Thursday 13th November
Under the majestic tripe inspired roof at London King's Cross, so often the base for all manner of BRAPA days, I bring you this six pub morale booster.
I was down in Croydon on holiday (said no one ever!) in little over a week, but having travelled down on the mid-morning Grand Central service instead of the 08:27 (which I'm blaming on their rubbish website), I didn't want to be too expansive with my ticking. Especially after last weekend's Stirling trip ended on five when it really should've been seven.
So I decide upon an anti-clockwise tour of Central London including an E1, SE1 and SW1. Another thought that crossed my mind, the City pubs aren't pleasant experiences on a Saturday, if they're open at all, especially with Christmas on the horizon Being a weekday daytime in November, I might get comfy seats, personal space and admire some of that famous olde worlde architecture.
Going underground wasn't jammed (thanks), and a timely reminder I'm up to 97 Timmy Taylor L's on evil yankee (not Roosters) beer app, Untwappd. Would I add to the tally today and edge closer to 100? Was anyone in the world remotely interested?
Leaving a Tube station from the wrong exit can really cost you, as I find out at Hyde Park Corner. I have to walk for ten minutes to find a crossing point, double back on myself, and navigate my way through some posho 'mews' to reach the pub, when in reality, it was a five minute walk tops.
Highbrow, historic, self important, silver spoon in mouth London at its finest. Hats (bicornes?) off to Grenadier, Belgravia (3127 / 5968), fully deserving its National Inventory double star of historic interior. The Duke of Welly and George IV used to get pissed 'ere. It's etched on a wall somewhere, though I didn't see it. 'Leave your pram outside, we don't have the space!' was a sign I approved of. The barmaid with the expression of a burst raspberry doughnut serves me with a pomposity that suggests she sees the pub's heritage as a reflection on her very own self. Settle down lass, you're an employee. Ancient bank notes are stuck to the ceiling. AS IF I needed any reminder how much richer everyone else is than me. I'm forced to perch on a shelf between bars, but it is still a pleasant pub to be inside. Behind me, inside the atmospherically lit snug back room, leading to the gorgeously tiled toilets, well fed barristers tuck into roast beef. An American with an inconvenient amount of nasal hair asks just how famous their famous Bloody Mary's are. And gets short shrift. The £6.20 London Pride drinks well, and I needed to get moving. I'm an experienced enough London ticker to know how quickly time can get away from you.
Having learnt my lesson about Hyde Park Corner Tube entrances, it takes me no time to hop back aboard the Piccadilly Line northbound and after some jiggery-pokery, I find myself on famous Fleet Street for today's second tick ....
Photography guy spins around, holds both double doors open for me, and ushers me in first. "Very kind, thank you!" I say. "No problem, I'm picking up my daughter from school in a minute" he replies, and if there was a correlation between the two happenings, I'm still yet to work it out. Old Bell, Ludgate Circus (3128 / 5969) is one of the more impressive Nicholson's houses I've been in. Not particularly a fan of York's trio. This was diabolically dark, in the best way, with steep downward steps to the Gents that are peak C.London, and if ghosts exist, they'll definitely roam the creaky wooden boards after hours in here. Built as part of Chrissy Wren's remodelling of London after that evil fire of 1666. The barmaid is being taught how to pull cask ale by a colleague. I'm her guinea pig. Great effort. "You're a natural" I say encouragingly, because I'm nice. But being London, she looks terrified. Ghost Ship, it tastes good. I find a cute side booth, unknowingly crashing two work colleagues chatting on his fragile mental health so I pull out Ivor Panda to cheer him up, hopefully. Pub of the day? It was a strong contender.
I continue to wend my way eastwards, Blackfriars to Aldgate / East on the Circle/District line (look, it was over a month ago, you're lucky I'm remembering anything about today) and a short walk brings us to pub three.
I s'pose I was fractionally closer to Kent but unnecessary Shepherd Neame caught me unawares at the White Swan, Aldgate (3129 / 5970). Master Brew. I'll enjoy it one day. I promise. But today wasn't the day. Even if it is well kept. It took me a while to 'get' Bass & Abbot Ale so all is not yet lost. And I've still not fully 'got' Pedigree. And I doubt I'll ever 'get' Black Sheep. But enough boring beer chat, the open door onto a busy street really is ruining what my photos remind me is a glorious interior. Felt like a 2020 opened micro in a shopping precinct to sit in, which is a shame. A lovely Fiona wanders over, she's a big fan of pandas, gives Ivor a tickle, makes him faint. But nice to see him getting some attention. He's not Colin, but then again, who is?
Still keeping to my '27 min max' in a pub, Liverpool Street, I think I walked it, near Aldgate innit?
Work chucking out time was approaching, and the swell of Londoners was building as I arrive at Dirty Dick's, Liverpool Street (3130 / 5971). Last time I ticked a pub around here, the Lord Aberconway (my 2621st in Jan '24 to give you an idea of my progress), and Axholme Rob randomly popped up. And today, it was the turn of Jim Brunt. Sat right by the entrance. "Simon!" he calls. I couldn't believe it. He's whipping it in before the train to Norfolk - rather him than me, and YES I know I can't avoid it forever. Brief chat but I'm grateful for it, because the barmaid is utterly dire when pulling my Proper Job - so unfriendly, even her colleagues throw me glances suggesting they're embarrassed on her behalf. All I'd done was remark on the green Proper Job Santa hats on the handpumps! Gotta remember the part of the world I'm in. Jim buzzes off, so I bask in a good pint and tunes from the Pogues in this mostly vertical drinking venue, learning how 'Dick' was actually a 'Nathaniel' who refused to wash after his wife died. Oh, and I took my favourite photo of the day ..... and no, I wasn't brave enough to tell him!
Moorgate is up next, another short walk. They should close some of these Tube Stations. Encourage Londoners to get a bit more exercise, lose a few pounds!
A first GBG appearance since 2011 and only its 5th in total (thanks Jim!), and yet I've heard of Old Doctor Butler's Head, Moorgate (3131 / 5972) so it must be one of those 'London institutions'. I'm buzzing for this tick more than any other because it is closed on weekends. And yet, it was today's least enjoyable experience. The scrum outside continues on towards the bar but I'm pleased to find I'm one of the only people trying to get served so it ain't too bad. Today's second Shepherd Neamo, the fish that won't flush. They have a funky guest IPA on, so I go for that. Incredibly bland. I think SN should stick to their standard core ales and embrace living in the past, much like Jethro Tull (thanks, Mudgie might be proud!) But on further investigation, this isn't just post-work pub traffic causing the ruck. A dude called Tom Whitfield has reserved the back half of the pub from 4:45pm. Tsk Tom, tsk. Hang down your head Tom Whitfield, hang down your head and cry. Anyway, it is only just gone 4:30pm so I decide to sit beyond the red rope of segregation, and I'm pleased to spot a few other blokes doing the same, although I think the table beyond me might be Tom's associates. In any case, 4:45pm ticks around to 5pm, and no one has remotely looked like moving me. Job done. Cheers Tom.
I wouldn't swear by it in a court of law, but I think from here I walk to Bank Tube station and head a couple of stops south to Elephant & Castle on the Northern Line. How had I gone all day without a 'Spoons?
It might've looked a bit ridiculous on the approach, but as GBG debutant 'Spoons go, I was quietly impressed by Rockingham Arms, Elephant & Castle (3132 / 5973), possibly an ode to Kettering Town, I couldn't be certain. Certainly less grey and not as many gippos with their filthy paws in litter bins. The Jaipur is scintillating. Spoons need to sack off their abysmal festive guests and focus on the Jaips, it is all we really want at this time of year. Not at £4.39 obviously, but at least a Mudgie voucher took the edge off. The tile / carpet 'collab' is a thing of beauty - 9.5/10. A couple of dorks look like they're trying to form a queue, but encouraged by the staff, the silent majority amble forward to the bar, leaving the dorks looking suitably cowed. How it should be. One of the better 'Spoons I've been to in 2025.
Time for Parcel Yard before the train home? You'd better believe it! A Peroni drinking beat poet even decides to share my table but we don't talk.
And that was that. Six ticks to take the pressure off my forthcoming London blitz, which would bring me close to completion of the 'Greater London' section of the Guide, which I'll tell you about in the New Year.
Speaking of which, time is ticking to Yulemas so not sure I'll have time to tell you about Lincolnshire , as I'm also starting to prep the annual BRAPA review, to be released just after midnight on NYD, so look out for that one!
Have a great Crimbo if I don't blog again, and keep it pub where appropriate,
Si
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