Monopoly Board Pub Crawl part III
After a 25 minute tube journey and a bus ride, Chuck and I found ourselves strolling down Old Kent Road. The pub we are after, The Lord Nelson, was quite far down the street but we knew that the rules stated any pub on the road would do. One of the main dilemmas of pub hunting in London when you are unfamiliar with the territory, is that many businesses have set up shop in abandoned pubs and it's only upon close inspection do you find this out. So the first two hotels we find are actually Travel Agents, and the third is a Dentist. Yes, A fuckin' Dentist.
We eventually got to the Lord Nelson, and to our dismay found that both sets of front doors are locked. By this time it is noon, so we assume that the pub is not open on weekends. Mild anxiety washed over our us, as the concussive fact that we had now managed to fuck up the first two pubs hits like a coat-hanger to a fetus. Was this day long pub crawl going to transpire into 26 consecutive kicks to the nuts?
There was no time for inner reflection, as time was ticking away. We went into a Nearby Off Licence, and babbled our vital need of finding a local pub that HAD to be on this particular road. The bored old man behind the counter pointed at the door and told us a mixture of get out and good luck.
We bolted back out onto Old Kent Road with a new found desperation, strolling past the Lord Nelson. It was at this point Chuck thought he could hear voices, and we then tried what we hadn't the first time round - the side door. It, like the pub, was open. We saddled up to the bar and ordered our two half pints. There was about a dozen old grizzled drunks in the pub. Half of the Barflies looked at us with mocking eyes for not ordering full pints - like the new Cannibals to the tribe who had just asked for Jelly Babies. The other half were lost in thought - lamenting the divorce of their third wife, fretting about the 8 quid they lost on a greyhound race, or whatever it is that these boozy old fucks do on a Saturday afternoon. We downed our beers, noting that we were now an hour behind schedule, and hit the road.
One bus, one tube, and we were at Fenchurch station. The Fen was our new 10 minute home; you'd have to be a pure blood alco if you couldn't wait to leave the train station before having a beer, and we found ourselves fitting in with the rest of the inebriates. The young barmaid spent about two minutes trying to pour us some Bitters. Eventually she had to tell us that the taps weren't working, and asked us our second choice. Another couple of minutes, and the second taps weren't working - third choice? Then the third taps didn't work. I smiled at the barmaid, but beads of desperation started to sprout on my brow and my voice started to waver. We were behind schedule, and had just spent 90% of our allotted time for this pub watching the beers being abandoned mid pour as each keg gave out. The fourth half pints poured like a sweet dream, we slammed them down like a bastard nightmare, and made our way out of the station.
Before hitting the road for Whitechappel we stopped at a Bakery for a couple of pasties. Chuck's was so hot he burnt his tongue, mine was stone cold. Both tasted like dough wrapped dog vomit. But that wasn't the important part, it was texture we were after, and these claggy dough balls had it in spades. For a full day's drinking a decent bulky meal can knock 3 or 4 pints of your drunkenness. A shitty pastry meal beats the world's best salad hands down. You can't build a castle on quicksand.
One of the funky parts about the Monopoly Board game is the amusingly low prices allocated to the locations on the board, and how ridiculously underpriced they are. Except for the case of Whitechapel, which is has been overpriced at 60 quid. What a shithole. Chuck and I beat our way through a row of crappy market stalls, Pirate DVD salespeople and a mildly angry political protest to find the aptly named Blind Beggar. This pub is bit of a historical British Landmark, as it was where Ronnie Kray (of the infamous Kray twins) shot George Cornell. That was in 1966 and I swear the cleaner hasn't been in since then.
We managed to procure our beers with reasonable haste, besides one obvious flaw with the service. The conversation (I shit you not) went like this:
Me: "Excuse me love, there seems to be an ash covered peanut in my beer"
Barmaid: "Shh Don't say it too loud, or everybody will want one!"
Christ. It's the kind of eons old crappy humor you find on rolled up bits of paper inside Christmas crackers, yet strangely amused me in this real life setting. A woman with a sense of houmour even poorer than my own, if she hadn't been 60 years old I would have asked her out (my cut off age is 59).
On the way to the tube station, one of the stall owners jumped out right in front of me and Karate chopped her noisy son in the face. That was cool.
Nothing much to report about the Liverpool Street Station pub Hamilton Hall, except that it's a spacious boozer with the interior built to resemble a library. I don't really see the point of lining the walls of a British pub with book shelves. It's kind of like hanging dildos in a nunnery.
On that note, we conclude part III.
Old Kent Road - Lord Nelson
12:21 to 12:30
Fenchurch Street Station - The Fen
13:06 to 13:16
Whitechapel - Blind Beggar
13:42 to 13:47
Liverpool Street Station - Hamilton Hall
14:14 to 14:22
Tally so far
10 Beers
Average time spent in pubs: 7.6 minutes
5 pubs down 21 to go
We eventually got to the Lord Nelson, and to our dismay found that both sets of front doors are locked. By this time it is noon, so we assume that the pub is not open on weekends. Mild anxiety washed over our us, as the concussive fact that we had now managed to fuck up the first two pubs hits like a coat-hanger to a fetus. Was this day long pub crawl going to transpire into 26 consecutive kicks to the nuts?
There was no time for inner reflection, as time was ticking away. We went into a Nearby Off Licence, and babbled our vital need of finding a local pub that HAD to be on this particular road. The bored old man behind the counter pointed at the door and told us a mixture of get out and good luck.
We bolted back out onto Old Kent Road with a new found desperation, strolling past the Lord Nelson. It was at this point Chuck thought he could hear voices, and we then tried what we hadn't the first time round - the side door. It, like the pub, was open. We saddled up to the bar and ordered our two half pints. There was about a dozen old grizzled drunks in the pub. Half of the Barflies looked at us with mocking eyes for not ordering full pints - like the new Cannibals to the tribe who had just asked for Jelly Babies. The other half were lost in thought - lamenting the divorce of their third wife, fretting about the 8 quid they lost on a greyhound race, or whatever it is that these boozy old fucks do on a Saturday afternoon. We downed our beers, noting that we were now an hour behind schedule, and hit the road.
One bus, one tube, and we were at Fenchurch station. The Fen was our new 10 minute home; you'd have to be a pure blood alco if you couldn't wait to leave the train station before having a beer, and we found ourselves fitting in with the rest of the inebriates. The young barmaid spent about two minutes trying to pour us some Bitters. Eventually she had to tell us that the taps weren't working, and asked us our second choice. Another couple of minutes, and the second taps weren't working - third choice? Then the third taps didn't work. I smiled at the barmaid, but beads of desperation started to sprout on my brow and my voice started to waver. We were behind schedule, and had just spent 90% of our allotted time for this pub watching the beers being abandoned mid pour as each keg gave out. The fourth half pints poured like a sweet dream, we slammed them down like a bastard nightmare, and made our way out of the station.
Before hitting the road for Whitechappel we stopped at a Bakery for a couple of pasties. Chuck's was so hot he burnt his tongue, mine was stone cold. Both tasted like dough wrapped dog vomit. But that wasn't the important part, it was texture we were after, and these claggy dough balls had it in spades. For a full day's drinking a decent bulky meal can knock 3 or 4 pints of your drunkenness. A shitty pastry meal beats the world's best salad hands down. You can't build a castle on quicksand.
One of the funky parts about the Monopoly Board game is the amusingly low prices allocated to the locations on the board, and how ridiculously underpriced they are. Except for the case of Whitechapel, which is has been overpriced at 60 quid. What a shithole. Chuck and I beat our way through a row of crappy market stalls, Pirate DVD salespeople and a mildly angry political protest to find the aptly named Blind Beggar. This pub is bit of a historical British Landmark, as it was where Ronnie Kray (of the infamous Kray twins) shot George Cornell. That was in 1966 and I swear the cleaner hasn't been in since then.
We managed to procure our beers with reasonable haste, besides one obvious flaw with the service. The conversation (I shit you not) went like this:
Me: "Excuse me love, there seems to be an ash covered peanut in my beer"
Barmaid: "Shh Don't say it too loud, or everybody will want one!"
Christ. It's the kind of eons old crappy humor you find on rolled up bits of paper inside Christmas crackers, yet strangely amused me in this real life setting. A woman with a sense of houmour even poorer than my own, if she hadn't been 60 years old I would have asked her out (my cut off age is 59).
On the way to the tube station, one of the stall owners jumped out right in front of me and Karate chopped her noisy son in the face. That was cool.
Nothing much to report about the Liverpool Street Station pub Hamilton Hall, except that it's a spacious boozer with the interior built to resemble a library. I don't really see the point of lining the walls of a British pub with book shelves. It's kind of like hanging dildos in a nunnery.
On that note, we conclude part III.
Old Kent Road - Lord Nelson
12:21 to 12:30
Fenchurch Street Station - The Fen
13:06 to 13:16
Whitechapel - Blind Beggar
13:42 to 13:47
Liverpool Street Station - Hamilton Hall
14:14 to 14:22
Tally so far
10 Beers
Average time spent in pubs: 7.6 minutes
5 pubs down 21 to go
1 Comments:
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