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.

The Cittie of York: Simon Smith

Good evening to you, merry quaffer.

Tonight we return to London, to the Cittie of York on High Holborn, home to London's longest bar. This enormous establishment with a ceiling as high as a cathedral's, is run by the Samuel Smith's brewery from Tadcaster so one is assured of a half decent pint at a price that is to be welcomed by the less affluent among us though the wine is best left unsampled.

The place echoes with the laughter and chatter of a hundred voices but smaller, more intimate rooms and cubby holes exist as well for a quieter drink. Huge oak barrels balance above the bar while the great wooden beams in the roof lend a Tudor air to this venerable old pub.

Twas here that I met by chance another remarkable fellow, a chap called Simon Smith. He was embedded in a huge group of bikers, almost all of whom were wearing various T-shirts depicting the logo, global enduro. Curious, I wandered over to inquire what it represented.

These cheerful men, with their fine moustaches and admirable bellies, dragged me over to their leader: Simon. Having introducing himself to me, this lean, shaven-headed man took a pull of his Alpine Lager and told me all.

Simon spent many years of his life working just down the road from the Cittie of York as an investment banker, raking in unimaginable sums of money. But about ten years down the line he grew unsatisfied with the job, feeling that he really wasn’t making much difference for good in the world.

So he packed it all in and started down a new path in 2002 and hasn’t looked back since. Global enduro arranges exhilarating and challenging journeys across some of the most beautiful and breathtaking landscapes in the world. Primarily motor bikes are used but there are trips that use skidoos, huskies, Land Rovers and even 1950s cars.

From the Arctic Circle to the Himalayas, the African bush to the Cambodian jungles, Simon takes over 1,000 people a year on these trips, donating £1,000,000 a year to charities that help the countries they explore. Open to all comers, Simon had the honour of taking Prince William and Harry on a trip as well as a pavement artist.

I have never met someone with the fearlessness, utter sense of freedom and the joy that comes from doing something truly wonderful before or since Simon and, were it not for my total inability to ride a motorbike, I may well have signed up to head out on the next trip to Africa right then and there.

The Cittie of York is to be found on 22 High Holborn

The Rake: Richard Larkin

Dear readers,

Sincere apologies for the tardiness of this latest blog. I have been sunning myself on the Smiling Coast of the Gambia for a week and was not about to spend time in front of a screen when there was glorious African sun to be enjoyed.

This next post concerns a remarkable man that I met many years ago. He was the man who introduced me to surely London's smallest pub, The Rake. Tucked away, almost out of sight, in Borough Market, the Rake is a pub for the real ale connoisseur. Founded by the people behind Utobeer in Borough Market, the Rake has a staggering variety of bottled and draught beer from across the globe and a pleasing selection of chunky pub sandwiches.

The staff are friendly and enormously knowledgeable about the beer they’re serving and, as befits a pub run by a Welshman, the start of March heralds a week long St David’s Day beer festival with the Principality’s finest beers on offer.

The man who introduced me to The Rake is called Richard Larkin and even among the famously friendly ranks of beer lovers he stands apart. A powerful looking man who dominates any pub with his enormous beard Richard is one of the longest-serving members of CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) and a stalwart of its ranks to this day. He is rarely seen without a batch of London Drinker magazines, ready to hand them out to the initiated and un-initiated alike.

He learnt Dutch simply so that he could better appreciate a beer tour of the Netherlands, he has volunteered at more beer festivals than I will ever attend and has not had a haircut since 1968! Richard has no television, no mobile phone, no internet but he does have a mild-bogglingly enormous array of books and a very mechanical mind. He has had a myriad of jobs, ranging from a long spell in the army with the Signals to a bit of part-time work at Halfords. As he puts it: “Retire early and retire often!”

Richard’s favourite tipple is a Mild Ale, tricky to find in most London pubs but he knows exactly where to look. Should he spot anyone looking puzzled by a pub’s array of ales Richard will not hesitate. Pushing up his glasses and wiping the foam from his moustaches, he will introduce himself and the world of beer to the customer.

Richard Larkin is truly one of the friendliest and gentlest people you could hope to meet in a pub and by his very presence you’ll know you’ve found a good boozer.


The Rake is to be found at 14 Winchester Walk, London.

The Royal Oak: Ken Griffiths

Good evening to you all.

It seems only right and proper that the first entry into this diary of chance meetings and grand drinking sessions should be set in The Royal Oak in Borough. I worked behind the bar at The Royal Oak for three years after I decided that as I'd be spending most of my time there anyway I might as well make some money out of it!

With seven real ales on any given time, a blessed lack of televisions, pool tables or music (unless the landlord gets his opera CDs out) and an ornately decorated interior, The Royal Oak is one of the finest pubs in London though fast losing its "best kept secret" title. Owned by the peerless Harvey's of Lewes, it dishes out excellently kept beer, huge portions of mouth watering food and the sort of inane chatter that one expects from a good boozer.

On most afternoons much of this chatter comes from a New Zealander named Ken Griffiths. Ken is a freelance photographer who has seen more of the world than I can mention or remember. Unshaven, with a full head of unkempt hair and a bottle of Côte de Rhone, Ken settles himself down wherever there are people, says his hellos and starts talking.

The first time I met him he told me of his Welsh heritage: how his ancestors had been deported from Merthyr Tydfil to Australia and then from Australia to New Zealand for being too unruly even for Aussies. This led to talk of his photographic travels around Patagonia, a proud Welsh speaking colony perched on the Argentinean coast of which he is inordinately fond.

Talk of South America brought him to one of his favourite stories: Ken, despite having no particular religious feelings, was excommunicated from the Catholic Church for taking photographs of a Brazilian footballer posing with arms outstretched in front of the statue of Jesus in Rio de Janeiro. Interestingly, the footballer was allowed to stay on as a Catholic.

Ken's current project is photographing soldiers who have lost limbs fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan: "People just seem to want to sweep them under the carpet and forget about them but they're some of the most incredible and mentally positive people I've ever met." One young woman medic, a mere 22 years of age, stayed out in the field administering first aid for over 24 hours with her back lacerated with shrapnel. "She was the only medic in that part of the line and she knew that she was needed. It boggles the mind."

The Royal Oak is found at 44 Tabard Street.

Introduction

Good Day to you all,

How are you? Jolly good.

My name is Charlie and I am a true lover of the conviviality of a British pub. The pub holds a unique place in the British psyche as it is one of the great sanctuaries of conversation and chatter. In the street, on the train, at work, striking up a conversation, even with a close friend, often feels awkward, difficult, restricted.

Yet at the pub, settled down with a pint in your hand and a friend at your side, you can feel all unease fade away. There is an informality to a pub that appeals to us all: the scrum at the bar, people perching on each other's tables or vague groups just standing around.

This informality and sense of ease is no doubt down largely to the alcohol, that famous social lubricant that the British have been renowned for enjoying since Julius Caesar wrote back to Rome, stunned at our propensity for the fermentation of grape and grain. But alcohol is available elsewhere, in shops, in clubs and trendy vodka bars. Yet none of these places offers the same safety we feel when settled down for a nice drink.

I have met people at nightclubs, gigs and raves but the volume of music, the frenetic pace of the evening and the sheer inebriation of most of the people there has meant that it has never felt like anything more than a bump in the dark. Talking to a stranger in a pub yields far more interesting stories and reinvigorates your perception of the world as a place full of fascinating people.

As someone who has worked behind a bar throughout the four years of my student life, I have had the pleasure of talking to some truly remarkable people with remarkable tales. This blog will be a weekly reflection of some of the most interesting people I have met in pubs and hopes to inspire those who read it to chat to the person next to you while you’re waiting to be served or to wander alone into a pub and see where it takes you. It will also feature reviews of said pubs where I met these peculiar characters. I hope you enjoy.

All the best,

Charlie