Two Sticks and an Apple say Whitechapel

If you were attempting to throw together the ingredients of the perfect pub crawl you might search the back corners of your cupboards for such factors as; infamous pubs that were the scene of infamous murders, brew pubs where they brew their own beer in the cellar, crazy indie pubs with easy-going toilet attitudes and the oldest manufacturing business in the UK. Add in a sprinkling of three bare naked lady-bits to the mix and I reckon you might have the perfect combination.

This was the first location on this tour that wasn’t centred around a church because although The Oranges and Lemons rhyme says that “the bells of Whitechapel” are ringing for “two sticks and an apple” it turns out that these bells aren’t located in any place of worship but rather in the Whitechapel Bell Foundry, which is located as one might well expect, on that famous London thoroughfare, Whitechapel Road.

Tour Destination - The Whitechapel Bell Foundry.

BGC fans and followers will remember Whitechapel Road from the much lauded Monopoly Tour which was just about the first time Spikey Haired Ed and the BGC started their blooming and ongoing bromance. On that occasion we visited a few pubs at the Aldgate end of the street so in order to tread some new turf we needed to relocate further along to find some places we hadn’t been to before.

The Blind Beggar.

When I had done my research for Whitechapel Road for the Monopoly tour I noted that it was home to the infamous Blind Beggar pub, the much fabled location of one of the Kray Twins murders. Without going too far into the folklore that surrounds this rather sorry event it is obviously an intriguing pub that we only didn’t visit last time due to the fact it isn’t Cask Marque accredited.
I did some reading into the pub and even forced myself to sit through the Kemp brothers attempts to act menacingly and still couldn’t quite decide what to expect when the time of the visit came around, whether it would be a spit and sawdust drinking den of East End hard men or a twee and rather Disney-fied tourist trap playing on the reputation of its violent past. It was these and other thoughts that crossed my mind as I led the healthy troop of tourists on the short walk from Whitechapel Tube Station to the pub.

There was a good reason the turnout was so healthy on this occasion which we must also explain. Gorgeous George, someone who has brought an element of much needed glamour on the tour, was cashing in her company chips and moving off to pastures new. She very generously asked me if I would mind allowing this week’s tour to also double up as her leaving drinks and of course I was only too happy to oblige. We’d therefore picked up a few new faces for this particular visit as well as all the ugly mugs of the tour faithful.

Watney Combe Reid Brewery Sign on the wall at The Blind Beggar.

So knuckle dusters at the ready we entered the Blind Beggar and met up with New-Guy Mickey who would be a key figure in tonight’s tour. In the end The Blind Beggar turned out to be all those things I’d previously thought about and some more besides. It’s a big open plan place and definitely more on the spit and sawdust side of things than the gleaming horse brass and copper kettle side of things. The only nod to its violent past is a red plaque on the wall marking the spot where George Cornell met his demise and a display of commemorative t-shirts. There were three real ales on offer although my suggested round of pints of Timothy Taylor Golden Best was quashed as the attempt to pull a pint signified the end of the barrel. So it was pints of Courage Best for the beer drinkers and vodka fun drinks or yellow lager for the others. Lucie put her best syndicat d'initiative ears to the test and finding out that the barman was French managed to explain her request to share a bottle of cider with Isabelle. The other drinker of note was Gemma who much to the shock and awe of everyone who knows her was sipping fizzy water due to a slogging drive to Newcastle the next day. Bets were on to see whether that would last!

In this scene, Rob is playing the part of George Cornell.

Check out Brenda's jugs!

We retired to the garden area which was the biggest surprise about the pub. This was a very nice decorative area with lots of pub benches, pot plants and water features and was the perfect spot to crowd around a long table and enjoy our drinks on a rather balmy evening. There was a covered area at the rear of the garden, covered with blackout material with the walls made of bubbling falling water behind glass. The whole effect was very tranquil and calming and you have to wonder whether if Ronnie had had a quick fag out here before entering the pub that fateful night whether history may have been different.

All very civilised. Not a cosh in sight.

The next pub was just across the road and was named The White Hart, a brew pub in what Brenda thought was an old bank building saying it smacked of Nat West decoration. But by the carved etchings on the outside of the pub showing the pub name and an actual hart, whatever it had been previously used for it must have always been called the white hart.

The White Hart.

This place was doing a roaring trade and it was very much a younger hipster-ier crowd that had gathered at the various tables and mismatched chairs dotted around the interior. As previously mentioned this is a brew pub so all the ales on offer were brewed on the premises and were announced on the pump clips by the means of mini-chalk boards. I plumped for the stout which I have to say was superb and was the stand out beer of the evening. Brenda, new tourist John and any other ale drinkers we were still persuading to drink the real stuff went for “Hard Tackle”, a flavoursome IPA.

BGC attempts an arty selfie in the bar mirror.

I could have happily spend another round here but I guess if you’re sipping fizzy H2O (still watching Gemma) then it tastes the same wherever you are so we had to move on. It was a shortish walk down the length of Whitechapel Road walking past lots and lots of old buildings that you could just tell had been pubs at one time or another. With the flourishing immigrant community requiring its needs to be fulfilled many of these seemed to have been turned into fried chicken restaurants. In fact, this interesting website states that around the time of the Ripper murders there were a total of 33 public house establishments along the Whitechapel Road. Once of these was the Blue Anchor which can no-doubt tell many a tale before it was renamed to Indo in the year 2000.

Indo.

Indo is quite possibly the slimmest pub I’ve ever visited and when I researched the area before the tour, I thought this was a take away joint and completely missed the door leading into the skinny interior. Luckily the place wasn’t too full and we managed to crowd around the end of the bar and I got the order in for pints of Scarlet Fever from the Wild Beer Brewery. That I’d made the choice so easily was, as it turned out, a bit of a surprise as the beer range in the pub was substantial to say the list. There were 4 handpumps, 3-4 interesting things on tap (including Hofp Weizen) and a vast list of bottled stuff.

Pumpclips at Indo.

It was here that slim Spikey Haired Ed slipped into the tour after being previously engaged earlier in the evening and it was also here that Natasha slipped to the toilets and rather than waiting for the ladies to become free she popped into the gents with the end result that she ended up chatting with the next chap to visit doing his business whilst still washing her hands. Very friendly place this Indo.

Rob and Stuart by the striking clock-window at Indo.

John guards the list of bottled beers. Isabelle does her best Ronnie Corbett impression.

Scene of Natasha's Chat Show.

It was the across the road and a right at the East London Mosque and down to the non-church for the evening, The Whitechapel Bell Foundry. As previously hinted at, this is the oldest manufacturing business in the country and has been casting bells for the great and good since 1570. On my earlier reconnoitre the rear doors to the workshop were open and I could see the rows of bells being worked on. At ½ 8 in the evening everything was closed unfortunately and so it was in front of the yellow shuttered frontage that I explain that both Big Ben (or the Great Bell) and the Liberty Bell were both cast here and if you have a spare 48 or so thousand pounds lying about you too can be the proud owner of a 4 and a ½ ton C Bell

It was back over to the other side of the road again for what had been planned to be the final venue of the evening. If I said the name of this venue was “The Nag’s Head” you’d probably just think this to be another typical London pub, but if I said that all the windows to this particular Nag’s Head are blacked out and there’s a hefty bouncer on the door you might think this could be a different sort of venue, and you’d be right because I’d brought the tour to a “Gentlemen’s Venue” – Look, it says so on their website.

No point in trying to peer through these windows.

Now before I get accused of being supportive of such seedy places and the tacky trade that they purvey I will say in my defence that this particular venue had been on the “going out” bucket list for ages mainly because it’s run by relatives of New-Guy Mickey and he said he could get us all in for free!

Mickey, bless his cotton socks, was as good as his word and before you could say tight-fitting spandex body stocking we were inside and trying our very politest not to stare too much at the bevy of half-clad ladies that were working that night. Stuart, George’s soon to be ex-boss, had promised to get a round in for her leaving do and so was forced to the bar to complete our order. I had an average pint of Worthington Keg and I’ve no idea what the others were having as I was kept busy fishing pound coins out of the kitty so people could tip the next girl due to dance on the stage.
The “stage” was the size of a large postage stamp and was dominated by a tall silver pole upon which the girls would perform. Now whatever you want to say about strip clubs or this area of the sex industry in general, one thing you cannot criticise is the skill it takes to hang upside down from this said pole, clinging on by only the curved muscles of a sculptured thigh, whilst taking off your bra, doing it all in high heels and managing not to face-plant into the floor. Ladies, I can only respect your erotic athleticism and wish that I had had more available pound coins to have shown my appreciation more.

But it was probably wise to leave after one drink as some of the more delicate members of the tour were showing signs of palpitations and Nicola’s excuse for not tipping the girls in that she was leaving in a minute were wearing thin. Luckily my earlier research had located a final-final pub just a couple of doors down from the Nag’s Head also called, would you believe it, The White Hart, so it was here that the tour stalwarts ended their evening drinking pints of Hogs Back TEA and Shepherd Neame Spitfire whilst all trying to encourage George to book that flight to America and adhere to the rules of #YOLO

Don't look so glum George, have a beer and be as cheery as Brenda!

So George, you can have this tour dedicated to your good self and it goes with all the best wishes and thanks for making the tour that little bit more interesting!

Pancakes and Fritters say St Peter upon Cornhill

This week’s episode begins with a question……When is a paper clip not a paper clip? When it’s a tie clip of course, which as a joke doesn’t work at all but it seems to be a subject that Lisa, (aka Payroll’s version of Diana Dors) wouldn’t let go of and found immeasurably and quite unreasonably funny.

You can almost smell the swarveness.

The tie clip in question is this beautiful piece of male jewellery which my darling, and long suffering wife bought for my birthday the other week. I think it adds a certain “man about town” swarveness to my appearance which only one as finely moustachioed and I can carry off. Lisa on the other hand seems to think that I’d nicked a paper clip from work and was using it in a vain attempt to keep my tie from flying away, but there again this is a woman who actually wants to get rid of her “thigh gap” so what can she possibly know about looking good.

What she does know though is that the appalling Slug & Lettuce downstairs serves two-for-one cocktails at half five of an evening which is a much better place to wait for Spikey Haired Ed to finally finish work than hanging around the office’s cash machine like a load of delinquent teenagers.

Mickey seems to find Lisa's paper-clip jokes quite funny.....

So after the two-for-one cocktails were finished, or in the case of Natasha and Kevin, the four-for-two cocktails were finished, (and my insipid pint of Amstel) we wandered back to the offices to pick up Ed only to find his time keeping was as good as ever and he was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the tour set off for the short walk to Leadenhall Market, although by the way some of them were whinging about the less than 1 mile walk you’d think I’d asked them to hike the length of Hadrian’s Wall. I hung around like the world’s most unattractive rent boy and then gave up on the king of hair wax and marched off myself.

The bright lights of Leadenhall Market.

So as I make the 15 minute trip to Leadenhall Market I’d better explain what this week’s tour was all about and who had made it out for the evening. This week’s church was St Peter upon Cornhill which is located in the middle of a concrete jungle of office blocks and is only approachable through a rabbit warren of narrow alleyways. The church is just over the road from the well-known and previously mentioned Leadenhall Market which seems to crop up in nearly every film that features a scene in London. What Leadenhall Market does have, apart from filmability, is a few pubs dotted around its interior and it was to two of these that we planned to kick our evening off with.

Young's Lamb Tavern.

The first was Young’s Lamb Tavern and it was there that I met back up with Mickey, Munchkin Steve and the rest of the Payroll reprobates; Natasha, Kevin, Lisa and Pissed-Up Phil. Also meeting us there was Gemma fresh back from the arse-end of the world and accompanied by her non-boyfriend, a fine figure of a man called Sam. The final pieces of the jigsaw were Mr Clark, bravely coming back to the tour without Mr Cheeseman and only moments behind my arrival a flustered looking Spikey Haired Ed.

The Lamb Tavern is a lovely “ye olde world pub” which is well worth a visit especially as Young’s are also giving away free drink vouchers, many thanks to the eagle eyed Munchkin Steve for spotting these. The vouchers aren’t as good as the Fuller’s ones because the drinks range is limited but a free pint of Young’s Bitter should never be rejected. The pub is well known for the wrought iron spiral staircase, etched glass and the tiled mural of Sir Christopher Wren presenting his plans for the Monument to the Great Fire of London (hidden behind the door) is so good I forced everyone to take a look.

Lisa's paper-clip jokes as viewed through a pint of Young's Bitter.

It was here that Lisa launched here attack on my tie clip much to her own amusement. Admittedly my defence wasn’t too great; I tried to liken my tie-clip looking like a paper-clip to her bag looking like a bag and of course attacking a woman’s bag is tantamount to violent incest so this didn’t win me any points or favours. Luckily for the rest of the tour Lisa is more or less completely off her noggin on prescription drugs at the moment so mixing these with alcohol isn’t the best idea in the world. Showing a very old head on very young shoulders she decided to leave for home after the Lamb and so the tour was much quieter but all the more duller for her departure.

Morland Original. Exactly what it says on the clip.

As previously mentioned the next pub was at the other end of the market, this time a Greene King pub called The New Moon. Here we didn’t have any vouchers but we did get a very nice pint of Morland’s Original, well for me and Mr Clarke at least. We escaped the crush of the bar and the hordes of people who had decided to watch the Clegg vs Farage debate in the pub (Really?) and it was here that the final tourist of the night arrived and heralded a huge turning point in the life of the housewives answer to George Clooney. Spikey Haired Ed has, and this will come as a huge surprise to regular readers of the blog and a huge disappointment to the legion of teenage Jackie readers, been in a relationship for the past 18 months in one of the worst kept secrets ever. In an attempt to “go public” he brought along the delightful and minute Reena to savour the pleasures of the tour.

So once this shock was gotten over and once Gemma and Natasha had gagged down their delightful halves of Greene King Yardbird we moved on, which was just a case of crossing of Gracechurch Street and into what I understand to be the largest Wetherspoons in the country, The Crosse Keys. Many of us have been in this monstrous place before but we’ve never covered it on one of our tours and it’s well worth a visit just to take in the impressive size and extremely well done conversion that Wetherspoon’s did to turn this former bank into a very nice pub.

The beer range is extensive and the downside to this is that it’s difficult to see exactly what is on offer with the handpumps circled around the central bar. The flat screens which are used during beer festivals were all off so it was a bit of a case of ordering what could be seen directly in front of you. In an attempt to go for something different I plumped for pints of Köstritzer Black Lager which although extremely nice, at £4.75 a pint must be one of the most expensive pints in a Wetherspoon’s ever.

For some reason we clustered around the stairs to the toilets to shoot the breeze. Unfortunately between myself and Spikey Haired Ed the most interesting thing we can remember from this time was an umbrella falling on the floor. Hey, that’s the crazy life we lead!

When I had researched the pubs I’d discovered a “short cut” leading from the church to the back door of the Crosse Keys so led the troops out of the this exit for the short spin around the corner directly into the church yard. Of course I’d forgotten how like herding cats it is to try to get this unruly mob into any sort of order and needless to say by the time we’d covered the 10 yards or so, we’d lost half the people somewhere on route.

St Peter keeps a look out for the missing tourists.

Not wanting to make them all hang around like spare chimps at a tea party I did the church talk once only to have the lost souls finally appear at the end of the speech and so had to do the whole thing again. Luckily the talk was one of the shorter ones. St Peter upon Cornhill was a return to a Christopher Wren built church (see there was a reason I wanted you to see the tiles!) being another one which was destroyed in the Great Fire of London and then rebuilt shortly afterwards. It is currently not used for regular services but is an addition to nearby St Helens (to be covered in a later episode) and is used for study groups and youth clubs. It is, apparently, built on the highest point within the City of London and is mentioned by Dickens in his novel “Our Mutual Friend”……..is that enough? Right let’s get a drink.

Rumours that St Peter is the patron saint of basketball are get to be confirmed.

One of the nicest things about St Peter’s is that not only does it back onto the Crosse Keys but it also backs onto the final pub, another Fuller’s emporium (vouchers at the ready everyone) called The Counting House. This gorgeous place of glass and brass had many confused between this place and the Old Bank of England (covered in the Monopoly visit to Fleet Street) and seeing as they were both built in former banks.

The ceiling in The Counting House.

I got the vouchered round in for Mr Clark, Ed, the future Mrs Ed and a couple of others and although the effeminate Latino barman was all smiles and winks I’m sure he miscalculated one of the vouchers and we still ended up paying a tenner for one drink and some crisps. Still a pint of Fuller’s ESB for next to nothing is still a delight.

Mr Clark looking impressed at Phil's conversation techniques.

The final episodes of the evening before the tube journey with Mr Clark, apart from watching Pissed-Up Phil descend into a blathering mess of double gins and inappropriate sexual innuendoes were spotting Stretch Arm-Max, former colleague and one time Monopoly Tourist last seen somewhere around the environs of Liverpool Street Station. I was then subjected to thousands of Gemma’s holiday photos which were only broken up by snaps of her nephew and the most beautiful fringe in the southern hemisphere.

And on that dreamy note…………we’ll sign off. Cheers!

The dangers of the selfie.

Halfpence and farthings say St Martin Orgar.

Everyone will have experienced that occasion when you’ve planned a night out and in the lead up everyone else seems to be well up for a big exciting party. You’re looking forward to the main event and then when it finally comes along it seems to deflate like a soggy balloon and somehow all the big plans and big ideas don’t quite deliver what they seem to have promised.

And likewise of course, there’s that situation where you’re not particularly expecting a momentous evening and yet somehow it turns out to be one of those cracking nights out where everyone seems to have a whale of a time.

Guess where we're going today?

Quite why I’d thought this particular venture would be a damp squib I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps it was because key people from Payroll were still sunning on southern hemisphere weather and gorging themselves on New Zealand wine and Lord of Rings landscapes and perhaps it was because the IT department put in an appalling showing of personnel with only 3 fighting gladiators stepping forward. In many respects this should have always been viewed as a potential successful night because it was another tour that would take place very close to the office and that didn’t require a tube journey to get us to the first pub.

Could be near here........

The only complication was again around the actual leaving of the office but the wait for the Payroll sluggards, i.e. Brenda and Lucie, was made easier by retirement of the rest of us to the awful Slug & Lettuce beneath the office block for a pint of Freedom Organic Lager from the Freedom brewery.

If you look very carefully you can see the spikey hair of Spikey Haired Ed.

Half an hour later with everyone finally gathered together it was a gentle evening’s stroll in the cool spring sunshine down Upper Thames Street to the first pub, a Nicholson’s emporium called The Walrus and Carpenter. The pub features the Lewis Carroll dining room which just goes to prove that you really can take a theme just that little bit too far.

The Walrus and Carpenter. And Brenda's red coat.

In all reality though it’s actually a very nice pub in a rather identikit Nicholson’s brass and etched glass kind of way. There was a fair old crowd both in and outside the pub but we squeezed in and managed to lay claim to a corner table underneath the wall mounted TV which was playing a European football match that no-one was watching.

Mags steals some Oatmeal Stout and then goes back to wine.

The beer selection was good, much better in fact that the selection of the beer drinkers, as it was only Brenda and me who were partaking of the ales this evening. First on the line for us was the Oatmeal Stout from Broughton Brewery, which although smooth and tasty could have done with a bit more pep in it. The rest of the night’s tourist were making do with a variety of lagers, (Spikey Haired Ed & Phil) vodka fun drinks (Natasha and Kevin) and white wine (Lucie and Mags).

After a little while and a little detour to the wrong pub, love’s young dreams turned up after lining their stomachs at a well known chain of burger joints. If one was counting these things, one might say this is coming a bit of a habit. James joined the lager drinkers and Lisa joined those sipping the white wine.

You can smell the chicken nuggets from here.

Their late arrival meant that our departure from the pub was slightly disjointed but with a set of good directions and promises of meeting up with us in a short while, 6 of use set off for the journey to the underground promise of the Porter’s Lodge.

Yes, I know I said 6, but I'm taking a phone call and Mag's is taking a phone call.

I’d stumbled on this place during a lunchtime break and unless you were looking for the place you’d probably miss the single A-board sign outside and the short flight of stairs down to the bar. The pub does seem to be quite well known on the darts scene though, with 8 professional boards dotted around the room. The obvious advantage of such a lesser known place of course is the amount of people in there, and there were only a couple of handfuls of darts teams on the various boards which meant we could easy get served at the bar.

Brenda and I had pints of Greene Kings London Glory and when this tasted better than the Oatmeal Stout you know how out of condition the former beer must have been. Lucie had another white wine which she described as “rough” and Kevin chose a pint of some standard cider or other (which apparently was also pretty ropey) but the bar was well equipped enough to serve Mags’s Disaronno and cranberry (?) The young guns eventually arrived and made use of the electronic darts game which the bar was generous enough to allow people to play for free.

Finally once Jocky Wilson (Ed) and Eric Bristow (James) had finished it was then time for the night’s educational piece and we made our way up Martin Lane to the blue plaque that denotes where the church once stood. The church of St Martin Orgar was the closest to the Great Fire of London and needless to say was therefore destroyed in the fire. The tower and bell did survive the blaze and for a while was used by French Huguenots as the rest of the parish was transferred to nearby St Clement's. The tower that can be seen today isn’t the original and has never been consecrated and used for religious purposes. Unfortunately the church gardens are also private and closed to the public which meant the best we could do was a gurning photo taken by the plaque.

How come Phil is always in the centre of these group shots?

The next pub was the one in terms of beer that I was most looking forward to. The Pelt Trader is one of the new breeds of “craft” beer pubs and although I object to this pointless term and everything that it denotes in terms of hipster faddishness, if they had an extensive and interesting beer range then what would I have to complain about?

Outside the Pelt Trader.

Well quite a lot as it turns out. Firstly, upon rounding the corner from Canon Street station we could see how full the place was, with crowds of young hipsters spilling onto the pavement outside the pub. I hope to dear God that they were attracted there by the beer and not the architectural merits of the pub which are zero. It’s almost like the owners have simply rented a large storage area from the station itself and then just plonked a horseshoe shaped bar inside. There’s no furniture to speak of and there’s not even really a proper bar as all the beers are served from taps jutting out of the back wall with slices of chalked slate to denote what particular brew is inside.

To be fair the beer range was substantive and very very reasonably priced but the pint of Grain Porter from Grain Brewery was limp to say the least. Again a good bit of conditioning wouldn’t have gone a miss and I wonder had this been served via hand pump would that have given it the life it sadly needed. The lager drinkers had the choice of the well known König Pils which we found out to James’s disgust, does not make a good shandy, or something more exciting like Ed who went for a Köstritzer Dark Lager. Even Kevin pushed the boat out with a real cider from Hogan's which he said was much better than the rough stuff in the Porter’s Lodge.

James enjoying his manly pint of "beer".

We took the drinks outside and tried to join the hip and trendy drinkers but perhaps my hip and trendy days are over as I for one found myself missing a table and chair and perhaps a picture of fox hunting or a busty barmaid. Even Brenda didn’t finish her pint of Adnams and we all agreed that for our purposes anyway this sort of pub isn’t what the doctor ordered.

The final point was now in sight being just the other side of Upper Thames Street down to the banks of the Thames. This was The Banker from Fuller’s and once again we had the lovely advantage of some free vouchers from the Fuller’s website. The pub was busy but not overcrowded and our lovely barmaid, later discovered to be named Daisy, bravely took the wide variety of orders along with the vouchers. Brenda and I had a pint of the sickly sweet Fruli strawberry beer and to be honest the rest of the orders are now forgotten apart from Mags who wanted some boneless chicken (?) – Look, I don’t make this up you know.

We were then introduced to Justina, the bar manager whose name appeared on the bottom of each and every voucher. She jokingly claimed that she’d personally signed every one and sent the emails out herself earlier in the day.

A few of us took our drinks outside and although it was dark and chilly now, the patio heater did a fine job of letting us sit on the banks of the Thames enjoying the fine night. Because of the vouchers the tour whip allowed for the purchase of a second round and I finished the evening with a pint of Fuller’s Spring Sprinter whilst Brenda and another half of the Fruli, again what the others were on by this time of a ever more increasing hazy night was anyone’s guess, but whatever they were drinking it seemed to do the trick as I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many of the tour so worse for drink as on this night.

But in a way that’s the wrong way to describe it because everyone wasn’t worse for drink, they were better for it as the talk became looser and personalities become more open. At least half a dozen time someone said something that had me cracked up in laughter and I must have said “I’ll remember that for the blog” on more than one occasions and yet I’ve gone and forgotten nearly everything……….nearly, Lisa, not quite everything ;-)

So all in all it ended up being a right old cracking evening and the warm welcome from Justina and the rest of the Banker crew made it a fitting end. And I guess that’s the secret of pubs and why they’ll never completely go out of fashion. Places like the Pelt Trader can come and no doubt after making the best of whatever fashion they’re taking advantage of, they’ll go again, but traditional pubs, like the Banker will be around for quite considerably longer.

Brickbats and Tiles say St Giles without Cripplegate

Look, anyone can make a mistake, even someone as awesome as the BGC and when you’re dealing with ancient folk tales and a city as big as London it’s no wonder that the odd error creeps in from time to time.

It would seem that the last excursion to St Giles in the Fields was actually a visit to the “wrong” St Giles. The Oranges and Lemons rhyme features churches from the City of London and other parts of the East End and as faithful readers will do doubt have been screaming at their screens, St Giles in the Fields is in the heartland of the West End.

The “right” St Giles, it turns out, is St Giles without Cripplegate, located in the heartland of the City of London in the middle of the Barbican Centre. This is a much much older church and apparently the “Brickbats and Tiles” reference refers to the materials used by nearby builders and if you’re wondering about the strange word of Cripplegate it actually refers to a Saxon word, Cruplegate, meaning a tunnel or covered way. That said, St Giles is the patron saint of cripples, beggars and blacksmiths which I’m sure could be made into a joke: There were these three blokes in a bar, one of them, a blacksmith turned to the other two………..

It was a bit of a cobbled together tour that eventually got together in the first pub, Rack & Tenter in Tenter Square. The IT department had managed to put in a woeful turn out with only Spikey Haired Ed and James James eventually being persuaded to come out. Payroll had put in a much better performance with the regulars of Gemma, George, Tasha, Lucie and Isabelle being joined by new regulars of Lisa and Young Phil and a fresh face on the tour of Kevin.

A box full of tit-heads.

The journey to the first pub turned out to be easy as we timed our entry into the tube perfectly and met a Circle Line train with only a minute’s wait and with the first pub literally just round the corner from Moorgate Tube Station the only problem we suffered was having to wait until 6pm for Ed to finally finish work and herd the rest of the cats together, some of whom had left early for food (James James & Lisa for a romantic McDonalds) and some who got so tired of waiting for Ed had sneaked off for pre-tour cocktails.

The afterglow of McDonalds.

The area around Moorgate is to be quite frank, a bloody mess at the moment. There’s another massive bit of the Crossrail works which seems to have dug up every other road and quite a large part of this area resembles a 1970’s concrete shopping precinct with all the glamour of The Bill’s infamous Cockcroft Estate. The Rack and Tenter had all the charm and presence of a pebble-dashed council house and is nothing more than a square box-like drinking hole for City tit-heads in suits. It should be much more, it’s a Marston’s pub and had they put any effort into it like Fuller’s would have done it might have been better. The only redeeming feature was the very pretty tattooed barmaid and the free drink vouchers that we’d all downloaded before visiting. I had an acceptable pint of Marston’s EPA but the others had to make do with the limitations of the voucher which meant pints of fizzy Foster’s for Ed, James James and Phil and glasses of the house red or the house white for the lovely ladies.

Even though I would avoid the place like the plague under other circumstances, it had managed to attract a huge crowd of the aforementioned City tit-head in suits and it was a fight to get to the bar. Our ordering wasn’t helped by the vouchers as each individual voucher number had to be imputed into the till and we can only be glad the aforementioned pretty tattooed barmaid had the patience to do it all with a smile and a wink.
We took our drinks outside to escape the scrum and apart from discovering the outdoor heater could be turned on and off by a switch (a la The Ship in Talbot Court) I think the best thing than can be say is that at least we didn’t have to pay.

Photo not taken on the night......obviously.

Moving on, we took the 5 minute stroll along the beautiful and sculptured concrete jungle that appeared to be a multi-storey car park but in fact hides the Salters’ Institute and Salters’ Hall until we hit the corner of Fore Street and Wood Street. There tucked in the corner is another appalling looking pub called Wood Street Bar & Restaurant and having taken note of the signs outside which instructed people that “Drinking is not allowed outside the public house. Drinkers must stay inside” I was fully expecting the worst.
Thankfully the interior of the pub, lots of etched glass and dark wood was actually really really pleasant. Firstly the place was at the exactly right level of busy-ness, with a smattering of other drinkers but still with plenty of room at the bar and spare seats. This all was made even more so by the warm welcome of the barmaid and barman who were delighted to pour off a pint of Shepherd Neame’s Whitstable Bay Pale Ale.
Because we had vouchered in the first pub we didn’t bother with a whip on this tour so it took slightly longer until we were all “avec les drinks” and installed in a very cosy corner in the pub. Quite how the conversation got round to the next subject is anyone’s guess but at some point someone (I bet it was Ed) announced that we were all going to end up in a “Titty Bar” (presumably not one full of City Tit-Heads in suits?) to which three of the ladies performed strange actions in Pavlov’s Dog type fashion. George’s hand leapt into the air, either volunteering to go to said place or announcing that she knew of where one was, Gemma did some extraordinary hip grinding and thrusting but perhaps the best reaction of Lisa’s screeched exclamation that “why do I wanna go to a titty bar. I wanna go to a penis bar!” Say it in broad TOWIE tones and you’ll get a feel for this special moment.

Just before the Penis Bar comment. Looks like butter wouldn't melt........

Time to leave.

Church. Pavement. Not night.......obviously.

Just around the corner of the pub, you enter the Barbican Centre (I need to investigate this area further) and the impressive stone structure of St Giles Cripplegate. The church is, as already stated, old, much older than any we’ve visited so far being built on a Saxon church which turned into a Norman one before having various bits and bobs added on over the years. It was severely damaged during the war and needed to be much repaired and renovated and now sits rather incongruously in the middle of a paved pedestrian area which I’m not sure does it any favours.

As you would expect with such an old church there’s a whole host of interesting facts to regale about such a place but the three that I focussed in on were that John Milton (he who had his daughter christened at St Giles in the Fields) was buried here in 1674, Oliver Cromwell was married here in 1620 and Rick Wakeman recorded his track “Jane Seymour” here. Enough history, let’s have another drink.

It was but a 5 minute walk down Wood Street and underneath the overhead complext straddling City Wall before continuing down Wood Street  and walking past the City of London Police Headquaters and the solitary standing spire of St Alban’s. The next pub was The Cape, a chain of Stonegate pubs all bearing the same name that are dotted around London. This one wasn’t packed but looked to have been in the same state as the Rack and Tenter was an hour or so ago. The pub had been  Cask Marque accredited up until the end of October last year but had either lost it’s rights to claim this honour (even though the certificate and door stickers where much in evidence) or had failed to renew. Either way the scan wasn’t working.

Should be publically demoted.

Pint of Timothy Taylor Landlord secured we retired to a isolated and unattended corner where although there was a huge curved banquette that could have seated us all we chose to stand in a uneven huddle.
Drinks drank it was also an uneven huddle which paused for a photo by the handily parked Police Horse Wagon, much to the disgust of the passing cabby, and then we needed to just round the corner to reach the next place, The Red Herring located at the end of Wood Street and the junction with Gresham Street.

Book them Dano.......

The Red Herring is a smart Fuller’s house doing everything Fuller’s seems to be able to do remarkably well with its City pubs. That said this one wasn’t Cask Marque accredited which is something or a rarity as most of their pubs are. But to make up for the lack of certificate we’d all got vouchers again, these one being a little more generous than the ones for the Rack and Tenter, allowing us to choose any drink up to the value of £5. I choose a pint of Gold by Butcombe Brewery and left the others to choose their vodka based fun drinks to their heart’s content. Naughty Lucie though, had once again done the trick of bringing her glass of wine from the previous pub into this one……just can’t trust the French.

Ed prepares to exchange his voucher.

Unfortunately as sometimes seems to happen, the evening slightly fizzled out and after some heartfelt rantings about work and a replay of “snog, marry, push off a cliff” we all disappeared our separate ways. Talking of “snog, marry, push off a cliff” though, the tour may end up being postponed for some weeks as Gemma and George are to go off gallivanting half way around the world to meet former tourist and former “marry” candidate lovely Nicole. So perhaps we should end not with the tale of my lonely tube journey back to the last train of the night out of Paddington but wish them Bon Voyage and ask them to drink a Croucher Pale Ale for me.

Brickbats and Tiles say St Giles in the Fields

So after much cajoling, nagging and a Christmas break, we finally got the tour organised again. Those following the rhyme will of course know that the next stop was St Giles’ because, and please feel free to join in if you know the words, Brickbats and Tiles say the bells of St Giles’ (I’m sure this is all made up.)

St Giles’ in the Field to give the place its full name is in Soho and is also known as the poets’ church. The Poetry Society holds their AGM at the church and various poets had their children buried there (Milton, Shelley, Byron to name but three). And it was with this bombshell of an interesting fact that I began the church talk. Determined not to be accused of missing this out again we went directly to the church from Tottenham Court Road station.

This area is all a bit of a mess at the moment. Not only have you got some massive Crossrail development underway directly outside Tottenham Court Road station but that end of Oxford Street and around the brightly coloured Central St Giles buildings is not exactly salubrious to say the least. New-Guy Micky who used to work in the area had already warned us to watch out for the “smack heads”.

It was also a pretty wet and miserable evening when the majority of the tour stepped off the Central line at the afore mentioned Tottenham Court Road station. It’s always the most difficult tube line to get onto from our corner of the Circle Line at Tower Hill as the routes to get the famous red line throw up many questions. Do you wait the 10-15 intervals between Circle Line trains to get round to Liverpool Street? Or do you take the much more frequent District Line service down to Embankment and walk from there? Or do you do what we did, which is one stop on the District down to Monument and then walk through seemingly endless miles of tube station corridors to Bank and get the Central Line from there? Luckily we managed to stay together and lost no-one on route even though Young Phil (a New-New-Guy) and myself had to pause whilst the geriatric others finally caught us up.
The long walk through the station must have took its toll on George and “Smash-a-Glass” Lisa as they took advantage of the pause outside Tottenham Court Road to dash into the McDonalds across the road and line stomachs with various meaty treats. The pause was to locate New Guy Micky, who turned out to be waiting for us at the church and the double-act of Mr Cheese and Mr Clarke, who turned up finally in the 1st pub.

Burgers eaten and New Guy Micky located we took stock outside the Church, which again is not benefitting from overgrown shrubbery and boarding panels. Built between 1730 and 1734 this was the first church on the tour which didn’t leap from the mind of Christopher Wren but is instead a Henry Flitcroft creation in the Palladian style (oooo get her). It replaced an earlier church where victims of the Great Plague had been buried and became a landmark on the journey of condemned prisoners from Newgate Prison (see Go to Jail) to the Tyburn Gallows (see Park Lane) where the soon to be hung would stop for a drink in a local pub.

Talking about drinking in a local pub, this seems like an ideal point to move on to Monmouth Street and The Crown which is a triangular end of terrace pub from the Taylor Walker stable. There was no sign of the Cask Marque certificate (Remember that? Collecting those scans?) but there was sign of Mr Cheese and Mr Clarke who were instantly recognisable because of the Dorset Knobs.

Look at the smiles on seeing the Dorset Knobs.

The beer was ok, although the selection of Pride, Doombar and Old Golden Hen are never going to set the world on fire, which was a bit of a shame because the pub is actually quite nice in a strange shapely, horse-brassy, Victorian picture sort of way.

The Cambridge

The tour was soon on its way again, skirting around the Seven Dials before crossing Shaftsbury Avenue and onto Charing Cross Road which was to be our route for the rest of the evening. The Cambridge is an imposing looking place which belies a quite small interior into which we just about managed to squeeze amongst the early evening theatre goers. Again the beer offerings were actually quite slim, disappointing for another national chain (Nicholson’s this time) with the only more unusual brew being Ultra Pale Ale from the Bristol Beer Factory. This satisfied the ale drinkers, limited this excursion to just Mr Cheese, Mr Clarke, Brenda and yours truly. The rest were on a variety of fizzy yellow stuff (Bud still for Buddy Rob you’ll be pleased to know), vodka fun drinks and in the case of Isabelle and Lucie a surprising diversion to red wine.

Inside The Cambridge - Red Wine not in view.

The pub filtered out slightly as curtain up must have been called in the surrounding theatres but we didn’t spend that long enjoying the extra room. In fact we were so quick Lucie took her glass of wine with her.

The next pub was quite literally a stone’s throw away being the gaudily green looking Molly Moggs. Look at any website about this pub, (not the pub’s own one, that seems to be down) and you’ll see a variety of brightly drag acts camping it up like Baden Powell’s back garden. Sadly it must have been a quiet night tonight as although there was a smattering of all male clientele in the pub there wasn’t a hint of a sequin or a feather boa.

Molly Moggs - Feather Boas not in view.

Obviously not a pub that builds its living on beer there was but a single lonely ale pump but the pint of London Glory it served wasn’t too bad and more than drinkable. Lucie managed to sneak her half glass of red inside without any challenges, I guess I only wonder if the owners of Molly Moggs wonder where the extra glass came from?

It’s a good job the tour wasn’t feeling too exhausted tonight as the next pub was literally next door meaning one of the shortest crawls between pubs on any of the tours ever. The next place was a narrow fronted but hugely interiored Wetherspoons called the Montagu Pyke (aka The Cinema King – look it up).

Montagu Pyke - Good Service not in view.

As previously mentioned the inside of the pub spread out to the back of the pub with a vast number of tables as well as a small balcony, it was also doing a roaring trade as it was almost full with drinkers and diners. Managing eventually to get to the bar, I ordered 4 pints of something which has slipped my mind. The first two, which went to Mr Cheese & Mr Clarke looked ok but the 3rd which was destined for Brenda had the look and consistency of a swampy pool.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to get the fourth out of this” shrugged the non-plussed barman who was wearing a name-tag that said “manager”. “Yes, not so sure I want that cloudy third one” I commented. “Up to you” shrugged the shruggy “manager” who was managing to take disinterest to a whole new level. And without going too CAMRA on you all, it’s experiences like this which is why the Real Ale crowd will never fully endorse the Wetherspoons chain.

Anyway, the pint of Oxford Gold from Brakspear that I finally choose from the vast range of ale pumps where far too many of the pump clips were turned round was OK but to be honest, you get some good Wetherspoons, in fact you get some great ones, but you also get some bloody awful ones and this one was one where no matter how cheap the drink is it was always going to fall into the latter category.

The one redeeming feature was that the Cask Marque certificate was proudly hung on the wall by the bar which meant the first scan of the night from the third accredited pub.

The final pub of the night was not quite so little a distance away as the previous two, but it was still only a short hop to the top of Charing Cross Road and a left hand turn into the Crossrail building site and the Royal George, whose bright pink neon sign can just about been seen around the cranes and cement mixers.

The Royal George - Mr Cheese just in view.

The first thing I noticed was the Cask Marque certificate just by the door which meant the second scan of the night. It was a good job that the certificate was by the door because it was hard to make anything else out in the gloom of the pub’s interior. I can’t remember the whole beer range but I do remember that I was drinking Hopback’s Winter Lightning which the ale drinkers amongst us persisted with.

I can’t remember what caused the exodus but it seemed that one moment the place was full and then in a blink of an eye there was only Mr Cheese, Mr Clarke, New Guy Micky and Spiky Haired Ed in the place. Oh and me of course. It seemed somehow fitting that we finished the evening by ordering a lovely bottle of Delirium Tremens which was only spoilt by a veritable mixture of mixed glassware. I mean, come on pubs, if you’re going to invest in a range of interesting bottles, invest in some decent glasses as well yeah?

Well I said “we finished the evening” because for me there was only the attraction of a double Upper Crust baguette and the last train home whilst Mr Cheese, Mr Clarke and Micky ended the evening with a slap-up Chinese meal in Soho. What Ed did is anyone’s guess.

Bullseyes and Targets say St Margaret's, Lothbury

I suppose I should start with an apology………….so to the thousands of faithful readers out there, I’m sorry.

Sorry that I’ve not updated for so long. Sorry my entry for St Margaret’s is so small. Sorry for not telling the tour newbies that they would be immortalised in this fair blog. Sorry to the tour quitters that we never said goodbye in blog format.

And maybe most of all, sorry to everyone that once again there’s some more piffling drivel that you have to read.

OK? Happy? Satisfied? Can we get onto St Margaret’s now?

St Margarets

Unfortunately it now about 10 weeks since we did this tour and quite a bit of it has dropped out of the memory banks. So like a brief news bulletin, here are the highlights.

Tour attendees – Most of the usual faces;

Most of the usual faces, in Simpson's Tavern.

Tour newbies – Me old china Rob the Big Cheese and his on-off landlord and on-off lover Clarkey. New payroll girly Lisa who was so excited she decided to smash a glass outside the Jamaica Wine House whilst kicking off.

A smashing time.....

Pubs – The previously mentioned Jamaica Wine House – absolutely rammed back alley pub that needs to be visited again. Simpson’s Tavern – Another back alley place that wasn’t rammed. In fact we were at one point the only customers. Cock and Woolpack – mid-terrace pub that seemed to go back forever. Main highlight, I found a glove in the toilets. The Phoenix – Strange mix of old man’s pub with drum and bass music.

Pubs

Beers – I seem to remember some sort of coffee/choco/mocha porter thing at The Phoenix. The rest was average.

Mr Cheese and Mr Clarke taste the Scotch Eggs.

Church – Apparently Bull’s eyes and targets say the bells of St Margaret’s, or St Margaret's Lothbury to give it its full name. When we got near the church (which is opposite the Bank of England) I asked the group if they wanted to take the short detour down to the church for the talk. No, it’s too cold they all shrieked. So we didn’t. I then get nothing but earache for the next 10 weeks about missing out what some were describing as the best bit of the tours. Some people!

Tour quitters – Just have to mention a couple of tour stalwarts who were there from the beginning of Monopoly and may only be making guest appearances on the tour from now on. Charlie has left the company and although he’s still somewhere in the dirty city no doubt he’s got some new friends to play with. Aussie Pete on the other hand will have some job on his hand trying to pop back for a night out having returned to a land down under. Guys, hope you do make it out again…….you’ll be missed.