Bike Discos, Americans, Black Pudding and Whisky in the Marquis of Westminster

The Marquis of Westminster can be found at 50 Warwick Way  London SW1V 1RY

Are you sitting comfortably? Foaming ale topped up and ready to go? Bottle of wine uncorked and chilled to perfection? Excellent. Then let us begin.

The Marquis of Westminster on Warwick Way appeals to one of my friends for the simple reason that it is within spitting distance of his house. So after a long day at the proverbial coalface we strolled in to ‘blow the froth off a few’. The place was packed to the rafters with overly loud, self-absorbed folk with ties all akimbo and pints of lager and lime settled on their tables. It took us an age to get served; sadly the bar staff that day forgot not only the order of customers, but correct prices and change. Not that they weren’t friendly and accommodating all the while.

Burrowing through the immovable mass of bodies we burst out into the evening sunshine and settled out on the pavement where numerous picnic benches had been laid out near the road. The pavements of Pimlico are thankfully wide enough for us to sit in peace and watch the world go by as we supped on ultimately quite disappointing beer.

We decided therefore that single malts were the way to go. You can’t mess that up and The Marquis has a finer and wider selection than most pubs. So we settled back with our drinks, watching one of those bizarre cycle discos go past (you know the thing – hordes of lycra-clad loons covered in flashing lights riding down the street, loud techno music pumping out from huge beatboxes interspersed through this modern cavalry charge, the occasional skateboarder trying to keep up – looks like a laugh, sort of). Then, from behind us, came the dulcet tones of an American accent.

“Excuse me, but do you know where we could buy some black pudding?”

I saw my friend wince. He is not an enormous fan of interruptions from strangers  nor does he hold a particularly high opinion of black pudding, tourists or Americans. Turning around I beheld a middle aged couple smiling patiently and awaiting my answer. I glanced at my watch.

“In fairness, at ten to ten at night, I would be hard pressed to find somewhere but I’d be really hard pressed to find a place I could honestly recommend.”

We chatted for a while on the delights of late night newsagents’ black pudding, on the merits of enjoying it in a proper greasy spoon and what to expect from a Weatherspoons breakfast at Heathrow Airport (hangover required basically).

We soon became firm friends of these university lecturers from Tampa and had soon introduced them to the British custom of “rounds”.

And when their turn came they were once again educated on the wonders of Scottish Single Malt Whisky. What had been intended as a couple of quiet drinks between two friends soon escalated into a full on lesson on Scotch. Starting at one end of the bar we drank our way from Inverness to Islay. We deliberated on Blends and their unfairly poor reputation. We compared the smoky peatiness of the Laphroaig to the sweet fruits of a Blair Athol.

When they finally left, long after last order, to get some sleep before their 7am flight home the next morning (!) my friend and I were left with eyes slightly bleary, heads slightly fuzzy but with that warm feeling of pride at a job well done. Savouring the last few sips we watched the bike disco roar past again before heading home. 

Late for a Date at The Harp

Greetings my merry band of sippers, quaffers and slurpers!

My profuse apologies for allowing this blog to become so dusty with inactivity. Clearly I haven’t been out drinking enough! However, this next establishment is one that cannot be missed on any trip to the bustling metropolis of London. I speak, of course, of The Harp, a pub that last year won the prestigious Britain’s Best Pub Award, a pub that is forever bustling with custom. Perfectly placed between Trafalgar Square and The Strand, this small, narrow, busy pub is run with aplomb by its Irish landlady (who took out the “Welsh” part of the pub’s name when she took it over, cheeky thing!)

On the ground floor you squirm through the accommodating press of bodies to a bar that boasts both a plethora of draft ales and also an array of fridges bursting with great jugs of potent West Country cider with amusing names and terrifying ABV’s. The bar staff are courteous if a little squashed and busy and always serve with a smile and in the correct order. Upstairs, there are comfortable armchairs by the window where you can escape the loud pub atmosphere of the main bar and watch the world go by beneath you. There’s even a back entrance, leading into a dark and smoky alley that feels like it belongs a hundred years in the past (or it would if there weren’t theatre-goers and suits having a crafty fag out there.

The clientele is always a rich mix: actors and audiences from the West End, hedge fund managers from Mayfair, real ale connoisseurs from all over and the occasional tourist counting his blessings. For this reason I had reasoned a few months back, fool that I was, that this would be a cracking place to meet a date. Two things go wrong however. Her phone runs out of battery before I arrive and, due to a disaster at work, I arrive an hour late. I fly into the pub, dishevelled and disturbed. Surely she wouldn’t have waited that long? No one’s that patient! To my expected disappointment there is no sign of her. I lean on the bar to catch my breath.

“You meeting someone here?” comes a voice from next to me.

“I was,” I gasp with a heavy heart.

“Young lady? Brunette? Reading a book?”

“Yes,” I cautiously reply, looking up.

“Yeah, she left a while back. Good thing too. I was just about to hit on her myself!”

I check my phone just in case.

Didn’t you use to work at The Royal Oak?” the man asks.

“I did, yes.” I look at the man, recognition crawling across my face. “It’s Mike, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You look like you could do with a beer.”

“Certainly could.”

“Two pints please. Why didn’t you call her?”

“Her phone was dead. I’ll have to find some internet, send her an e mail or something.”

“You can use my phone. That’s got e mail.”

I grasp at the opportunity as I grasp for my pint.

“Really? That would be incredibly kind!”

“Don’t mention it.”

Four hours and several pints later and The Harp is closing. I have had an exhaustive e mail conversation with my date who is only slightly irritated (remarkable really how forgiving people are) and an even more exhaustive conversation with Mike, a past regular from my bartending days. I forget what we talked about exactly: life in general, The British Empire, elephants, falling off bridges in Edinburgh. I do remember, though, that our conversations attracted the attention of most of the bar and that we were among the last to leave.

Though the evening did not match up to its original possibilities it was still a fine pub experience and, rest assured dear readers, I was half an hour early for the next date with that poor unfortunate woman!

The Harp is found at 47 Chandos Pl  London WC2N 4HS

Pirates in the Lyceum Tavern

The Lyceum Tavern will forever retain a special place in my heart. As a fresh faced country bumpkin arriving in the Big Smoke to start university, I was introduced to this little gem on the very first night of term. Sure, we had stopped off at a few bars on the way but the Lyceum was firmly recommended to us by students in the know and so four of us bravely set out into the vast metropolis to seek this fabled haunt.

Having got ruinously lost, we eventually discovered Waterloo Bridge and trudged over it. The little lantern on the north side of the river beckoned us closer, offering the redemption of a tasty pint. We stepped through the heavy, wooden doors out of the blustery September evening and into the warmth and energy that epitomises the Lyceum.

Even when it’s almost empty, the place feels alive; people pack into the booths that line one wall, sharing secrets and playing drinking games; at the back, a handful of gnarled locals keep a watchful eye over their precious pub while a few friends play darts; upstairs people slouch on deep sofas or wobbling chairs discussing subjects as varied as Aristotelian philosophy and next year’s Christmas party. As a student I educated many people to rules of the game “Ibble Dibble” in the confines of the Lyceum. The game involves tongue twisting, drinking heavily and marking the faces of poor players with the burnt end of a cork. Those who particularly struggle end up looking, and I quote from a nice old lady who told us this one night, “Like you’ve just come from playing leopards in The Lion King next door.”

It is hardly the most salubrious of places but with pints at less than two quid, a university fifty yards away, a theatre even closer and a major train station just over the river, the Lyceum attracts all comers into its grimy embrace.

And as we stepped inside and nervously settled ourselves at a table, we found ourselves thrust into the heart of this mélange of folk. Sat opposite us was a trio of pirates, drunk as skunks, merrily quaffing beer and rum. Our entrance had shifted their attentions from their drinks and they began to eyeball us with fierce curiosity. We raised our glasses in an uneasy salute to which the pirates cheered and hollered, one of them leaning backwards on what he thought was a chair with a back but which was, in fact, a stool. Falling backwards and showering himself in foaming ale, this buccaneer’s eyes widened in disbelief and his lips curled into an unhappy grimace as he beheld his empty glass.

The female pirate swayed up towards us, her necklace decorated with what looked like a thousand keys. She earnestly mumbled something unintelligible at us to which my friend replied helpfully: “I like you necklace. Keys look good.”

Thus encouraged, the woman returned the compliment... sort of. Raising her top, she presented us (or at least, me) with our first view of a woman’s breasts in London. Her friends cried out their thunderous support for this bizarre act. They raised their drinks to the ceiling and then, like pirates from an old 1950s film, threw their glasses onto the lino floor where they shattered, the pieces skittering across to all corners of the bar.

Before long, the barman had escorted this entertaining but slightly frightening trio out of the bar and other friends had joined us. We didn’t leave until the very end. Weeks later, a friend of mine came to London for the day and asked where we should meet for a pint. I immediately suggested The Lyceum Tavern and began to explain directions from Waterloo.

“The Lyceum!” he cried, his grin exploding down the phone. “I know it well. When my sister was at uni and I came to visit, it was the very place she took me. Best pub in London, she told me. I shall see you there, sir!” Best pub in London? Perhaps not. But a very special place. Without a shadow of an inkling of a doubt.

Ascot Advice in the Earl of Lonsdale

The sun was glowing lazily in the sky as I stood outside the night club in disbelief with my two friends. For the second time in as many weeks the 1920s night had been cancelled. The band was sick apparently. Our voyage up Portobello Road, our stylish and elegant costumes, our hastily practised Charlestons, all had been in vain. There was nothing else for it. We would have to find a pub.

Thankfully The Earl of Lonsdale was waiting patiently for us just around the corner. The cream-coloured pub gleamed at us in the fading light and we stepped inside, weary with frustration and keen for a drink. Three things strike you upon entering this lovely little pub. First of all, it’s a Sam Smith’s pub, a haven for those looking for decent beer at less than £2 a pint and full of interesting stained glass and quirky lighting. Secondly it’s layout it one of strangest you’ll see. The pub is split up into eighths by thin wooden walls and the only way to get to each is to step through tiny, lightweight doors as though you’re inside a maze designed by Bilbo Baggins. The third thing that you notice is that through this mess of doors lurks a beer garden and we burrowed through the bar to settled outside and enjoy the rest of the balmy evening before I headed inside to get the first round.

“Win much today?” came a friendly voice from my left as I waited for the drinks.

“Nah,” I replied nonchalantly, unsure what was being asked of me.

“Who did you bet on then?”

At this point I turned and saw that a one of the locals gathered around the corner of the bar was looking at me with keen interest. I looked down at myself, suddenly acutely aware that, dressed as I was in a brown trilby and suit, I looked like I’d just been at the races at Ascot that day. I grinned uncertainly.

“I can’t really remember really. Lost a fair bit of money though.”

The man nodded his condolences, asked if I’d had a good day all the same and offered some advice for betting should I head along the following day. I stayed at the bar for a full twenty minutes, listening to his advice, hearing the stories of when he’d first gone to Epsom, what he thought of the hats on Ladies’ Day, how the different horses had been performing and on what surface.

I have had the pleasure of going to Ascot just the once and it was this single experience of horse racing that gave me enough bluff to see out the conversation before I remembered my friends outside and had to head outside into the beer garden.

A few beers later and it was my turn to get the next round once again. I went in, fully aware that I would have to order next to the man I had spoken to while I waited and frantically trying to think of something horsey to say to him. In the end I needn’t have bothered. He had gathered four of his friends together, each of whom raised their glasses in solidarity to me as I entered.

“Bad luck today, mate.”

“Should have bet on Trout’s Leap.”

“Better luck tomorrow, eh?”

In the space of an hour I felt like I had become some kind of celebrity, simply by mishearing the first question cordially asked of me when I entered the bar. I stayed with them a while longer, chatting and exchanging jokes and by the time the three of us left the bar a group of well wishers had gathered to see us off. It was one of the most joyous moments of spontaneity in a pub of the season.

A Scotsman in St Stephen’s Tavern

 Why good evening to you delightful folk. I trust you are well. This next tale details one of the first chance meetings that I had in a pub in London. St Stephen’s Tavern sits in the shadow of St Stephens Tower, that emblematic home to Big Ben at the end of the Houses of Parliament. The bar is small and always chock full of tourists and local so you’ve really got to wrestle your way through to get a drink. It’s usually pretty hot in this Victorian-style pub so something refreshing like a Hopping Hare is what I’d recommend.

Legend has it that it was one of the first pubs to install CCTV and had a direct line to Parliament so that Whips in the House could spot if MPs had sneaked out for a sneaky pint and call them back to vote and such.

I was a mere wide-eyed youth of 18 soaking up the Big Smoke when I wandered in here for an evening drink. The place was unusually quiet and I got a seat at the bar and sat musing to myself when I heard a voice pipe up from behind me.

“You do know it’s not allowed for people to drink alone here?”

An elderly Scotsman in a sober suit settled down next to me and ordered himself a pint. After introducing himself he offered me a second and I’ve never been one to refuse a drink. Once he’d discovered that I was a penniless student, he refused to let me pay for another round, making this evening not just a spontaneous delight but a damn near free one too!

It transpired that he was in the fabric trading business, travelling across the world selling differing cloths to different people. Most of his time, though, was spent in Mongolia, the most sparsely populated country on Earth. The tales he told me about this empty, wild and remarkable country held me enthralled.

He told me of the capital city of Ulan Bator, the tent city that the Soviets had concreted over; of the Mongolians' reputation as the hardest drinking nation on the planet; of their awe inspiring abilities on horseback and their obsession with riding, archery and wrestling.

The two of us drank long into the night and though I have never seen this besuited Scotsman since his words have stayed with me to this day. In fact, last year I finally fulfilled an ambition held ever since that night and went there on my way from Moscow to Beijing.

St Stephen’s Tavern can be found on 10 Bridge Street, London, SW1A 2JR

The Prince of Wales and a Note of Caution

Dear reader, 


Sincere apologies for the long period of non-blogging but I have been elsewhere, exploring the fantastic country of Jordan (a place that is filled with many wondrous things though a nice pub is, understandably, lacking).


Our next trip into the finest pubs in the UK takes us to The Prince of Wales in Cleaver Square. The square, tucked away out of site near Kennington Tube Station, is ringed with delightful houses and has Sunday fairs and boules in its bepebbled centre. Almost hidden in the far corner of this quiet and idyllic world is this haven for good food and better beer, perfect for refreshing yourself after a tiring game in the square.


Owned by Shepherd Neame, The Prince of Wales has an impressive array of beers including a Japanese lager and its walls are strewn with cricketing prints and photographs, testament to its proximity to the legendary Kennington Oval. 


The pub itself is not big but it's fits a surprising number of folk inside and out on its porch. On one balmy evening I found myself on this very porch, sipping a pint as I prepared myself for some shenanigans with friends later on.


A delightful old gentleman was outside puffing away on a pipe and, spotting my hat, engaged me in conversation about cricket. We nattered about this and that for a few more rounds before we were joined by two others from inside, both severely south of sober.


The woman was charmingly inebriated and insisted on telling me about a small music festival in Dorset that she was organising for the third year in a row. The glorious picture she painted of this down scaled, civilised Glastonbury fills me with remorse that I never got her to write the festival's damn name down. However, this delightful evening was about to turn.


The other newcomer was a man who proved to be less charming and more willing to stay away from his wife who was waiting for him in Maida Vale, dinner on the table. When he heard that I was headed to a party night at another bar he was insistent that he came. When I learned the news that none of my friends were coming and imparted this knowledge to him, his fervour remained unbowed.


Together we went to this bizarre bar, the South Island Pacific, for an evening of jungling frivolity. With my friends it would have been a fun and memorable evening. With this man, who insisted in chatting up every woman in the place, who badmouthed his wife almost continuously and who thankfully left after the staff wearied of his antics, the evening took on a far more embarrassing turn.


My warning is thus. Whilst talking to folk in the pub, you will meet charming folk. But never let slip of your plans for the rest of the evening, lest someone prove less than enchanting. If they know of your plans you'll be hard pressed to shake them off.


The Prince of Wales can be found at 48 Cleaver Square, SE11 4EA.

The Hatch: Toots

Dear reader,

This week I am forsaking The Metropolis to venture into the green and leafy forests of East Sussex and I now draw your attention, if I may, to a glorious little pub tucked away in the woods where Winnie the Pooh was accustomed to wander.

Stepping into the Hatch in Coleman’s Hatch is like stepping into a bygone age. The ceilings, so low that a bumped forehead is genuine risk, are festooned with hops and the warm glow from candles and the lights at the bar create an atmosphere that is hard to abandon.

The building itself is a conversion of three cottages that date back to 1430 and it feels as though little has changed. In the summer there are three outdoor areas to sip fine Sussex ales whilst in the winter people pack into the pub where the smell of fine beer and excellent food combines with the sound of pints being poured and the welcoming roar of the clientele.

One of the locals that frequents this fine country pub is a tree surgeon named Toots. With a roguish glint in his eyes and pint of Larkin’s in his calloused, oil-smeared hand, Toots is a regular fixture at the Hatch. A tree surgeon by trade it is Toots' hobby that has earned him his nickname.




Toots owns a steamroller from the 19th century, a great mechanical monster that runs on coal and travels at about five miles an hour if it's going downhill. Toots cares for this mighty engine with diligence and love and in the summer months drives her to country fairs and events.


On one such occasion I was invited along for the ride and so, flatcap perched on my head, I went with him. It took a few hours of burning wood and coal for the water to turn to steam and power the engines. It took many more hours to reach the fairground, stopping as we did at the occasional pub on the way, but throughout the trip Toots was patient and keen to impart his remarkable knowledge over the deafening roar of the engine.


It was a trip that I shall never forget and would never have gone on were it not for Toots and his deep commitment to the endangered world of traction engines and steam rollers.


The Hatch's is in East Sussex and its post code is TN7 4EJ.