Last chance to tick my two remaining Central London pubs before the 2023 Good Beer Guide arrives, which by mid October, was surely imminent. The official release date was less than two weeks away, please don't keep us 'privileged' folk hanging on CAMRA, c'mon on!
My first week of jury service was over, and the good thing about jury service is that they call you in late, make you sit around for hours doing jigsaws with strangers, and then dismiss you early.
I saw a window of opportunity - get down to London early on the Friday afternoon, to maximise my ticking potential. I WAS on a rare freebie ticket after all.
The two I needed in Central London both don't open weekends, so Friday evening was my last chance.
(Hang on, this blog is supposed to be brief with two photos and 3-4 lines per pub. Let's wind it in a bit eh?)
Ten pubs this weekend, which went something like this ......
Jackalope, Marylebone (2454 / 4018)
A transient atmosphere, a couple of City workers, a few more lost looking tourists perching uncomfortably. My Burning Sky Plateau was a bit watery. A bloke sat on a side ledge kept eyeing up my seat and 'jumped in my grave' when I left. "I hate perching in perpendicular juxtaposition" he blusters. A line that has confused me ever since.
Deveraux, Temple (2455 / 4019)
The total lack of pub sign had me questioning life itself, a sip of the lame Adnams Ghost Ship (yuck!) didn't convince me I was in a GBG pub, but thankfully, the pizza menu had the word 'Deveraux' on it. The crowd was young and hyped, I did well to secrete myself in a perfect snug for one with glass panelling. A beautiful pub no doubt, probably best visited earlier in the day. Like so many in C.London.
The plan now was to check in at my digs out west, and then get back to the ticking after a snack and a swig of juice. However, I was heading through Shepherd's Bush, I had a 'Spoons in a shopping centre to tick here, so it made sense to do it first.
Central Bar, Shepherd's Bush (2456 / 4020)
"Haway, sorry for pushing in, I'm a regular so they serve me first" says this tiny Geordie. I'd been waiting ages in this cramped little place for service. In his defence, he'd not asked, the barman just pulled his drink, then apologised profusely to me like it'd be an involuntary spasm! Geordie bloke's mate looks at me ruefully throughout, we are posing stool neighbours. There is a 'Spoons beer fest on. But that didn't make anything more exciting. Chunky Kyle from Neighbours fell asleep, and that was it.
I finally decide to check in at my digs in a peculiar area on the Tube line 'twixt Hanger Lane and Park Royal / Royal Park, wherever they are! Then it is straight back out into the night for two bonus ticks.
I'm delighted to get this first one done finally, after many years of trying, and some very restricted opening hours. #ClubLife. Always a challenge.
Questors Grapevine Bar, Ealing (2457 / 4021)
'Pub' of the night, a posh lady in a Bentley points me in the right direction after I got lost behind the bins in the carpark. Amazing how often pub ticking makes you look like a reluctant dogger. £3.20 for a smashing Tomahawk (not the steak), yum. Place smells old and fusty, my favourite pub (club) smell. Jane is telling the landlord she's been CRB checked. She is quirky n theatrical, they all are. She later borrows my biro because three of them want to edit Mr Bamford's programme. Cecily is 'deservedly' promoted, Cecily is a good theatre name. Next on their agenda, 'when shall we go to Kew?' I didn't know the answer to that one. I left, remembering to ask for my biro back, and got lost twice more trying to find loo and exit.
One more pub to go tonight, providing last orders hadn't been called. Which at 10pm in a London micropub isn't a given, but at least it was a Friday and there was a decent rumble of southern voices coming from within.
The Owl & The Pussycat, West Ealing (2458 / 4022)
Love owls, love pussycats, there was some peculiar beer on so I ask the guv'nor, he says they brew it here, and I say 'well done' which sounded unintentionally patronising. I got the stout, a quality drop. I was forced to sit in the centre of the room, not ideal, but I didn't feel remotely self conscious, which just shows how Londoners are wholly unaffected by events around them than . A man behind me playing trivial pursuit buys the biggest bag of Pickled Onion Monster Munch you've ever seen, but then he has a giant sneezing fit. Sticking your nose in the bag will do that!
Back at Northfields station, there was time for one more surprise from this highly successful bonus evening ......
If you follow me on Twitter, you know I love an iced coffee and a cheeky little snack, so this place felt like it'd been put here for my benefit! And to be open nearly 11pm too? You wouldn't get this in Keighley! Levelling up, THIS is what it is really about.
It wasn't the nicest Travelodge I've ever stayed in ... mainly because this family with loud kids were out in the corridors at 7am rushing around and trying to organise their day. AND I got a verruca off the toilet floor , urrrgghhh.
This awkward start set the scene for a Saturday which just never hit the heights of my Friday evening. Pubs, beer, my mental state. Occasionally in BRAPA, things just never quite get going!
Tichenham Inn, Ickenham (2459 / 4023)
Whenever you see a hi-vis man disappearing into a pub, it will be busy (BRAPA fact), and this Saturday morning 'Spoons was HEAVING, and messier than an Argentinian centre forward. A pre-wedding do, lads off to football, an unhealthy smattering of wheezy old men, and a few breakfasteers. One bottle of ketchup is being passed around the pub. Black Sheep Choc Stout sounded lovely, but lacked choc. Not the pub's fault. I was relegated to an abandoned front table full of dirty sticky plates, not cleared away for the duration of my 25 minute stay.
Ruislip was close to Ickenham, but the pub was a bit out of town so I hopped on a bus. An old man pressed the bell, letting me off first muttering something about having 'old bones' and crossed the road just behind me into the pub, how accidentally companionable!
Woodman, Ruislip (2460 / 4024)
If I'd been remotely 'feeling' it today, I'd have enjoyed this pub. It was certainly the best of a weak bunch today. "Don't serve 'im, he jumped off the bus before me!" the bloke tells the barmaid. "Oiii, you let me!" I squeak. She's not remotely interested and serves us simultaneously. Cosy, red and wallpapered - I'm in a fine pub room here, shame the locals are all in the other side, which looks boring but has more chatter. Betty Stoggs drank well, I keep thinking I've seen the last of Skinners but they keep popping up.
I then wasted a lot of time trying to get to Norwood Green, then giving up on it due to a bus which just didn't show. Hanwell it was, my third visit to this perky little suburb, but my first in seven years. With two ticks still to do, it made sense.
Green W7, Hanwell (2461 / 4025)
Despite using the main front door, I walked straight into a private party throng, and had to battle my way past buffet tables and some real posh rah-rahs to reach the bar. When I did, an unruffled bloke in a turtle neck served me a Portobello Star which was so tired, I had to give it a nudge to keep it awake. Kids running around screeching, the arrival of a fake Wolf from Gladiators (nice guns), and a horrid Christmas display (mid October, ugh!) annoy me further. My saviour was Raj, a chap sat on his own with a pint of Kronie, similarly perplexed by the Christmas scene and general atmosphere. We had a lovely little chat about how horrid at all was, and I felt a lot better.
Raj went off to some other pub which would've turned out to be a great pre-emptive shout, had I listened to him, and I instead headed to one he'd never heard of which, along with Green W7, would shortly be de-guided. Ticking life!
Dodo Micropub, Hanwell (2462 / 4026)
A warm welcome from Lucy and two incredibly motivated (i.e. drunk) locals called Paul & Steve , plus a cracking pint of collaborative premium murk, meant an marked upturn in fortunes, though it could've hardly gone downhill could it? A very basic sort of micro, one for the beer purists. "You want a photo with your teddy?" said Paul, or was it Steve? "Errrm, he's a cauliflower ACTUALLY .... but go on then!" I replied. They then told me walking to Boston Manor was a better idea than whatever I was going to do, and I said thanks for the tip, and the company. Nice when London folk talk to you.
It took an age to get myself back into the centre of London, and I'd only done four ticks. What a struggle today had been! But I managed to squeeze one more in a few stops north of King's Cross.
Westbury. Wood Green (2463 / 4027)
It wasn't on a hill, I needed a wee desperately, hence the jaunty angled shot. It was the most exciting thing about this dreadful pub, somehow even worse than Green W7, and somehow, still in the 2023 GBG. Nine handpumps all turned around is a sad sight, you'd think that would ensure the quality of the one that was on, alas no, it is dishwater. Where's the nearest plant pot? I should've guessed when the barman had to ask a colleague how to pull a pint! A lady who looked like Jenny Eclair had a similar (but poorer quality) red jacket on as me, but we failed to bond. Her granddaughter had a Mr Motivator hat on, I've got some of his short shorts! No clickage with her either.
And back at King's Cross, not even the Parcel Yard could save a really poor quality BRAPA day. No ESB. People trying to form a queue. No room to sit. Favourite room reserved. Just really uncomfortable. Brown stained tissue all over the bogs. Finally, a barmaid sees me looking tearful and finds me a seat in the corridor. It'd be two months until I'd be brave enough to return.
