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“Democracy and Progress
Are ours once more…”
– Jello Biafra (poet laureate of the US from 1978-83, currently a bloated performance artist in Oakland), from his seminal work Kill The Poor

Democracy is afoot in places as disperse as Zimbabwe, Iran, and Uzbekistan and it was heartwarming to witness two more prime examples of the peoples’ will this week, starting with the undisputed polls in the 51st State (aka, Iraq). The second such case was in Launton, Oxfordshire as the Bicester Hash House Harriers installed a new Mismanagement.

Indelible ink was in short supply so it was necessary to push the voters out into the streets, across frigid, damp pastures, and through marshes and creeks to ensure that everyone’s fingers turned shades purple.  This was accomplished with great skill by the hare (Amnesia) and the trail was completely ignored by the more cunning hounds who eventually found themselves hopelessly lost.  I even found myself seeking refuge in the Black Bull deep in rebel territory, but fortunately I escaped without incident and made a hasty retreat to the polling station (Launton Sport and Social Club).

The prior regime, now deposed

The old regime made some noises of deference to the incoming party, but as far as I can tell all the positions of power are now consolidated in the iron grip of the Shagger Party with the On-Sec now Shagger Amin-Dada:

and the RA Fidel Shagstro:

and of course, the most Beloved Leader, GM Shagger Jong-Il:

{Okay, I didn’t pay much attention to the actual festivities…some of these seats may have been reported wrong, but I had been beaten severely by a gang of hedgehogs earlier.  Still, the Hancock HB was delicious, and that’s all that really matters, eh?}

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The Greyhound in Marsh Gibbon is a nice, old joint on the west side of the village and run by a kooky mainland-european man that kept me entertained well past his normal afternoon closing time.  I couldn’t place the accent, but it reminded me of that spewed by my old Hungarian colleague at the University of Arizona Mass Spectrometry Facility. I got a first person account of the earthquake that hit England a couple years ago (epicenter 150 miles away, but the pub is on a piece of bedrock that extends out that far), had a great discussion about native clays in this town (he showed me a sample augered from his back garden by some plumbers) and my homeland (kaolin is one of the major mineral resources in Georgia), and local idiosyncracies: I told him about the kaolin along with the people in Georgia and South Carolina that eat the stuff, and he discussed Marsh Gibbonites in a much less depracating way.

Strong winds helped keep the rain at bay and even served to clear the skies for about half an hour of the run back to Bicester from Marsh Gibbon; but, both the run out and back were marred by the puddles of water (actually more a slurry of cow- and sheepshit, to be frank) that covered roughly 80% of the route with some as much as thigh deep.  This is supposed to be a winter phenomenon, but we’ll see how the drainage develops over the coming weeks.

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Full of snugs and made up of at least 3 bar areas, the Royal Oak is a pretty nice place to grab a pint and/or some lunch.  I left for today’s lunch run with the intention of finishing the exercise with a greasy, drippy, chilli sauce covered kebab but the sky looked about the piss down and the special was a much healthier sounding 3 bean chili with rice.

I got an Adnams Witbier and settled in to watch the rain and wait for what I was sure was going to be bland but fortifying.  However, the chili was, while not exactly spicy, well spiced and flavourful.  I lifted the regular menu (chili was on the Specials board) and think I might do the Sunday Roast sometime soon.

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There’s a rule put forth by Pete McCarthy that you should never pass by a bar with your name on it, but my name is not so likely to ‘hit’ as Pete or McCarthy so I have been forced to extend the rule a bit.  I have a nickname that would take me into any place with a Hare, or Rabbit, or even a Bunny in the name, and my hash name could be used at this place out in Lawrence, Kansas.  That’s still not enough, though, so I also try to hit any place with a scientist’s name (Lord Kelvin, Isaac Newton) and I also try to drink in every establishment with a librarian connection (for the sake of Jamie’s profession).  And, so it came to pass that as I ran past the Old Bookbinders I had to slow down, return, and go in for a delicious pint of Greene King XX Mild.

The young barkeeper was the only soul in the house and quite a friendly guy at that.  We had a few laughs about regional accents from our respective nations and the relative friendliness of northerners and southerners in America (and added in the eastern bits and London for the the British comparisons).

Big empty place at lunchtime, but hopefully the trade will pick up when the kitchen reopens in the coming months.

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The White Hart is similar to the 6 Bells but it seems to house a bit harder crowd.  Still, it is not a threatening bunch, but I think they are likely to be more willing to become threatening than the calmer bunch I saw at the Bells a couple nights back.  Of course, the weekend starts on Thursday in Bicester and who knows what sort of debauchery was being encouraged there while I was in the well packed Hart.

I had dropped in for a beverage on my way home at the end of my first hour-long club run with the Alchester Running Club and was dripping with sweat, knackered, the only person in shorts and easily the least tattooed bloke in the place which is perfectly situated at the southeast end of Sheep Street. I’m pretty sure I’ll be back in soon, too: while I did not see any ale, the lager is cheap and cold.  What more can you ask?

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The Six Bells is a cool little pub, simple, classic, the sort of bar I grew up either in or trying to get into because that was the sort of bar in the neighbourhood.  There’s a line of taps (they have chilled IPA but it is not an ale bar) and all the booze you might ever need behind a rough hewn bar surrounded by dark paneling and propped up by some guys that may not have moved from the stools since Churchill died (or Disraeli).

I came in dripping with sweat after a run from Oxford (decided it was time to do my commute on foot for a change) and was greeted with the obligatory, “Hot out there?” The tele was tuned to Sky Sport but there was radio playing (Jack FM) for background and low enough to have a chat which seemed to be about aches, pains, and injuries…we’re all old in here, I realised and finished up my Guinness and continued on for my final half mile to the house.

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I reckon some of the clients here have crumped a few butts, as well:

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Due to draconian libel laws in this country I am obliged to state that the DEW DROP INN IS NOT A GAY BAR.  It is a very pleasant two room joint playing jazz and lounge music and doing quite a good traffic in spirits, wine, ale and food served up to the residents and workers in Summertown.

But, the menu:

and the furnishings:

and even these two guys:

had me wondering about the orientation (okay, that last one wasn’t fair, I just took offence at the cell phone).  I mean, you don’t see a lot of overt examples here.  The Bird in Hand in Cambridge, sure, but it is usually more subtle, something more like this although as I have already pointed out, etc.

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Missed the Oxford bus after my lunch at the Railway pub, so stopped in at the King and Queen adjacent to the bus stop.  The sign says they open at noon, but when the landlord came to unlock for me it was already 2pm.  I was the first customer of the day, it seemed.

The ales were the standard Greene King ones and I opted for a Guinness which was a bit on the cool side but the landlord and landlady were so friendly it was easy to overlook.

They set a paper in front of me and I quickly found an article on the World’s Most Bitter Beer being brewed at the Pitstop Brewery in Grove and only currently served at the Royal Oak in Wantage.  I see a road trip in my future.

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The run from work to Wheatley took a bit longer than I expected: right at an hour by the time I found the Railway pub. The climb up Shotover Hill while only about 125 meters higher than the River Thames at St. Clements Street was the first significant hill I’ve done since the Snowdonia Marathon and I was a little slower covering the ground on the way up there than I expected; and, since it started raining on route I took the downhill segment a bit more carefully than planned, as well.  Not to worry, because once I found the pub it was a good one.

I ordered a Fuller’s Seafarer and had a quick look at the lunch menu.  There was only one guy at the bar, but the restaurant was doing a cracking business.

The place is, essentially, a restaurant specialising in Thai food, but quite a serviceable pub as well.  I ordered a panang curry pork for £5.00 and got a heaping bowl full of thin pork, perfectly cooked french beans, and rice.  The sauce was a paste of fresh ginger (it still had a bit of the ginger texture) and red curry sauce and a few spices that I couldn’t quite place but everything seemed to retain its individual flavour and these expressed themselves as the whim took them.

There was also a generous load of sliced hot chilis on the top with, and this is notable, the membranes and seed still in them. “Is it too spicy for you?”  “Noooooo.”  Not by a long shot, I thought, but his English was either so bad or so attuned to the English accent that I had already had to mime a few things (I just ran from Oxford, and he didn’t understand that until I faux-ran in place a few steps).  The food knows no language barrier and was delicious no matter what you do with your tongue on a normal basis.

outside

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With an upstairs bar, and two smaller areas downstairs and right on St. Clements near the park, the Port Mahon seems a fine place to have a few beverages.  Packed the night I visited (even without 30 hashers, it would have been a reasonably good crowd), the young bartenders kept their cool and all our glasses filled.  The prices were sort of high-normal at £3.00 a pint, but the building has character and comfy couches on which to absorb it (and which seem to do a good job absorbing the spillage).

Looking back at the town from the hill in South Park...more hills to trot after this one, and miles to go before we rest

The hashes here remains good-as-gold, and the St Paddy’s Run (which was the reason for tonight’s visits to the pub) tied together several runs from last week.  There was whiskey available and a commerative mug and I was able to smuggle in a mug of whiskey to enjoy opposite another pint Whilst Silent and Victoria recalled tales of sea creatures.  Splendid evening.

Here’s the Oxford Hash House Harriers ‘Hash Trash’ related to this trip: http://www.oxfordh3.org/wordpress/?p=49

I got off trail a few times, but this is pretty close to the route

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Well, the Acorn wasn’t as big a disappointment as it could have been.  Like the Milton Arms, it is a Hungry Horse pub and really geared to family dining more so than more traditional pub amusements.  The menu has a lot of cheap options and I seemed to be the only person in there drinking (or there for the primary purpose of drinking).  But at almost 6 miles into the 8 mile loop around Bicester, it would have been downright rude not to stop in for a quick one.

route actually better this direction, to get the pedestrian un-friendly sections done early

The music was a little loud and little too Muzak-esque.  The roadside-diner/shopping-center-restaurant atmosphere is not attenuated by being adjacent to a busy dual carriageway and a fairly large shopping center/outlet mall.  Still, it was harmless enough and the real ales are reasonably priced.

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There is a narrow walkway beside the Lamb and Flag that I use to travel between my bus stop and the labs, so I’ve been passing this place for quite awhile.  It’s in the Good Beer Guide as well so I really haven’t had an excuse not to go in.

If I had needed an excuse to avoid the joint, it would have been that a Charlie Manson tribute act was the bartender, but he only looked insane and picked out some fine crisps when I asked for something spicy to go with my Betty Stogs Bitter (from Skinners Brewery).  There are big windows out onto Magdalene Street and a back bar.  The menu looks good, too, but there was no time to linger.

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The weather was perfect and I slipped out for a lunchtime run, stopping to pick up a can of Carling in Summertown before heading over to Woodstock Road.  I had spotted the Woodstock Arms months before and as I haven’t saluted any dead pubs for awhile thought this would be a good one.

The cold Carling wasn’t too shook up and the building inspector’s only complaint was that I only brought one can.  What a civilised country. The builder wouldn’t tell me what plans there were for the building which is fair enough, but I do hope that it once again becomes a pub.

I found some dead ends as the run continued and none deader than the Cooperative Funeral services (death seems to be a theme on this trip).  I had originally thought it odd to see a Cooperative Bank (financial services) because I had long since become a fan of the Cooperative grocery stores.  I was aware of the Cooperative used car lots, but this was taking things a bit too far.

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Sometimes if you use Google you are glad you have the adult filters turned on.  A few years ago I tried to find something for Jamie’s birthday because she was a big Roy Rogers fan as a kid, but “Roy Rogers” as an internet search can deliver you some wild gay porn.  Here’s another Google search that could go wrong for you, but didn’t for me:

http://www.worldofwoodbuckingham.co.uk/home.asp

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A short run to Ambrosden to try out the Turner Arms pub turned into a longer loop through Blackthorn (where there were no pubs at all), and then to Launton.  I decided to give the Bull Inn a try in spite of reservations against it due to the reviews I’ve seen on the web.  I am glad I made the trip.

The landlord wasn’t back-slapping friendly, but I don’t really always want that and the guy was nice enough.  There were several builders enjoying a bit of after work camaraderie and he seemed to get along with them just fine.  The house was a nice old stone joint and when I asked about the kitchen fare, I was surprised to find an elaborate and elegant collection of locally sourced and imaginatively described (we’ll find out about how well they live up to the descriptions on a subsequent trip) meats and produce.  They have something of a relationship with local farmers and the specialty butcher across the road (which is my new favourite shop in the county, by the way).

I think the pub suffers from the confusion with the older and cozier Black Bull pub a hundred meters down the road and which has a somewhat immediately friendlier atmosphere.  But, there’s nothing wrong with this place and if you try one, then why not go to both?

And, miles to go before I drink...

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We walked to the King’s Arms intent on having a couple of drinks then settling into a meal, but despite the tantalising dishes listed on the board at the entrance they don’t serve food on Friday evenings. We would have to make other arrangements and decided to try out a Thai place on Causeway.

In the meantime, I had an Old Hooky from Hook Norton and Jamie had a foul red wine.  We made friends with a kid that was already having trouble getting his words out and I am not making fun of him when I say that this is probably his normal state, but a friendly enough young man and everyone seemed to know and like him.  “Are you getting wrecked tonight?” he carefully asked with a big grin that alternately snapped on and faded away.

“Well, it’s not in the plans.  We’ll see.”

He looked off at something about 50 feet beyond the solid wall of the bar, then shakily turned back and conspiratorially asked, “So, is your wife getting wrecked tonight?”

This made me smile.  “I can’t speak for her,” and as I turned to see her, she said, “No. I mean, the night’s young, but no.”  That seemed to satisfy his curiosity and we were then free to enter the night.

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The Black Boy does not need my endorsement; they already have the Michelin Guide, the Good Food Guide and a Guide to the Best Summer Pubs put out by the Gaurdian newspaper last year.  Also, as it is too posh for the likes of me, it is probably too good for you lot as well.

I ran in with muddy shoes, covered in sweat, exuding bad odours and all the other accoutrements of the running alcoholic and noted immediately the elegant mise en scene and thought I was going to get sniffy service, but instead was welcomed heartily with, “I bet you could really use a pint of beer.”  Turns out, there are runners on the staff and as I was there at the tail end of the lunch opening I could only offend a couple of diners in the other room and some American businessmen whose conversations had long since deteriorated to discussions of overseas passenger airlines.

I had an Okell’s Old Skipper and was told without asking that they have several new ales on each week. When I asked directions, I was given several routes to choose from (like I said, runners, but also they know their neighbourhood).  I would definitely recommend the place to you heathens, and I’m going back in better kit and tuck into some of the fine dining a bit later in the spring.

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The Corner House is a big venue and the lounge had enough room to give dance lessons, but people were very serious about their drinks and I let it lie opting instead to enjoy a pint of Jenning’s Golden Host.  Wordsworth is the hack poet that most often seems to get dragged out of his crypt to signal the start of spring, and the beer does have something sweet and cool and pure about it, and I really would have liked to have another, but I was on a short break and had to continue with my day.

Cavernous

I would have stolen this glass for the lion carrying the axe, but I was on foot and had no place to hide it

Friendly staff here as well, and there seems to be another large lounge back of the building and a small public bar just off the lounge I was in.  The location doesn’t have much scenery if you go out to the tables, but with spring delivered by the pint, who needs to be breathing in all that car exhaust anyway?

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Between downpours I was able to get out for about an hour (maybe an hour:15) to do some a little run.  The route took me through the east side of the University of Oxford central campuses and down Cowley Road to Temple Cowley where I got some lousy directions to a place called the Cricketer’s Arms (to be honest, Temple Road splits off such that there is actually a corner of Temple Road at Temple Road, so it was more a sin of omission than commission).  Regardless, the route was hilly and scenic and I trundled on.

"Huh, huhhuhuh, huhhuhuhhuhhuhuh" "Heh, henh, henh, henh."

In Headington, I went a few paces past the Dong Dong Noodle Bar before I had a Beavis and Butthead moment and backed up to take this shot.  Three euphemisms for ‘cock’ in one sign–dong, noodle, and bar–what were they thinking?

The best way back, by the time I reached St. Andrew’s at the Old High Street, took me over some of Wednesday’s Oxford Hash trail and into the University Parks.  And, then the rain returned.