ok, so there's nothing about it to actually dislike but that's because there's nothing about it! Which makes it awful.

Completely devoid of any character. And a stupid feeble made up name too, I'd bet a pound to a penny that who-ever came up with has no notion of the actual clerk's well just down the road that gives the area its name.

The Deauchars IPA was not very nice, and bar was a bit itimidating so I didn't notice the EPA just a drip tray away. The few people in here were bar people, as opposed to pub people, if you get my drift. For example, two very trendily dressed young chaps, heavy with hair-gel and guffawing loudly came to the bar. One ordered a Kopperberg or whatever this week's hip cider is. The other carefully examined the pumps, walked up and the down the bar perusing each shiney silver tap, and then still had to ask "What lagers have you got?" and on hearing a run-down of their fizzy fare stopped at one, say Stella, and quickly piped with a "ooh - a Stella shandy please!". Please indeed.
It had been raining all day and I counted 3 men in knee lengths shorts and flip flops.

There's nothing really made me want to stay here at all, maybe if they were showing a footie match and there was no other pub within a country mile. The only thing that entertained me while I was hear was the Chinese takeaway next door was called "Kung Food". Haha. And the pub stunk of it.

Cocks

Pub 87. The Cock Tavern, 25th August 2012.

The only time I've been here before was on the occasion of the Somers Town Festival or something, when after drinking beer outside all day we decided to go inside and drink more, and go to the loo. I can't remember being overly enamoured with the pub then but do remember that when I went to the loo on finding it a bit busy decided to pop into a cubicle for a wee, as you do. On entering what I thought was the cubicle,  and being multi-tasker I was already extracting John Thomas ready, I was somewhat surprised to find myself in the pool room. Rather than a poo room. I quickly zipped back up and spun on my heels, chuckling to myself. I wonder what fun will be had this time.

Well, none in a word. What an awful pub. Just seemed to be full of people shouting at each other. Irish people shouting in an excited gossipy benign way, and English people shouting at each other in a foul-mouth moronic way. But as they had live footie on a 4x3 CRT telly I pulled up a barstool and got a pint of John Blog's kegflow tinny-taste bitter. Which looked cloudy.

The football coverage was marred by the ill-considered opinions of particulary vociferous cretin, who can only be described at best as rather unpleasant and more accurately as very ugly. How anyone can swear so loudly and with so much vitriol over a corner-kick, within 3 feet of the landlady and not get a ticking off I don't know. He would probably blame the lager and blacks.
The pool room round the back was now a dingy 'big-screen' room, and wasn't very nice at all.
The only moment of levity was when a very old chap in tweed asked for a port & brandy to be told that they've been told he wasn't allowed. He was obviously aware and was chancing it on a different barmaid. He chuckled / sighed, "worth a try!" I said, and he nodded in agreement.
But that aside, what an awful pub.