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.
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