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Inspired by (linked to the London map):

2010:

2011-2012:

2013:

Stretham (2009) gets auto-corrected to the London neighbourhood of Streatham.  If you defer to it as “Ely is” then it get’s changed to Eli.

Further back, we have 2006-2009:

 

2004-2005:

 

2002-2004:

 

Good question.  Answer here.

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The previous post was better, but I wanted to showcase the screensavers pieced together by Squeezin’ (with my gratitude for these).  The pics, in order, are

Venue	Where	beer #
The Princess Hotel (done around 5 am New Year’s Day)	Swindon	1
The Bank House	Cheltenham	2
At the New Year’s Races in Cheltenham (watching my nag drag in)	Cheltenham	3
Midlands Hotel	Cheltenham	4
The Queen’s Tap	Swindon	5
The Four Candles	Oxford	6
The Turf Tavern (at the sign commemorating Clinton failing to inhale there)	Oxford	7
The White Horse	Oxford	8
O’Neill’s	Oxford	9
Ellington’s	Swindon	10
The Red Lion	Oxford	11
The Gloucester Arms	Oxford	12
Eurobar	Oxford	13
The Volunteer	Faringdon	14
The Red Lion	Faringdon	15
The Bell	Faringdon	16
The Lamb and Flag	Oxford	17
The Bird and Baby	Oxford	18
Far  The Madding Crowd	Oxford	19
Southbrook Inn	Swindon	20
The White Hart	Wolvercote, Oxfordshire	21
The Red Lion	Wolvercote, Oxfordshire	22
The Plough	Oxford	23
The Gardener’s Arms	Oxford	24
The Rose and Crown	Oxford	25
TP’s	Swindon	26
The De’s Cut	Oxford	27
The King and Queen	Longcot, Oxfordshire	28
The Woodman Inn	Fernham, Oxfordshire	29
The Eagle	Little Cocks Swell, Oxfordshire	30
The Wheatsheaf	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	31
Faringdon Folly	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	32
Salisbury Cathedral	Salisbury	33
The King’s Arms	Salisbury	34
The Old Castle Pub	Salisbury	35
The keep at Old Sarum	Salisbury	36
Wheatsheaf	Lower Woodford, Wiltshire	37
Bridge Inn	Upper Woodford, Wiltshire	38
Black Horse	Great Durnford, Wiltshire	39
Wilsford Cum Lake sign (heh, heh)	Wiltshire	40
Stonehenge (really a great disappointment)	Wiltshire	41
King’s Arms	Amesbury, Wiltshire	42
George Hotel	Amesbury, Wiltshire	43
New Inn	Amesbury, Wiltshire	44
The Greyhound	Amesbury, Wiltshire	45
Royal Oak	Oxford	46
The Red Lion	Marston, Oxfordshire	47
The Angel and Greyhound	Oxford	48
The University Club	Oxford	49
The GW Hotel	Swindon	50
Jude the Obscure	Oxford	51
The Victoria	Oxford	52
The Rickety Press	Oxford	53
Wahoo Sport Bar	Oxford	54
The Oxford Retreat	Oxford	55
The Grapes	Oxford	56
The Rolleston	Swindon	57
The Baker’s Arms	Swindon	58
The Dolphin	Swindon	59
Marsh Farm Hotel	Royal Wootton Bassett	60
The Cross Keys	Royal Wootton Bassett	61
The Old School	Oxford	62
The King’s Arms	Oxford	63
The Swan and Castle	Oxford	64
The Victoria Arms	Marston, Oxfordshire	65
The Black Swan	Abingdon, Oxfordshire	66
The Blue Boar	Abingdon, Oxfordshire	67
The Bowyer Arms	Radley, Oxfordshire	68
Zen Bar	Swindon	69
Sir Daniel Arms	Swindon	70
White Hart	Lyneham, Wiltshire	71
Sodom	Wiltshire	72
The Angel	Royal Wootton Bassett, Wiltshire	73
Cape of Good Hope	Oxford	74
Rudi’s	Swindon	75
Burn’s Day Lunch (Haggis, Neeps, Tatties, Whisky, and 2 beers)	Oxford	76
Swindon Wildcats 3, Sheffield Steeldogs 4 (SO)	Swindon	77
The Longwall	Oxford	78
The Royal George	Purton, Wiltshire	79
Riff’s Bar	Greatfield, Wiltshire	80
Magic Roundabout	Swindon	81
The Three Tuns	Wroughton	82
The Havana	Swindon	83
The Lydiard	Swindon	84
The Savoy	Swindon	85
The Brewer’s Arms	Cirencester	86
The White Horse	Woolstone	87
The College Farm	Watchfield	88
The Horse and Jockey	Ashton Keynes, Gloucestershire	89
The Vale Hotel	Cricklade	90
Goldfinger Tavern	Highworth, Wiltshire	91
The Red Lion	Northmoor, Oxfordshire	92
The Bell Inn	Standlake, Oxfordshire	93
The Maybush	Newbridge, Oxfordshire	94
The Beehive (this is about 100 yards from the house we are moving to)	Swindon	95
Baker Street	Swindon	96
Steam Railway Company Pub	Swindon	97
The Pig on the Hill	Swindon	98
Long’s Bar	Swindon	99
near Parliament, with a Cuban cigar and a bunch of dirty looks (and after 5 pub stops)	London Marathon	100
The Bear	Oxford	101
The Old Tom	Oxford	102
The Crown	Oxford	103
The Beehive	Carterton, Oxfordshire	104
The Crown Inn	Faringdon, Oxfordshire	105
Romany Inn	Bampton, Oxfordshire	106
Talbot Hotel	Bampton, Oxfordshire	107
The George Inn	Sandy Lane, Wiltshire	108
The White Hart	Calne, Wiltshire	109
The now defunct King George	Calne, Wiltshire	110
Barrington Arms	Shrivenham, Oxfordshire	111
Groves Company Inn	Swindon	112
Revolution	Swindon	113
The Plough	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	114
The George and Dragon	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	115
The Fish	Sutton Courtenay, Oxfordshire	116
Great Western Railway Staff Association	Didcot, Oxfordshire	117
The Prince of Wales	Didcot, Oxfordshire	118
Tap and Barrel (good read goes along with this pic)	Swindon	119
Old Town Festival	Swindon Town Gardens	120
Cock Inn	Combe, Oxfordshire	121
Three Horseshoes	Long Hanborough, Oxfordshire	122
Swindon Pride 2012	Swindon (duh)	123
Wernham Hogg’s	Slough, Berkshire	124
The Myrtle Grove	Risca, Gwent, Wales	125
The Sirhowy	Blackwood, Gwent, Wales	126
Railway Tavern	Sirhowy, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	127
The Castle	Bryn Serth, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	128
The Coach and Horses	Ashvale, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	129
Ye Olde Red Lion Hotel	Tredegar, Blaenau Gwent, Wales	130
The Tumble Inn	Pontypridd, Wales	131
The Maltster’s Arms	Pontypridd, Wales	132
Wyvern Theatre	Swindon	133
Byron’s Bar	Swindon	134
The Bear Hotel	Wantage, Oxfordshire	135
Source ot the River Thames	Kemble, Gloucestershire	136
Carpenter’s Arms	Lacock, Wiltshire	137
Mill House	Chippenham, Wiltshire	138
Sunny’s Pool Bar	Swindon	139
The Royal Oak	Marlborough, Wiltshire	140
The Lamb Inn	Marlborough, Wiltshire	141
The Crown	Marlborough, Wiltshire	142
IMS/TOF Mass Spectrometer	Oxford University	143
New Year’s Eve on Ferndale Road	Swindon	144

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I couldn’t bear to go into the bar called Beat One, which may sound surprisingly out of character on many levels.  Moreover, Beat One used to be a Red Lion and I ALWAYS go to a Red Lion when I get a chance.  But, this particular Red Lion rename and rebranding offended me as a history buff and a leftist as well as a functional alcoholic…this was Marx’s Red Lion (yeah, THAT Marx) and this would not stand.

Across the street there’s a large lap dancing club behind which the stage doors to the Lyric Theatre lie.  Across from those (opposite corner from the Beat Off), is a small but entirely suitable ale house also named the Lyric.  It is nothing special and a bit pricy (pint of Doom Bar and a large red wine were nearly £10, but two glasses of wine get you the rest of the bottle free).  The street (Great Windmill) is just off Shaftsbury and only a few blocks from Chinatown but much, much quieter than anything else non-residential in Soho.  A minute or two walk from Piccadilly tube station gets you here.  Comrade.

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What time is it? Too early for dynamic and passionate speakers, it seems.

“The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” because it would not make for compelling or, even, interesting viewing if the participants at the Saturday session of the meeting dubbed Socialism 2012 were any indication.  Perhaps we chose our sub-meeting unwisely, a discussion of whether or not environmentally friendly politics could or even should be sought while inequality is so rampant but neither of the panelists were good public speakers and, in fact, seemed almost addled.

The open discussion after their introductory remarks was a little more lively but, as I suspected/dreaded would happen, too many of the volunteers from the audience were cultists, peppering their diatribes with phrases such as, “Marx wrote,” or, “as Lenin said.”  We know all that, kids, we really do; don’t beg the question of whether or not the fundamentals of 19th Century political philosophies are appropriate to modern challenges OUTSIDE of this little family venue, please.

Several of the speakers really made some compelling points, though, most often on questions of the need for ‘growth’ of economies if you assume that the insatiable appetites of Capitalism are no longer an issue.  There were True Believers, too, who were scary not because of the fire-in-the-belly but more so because of the bats-in-the-belfry: in a country with easier access to deadly weapons these folks could pose a formidable threat.

The meeting itself had an amusing moment or two.  Besides the few dangerously mad cranks blathering on about taking to the ramparts and mobilising the masses, there were some very passionate old-school (and quite ancient) reds ready to lecture anyone they crossed on the why they aren’t following the true path (regardless of whether or not you agreed with them or had given them any indication at all of your beliefs).  By far the best thing I heard, bar none, was one of the staff outside the book stalls hawking wares thus, “Get your Socialist merchandise in here, folks.”  Without a hint of irony.

We skipped the rally in favour of some supper since we had an early train.  I thought it would be appropriate to get a drink at the Red Lion in Soho since this was Karl Marx’s local and where the lectures he gave upstairs with Engels eventually became the Communist Manifesto.  We walked and talked about the things we observed (more than in this post, certainly) and after about 20 minutes of dodging tourists found our bar, now no longer the Red Lion but a neon chain bar monstrosity serving 2-for-1 shooters to fucked up children (that’s how it appeared, anyway).  Appropriate, indeed (as well as the new chain’s name: “Beat One”).

We went to the Lyric at the opposite corner, instead.

Marx was not renowned for his sense of humour, but if that is unfair then he is probably having a good, otherworldly laugh at this.

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Jackie had the obligatory biennial trip to see her mom and I have over two weeks of un-used annual leave (with a new year starting the 1st of October). so, dutiful husband that I am, I went as far as the baggage check and gave her a big smooch and told her to call if there were any problems.  Then, before starting my own holiday of runs and pubs, I popped into the Cafe Rouge at the top of Terminal 4 Groundside and had a cheeky pint of Becks…yum.

Look. it’s an airport bar and thus overpriced,  but if you aren’t yet ready to go into the Heathrow matrix it ain’t too bad.  On the other hand, the Windsor Castle is just about 40 seconds stroll away.

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I get out to Mile End Road a few times a year and yet the Blind Beggar has eluded me all this time.  I have wanted to go to this pub since before I was old enough to drink, fascinated with the Krays mostly due to the 30 minute long Piranha Brothers sketch on Monty Python’s Flying Circus.  It really didn’t disappoint, although it was not at all what I expected.

More-or-less across Whitechapel Road from the Royal Infirmary that housed John Merrick (the Elephant Man) and at a good turning point if you are doing a Jack the Ripper walking tour, the pub is kind of open with a bar taking up most of the northeast quadrant but with a very modern beer garden through a side door, sporting walls made up of tanks of tinted water with bubbles coursing through and loads of vines trailing from hanging baskets.  Smooth jazz and samba music is piped out at low enough volume to allow a chat.  Very copacetic, belying its past as the birthplace of the Salvation Army (no shit, William Booth preached his first sermon out front).  A good place to die, although Georgie Cornell may have begged to differ; for me, it was a good place to kill off the thirst developed at the Great British Beerathon earlier in the day.

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The venue for the Great British Beerathon was the Hoop and Grapes, a small house on Farringdon Street at the edge of The City.  Before the race was over, I would be well acquainted with this fine pub…small bar at ground level, and nice rooms on at least the first and second floors (the one on the 2nd floor served as my changing room when I arrived but I don’t reckon any of the race participants would’ve been shocked by nudity).

The name is one I’ve seen around (the Hoop and Grapes nearby at Aldgate East tube stop has been on my short list of London pubs for years, now, as it was a survivor of the Great Fire while the next one nearer-to-the-City was destroyed), but only found out today that it is an old way of saying “Hops and Grapes” indicating a tavern that does both beer and wine.  Something new everyday….

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One of the Tacticals…click picture for link to race report where I stole this photo

The Great British Beerathon is one of the best events of its sort (and I say this with the authority that comes from inventing the 30 Pack Marathonand with participating in numerous stupid and ill-advised running/drinking combo-races).  It is as if I have been training all my life for this.  As I understood it, the race would be 5x  one mile loops with stops at the pub between each to consume a bite and a beverage, specifically, a pint of cider and a pork pie, a pint of ale and a pasty, a pint of lager and a Scotch egg, and a pint of Guinness and a crumble.  The record time for this course was about 46 minutes, but I was just shooting for an hour (to leave time to stop at a pub mid-race, optimistically).

The racers and their support teams assembled at the Hoop and Grapes on Farringdon Street at the edge of the City of London (although my support team, Jackie, pissed off to the East End to do some market shopping and do a bit of sight seeing).  We got to the start line and the organiser read out a greeting from Mo Farah, the Olympic gold medalist in the 10,000 m and 5000 m; I didn’t catch all of it but I DO remember the words, “you make me ashamed to be British, good luck.”

The race route, five laps, with food and drink between each

I felt especially slow on the first lap and the heat, though not staggeringly high, was the first any of us had experienced since LAST summer; I decided to take it easy and once the mile was done, trudged upstairs and took my pasty and ale then headed out to the garden.

Two sides of the same fucking candidate…my masque for the fancy dress portion of the festivities

The food was the worst of the race but it was made even more egregious by the order…after mile 2, we were presented the dessert and Guinness then the pork pie and cider after 3 and the lager/Scotch egg combo after 4.  I was certain I was going to do a tactical on the 5th mile but got to chatting with another runner who was dressed as a monkey and soon forgot my problems.  Just before we passed an Asian wedding party we noticed the large spot on Fetter Street where another of our group had purged since our last pass, so I wouldn’t even have been the first in THAT race.

With the course nearly over and mostly down hill, I picked up the pace and actually sprinted the last 100 meters or so.  Time: 47 minutes 17 seconds, but a new record was set ahead of me so what would have been the third fastes last year was 5th or 6th this year (someone did it in 37 minutes, I understand…while I was still choking on the Scotch egg).  Oh well, that’s racing in the big leagues, I guess.

Jackie was hungry and quite a few behind, as I found her nursing a vodka tonic inside.  I wasn’t really ready for food yet, but felt that a drink would be lovely.  We left toward the East End to see if we could find the Blind Beggar which has been on my short list of London pubs for years…leaving behind my mask for my bit of the fancy dress effort (Obama on one side, Romney on the other), and missing the awards ceremony.  Following that, we worked our way over to Brick Lane for a bit of Indian as I was getting a bit peckish:

Maybe I can improve on these results next year; maybe I’ll see you there. (I’ll post links to more photos and write-ups as they appear…these aren’t the most reliable folks as you might imagine.)

These final photos were all stolen from Adrian Lim’s facebook page a few weeks after the original post…go there for hundreds more:

Runners still eager as the first Slobstacle is reached (Ale and Pasty)

Third Slobstacle was pork pie (washed down with a cider retrieved outdoors)

Finally, the Scotch eggs were reached but the crowd was so spread out (I had lapped several twice) that they pulled the lager almost to order

City pigeons in spew, nom-nom-nom!

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Within striking distance of Paddington, we ducked into the Sawyer’s Arms for a bit of lunch before our train.  The rest at the Tea Clipper helped but as soon as we stopped Jackie seemed ready to collapse; she’d been quite brave (and as I am coming down with The Illness, in good weather and without so much ground to cover I realise just how much of a trooper she had been).

The menu was pretty reasonable and I ordered a sirloin and substituted a salad for the chips and carb-loaded other crap. The Temperanillo they had listed was out but the bartender (and actual Englishwoman–not Australian or Eastern European…English) said that she had a Merlot that would ‘work out to about £12.’ I went with that, wondering what she meant until I got back to the wife who was reading the house newsletter–this was a Greene King, and bottles are the same price as four glasses.

The fact that it was a Greene King was nerve-wracking, though. Typically, the steaks will be tough and fatty and poorly cooked and the salads wilted and unimaginative. Some of the GK houses, like this one, do their own menu and have cooks that know what they are doing; my steak melted (save for a small bit of gristle) and was cooked just rare enough to satisfy my savage palate. The salad I had included a Shropshire blue cheese (orange curd surrounding the blue mould) that was nearly at room temperature and fragrant enough to whiff through the cider-honey-mustard dressing; the greens were alternately bitter and sweet, but crisp to the end. Very nice.

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Jackie was quite ill when we left for London Sunday morning but bravely faced the fever and congestion to see Paul Simon. By Monday morning, she was a complete wreck and the prospect of trudging through the downpours to explore Brompton Cemetery was a no go. We opted, instead, to kill the hours before our train at a museum; we arrived at the Science and Natural History Museums concurrent with a convoy of school buses, however, so we ducked into the safety of the Victoria and Albert, instead. There were a number of things that had been closed our last couple of visits but after about an hour she could not go on. We headed toward Paddington with plans to stop as necessary.

Our first break came at the Tea Clipper, a nice old pub down a side street across from Harrods. I ordered a pint for me and a large red wine for J,and the Russian bartender poured my Hook Norton and then asked which red wine in particular. “The operative word was, ‘LARGE,’ but let’s go with the Merlot.” Catching up to her, she nodded toward the bar; “Moose and Squirrel?” she asked. “Yup.” “I thought so.”

[Note to the non-Americans that currently make up 90% of the readers: look up Bullwinkle J. Moose, Rocket J. Squirrel, Boris Badenoff, and Natasha Fatale if you need an explanation of the "Moose and Squirrel" reference...Brits might substitute, "Compare the Meerkat Dot Com. Simples."]

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The Greek place we had planned on for lunch was closed so we popped into the Leinster Arms for the Sunday Roast, succulent and filling albeit a bit tough.  Our room at the City Park Hotel wouldn’t be ready for another two hours so after the lunch we walked along Bayswater and through some of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens then doubled back for some Bloody Marys at the Leinster.  In that brief walk between lunch and our return for dessert the place had filled to capacity and we were lucky to find a seat outside.

The front tables were good for people watching, though. There were a number of bodyguard types hanging around, polishing a few vehicles, then escorting their charges (mostly Dubai families) to the vehicles and speeding off. It is a fairly posh neighbourhood and the brief conversational snippets we picked up from the English passersby were almost always in that clenched jaw mumble of the Upper Middle Class.

The bar clientele, on the other hand, ranged from a station below the residents to damn near poor so it was a comfortable observation post. Most of the other drinkers appeared destined for the music fest (and, in fact it was here that we decided to use our sign language shorthand for mocking the other festival goers).

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Paul is that tiny speck at the far end of the stage

Swore I wouldn’t go to another festival after going to the 2009 Hard Rock Calling to see Neil Young, mostly because of the immense crowds and lousy sound but partly because of Seasick Steve.  Then I went to a big music festival in Holland to see Bruce Springsteen and paid dearly with the huge crowds and Seasick Steve’s performance of precisely the same material as three years earlier (right down to the faux folksy patter, faux-ksy, for short).  And so it came to pass that I went to see Paul Simon, Hugh Masekela and Ladysmith Black Mambazo at the 2012 Hard Rock Calling this past weekend.

Their opening act was Alison Krauss who may be a decent performer but can go get fucked for all I care.  About 10-12 years ago at the Dahlonega Bluegrass Festival she was the headline act but the fest included Ralph Stanley, Jim and Jesse, and — better than anything — Bill Monroe all of whom have boots she is not fit to lick.  So, while these legends performed their asses off during the shows then stayed up through the night jamming with impromptu clutches around the campsites, she hid out in her touring trailer with a 50 foot perimeter guarded by State Troopers, complained that Bill Monroe’s show went on too long before hers, then had her Storm Troopers set up a security area in front of the stage (at a bluegrass festival) before she was brought on for a short and shrill set.  At Hyde Park, we went to another stage to watch Big Country instead.

(Let me say that I owned a Big Country album but let a girlfriend keep it because it really wasn’t worth arguing about when there were actually GOOD records in the pile.  Let me also say that the band aged well and do a pretty good live performance, considering.  Sorry about letting that record go, in retrospect; not too much but some of the ones I do still have from that time are dogs.)

So we were left wondering, as we noted that so many people left the Big Country tent early what was going on and how fucking rude everyone was being…later, after we realised we missed Kodachrome due to the empty space left by a really short and apparently unworthy of comment Alison Krauss set that prompted Paul Simon’s 3+ hour set to start early, we also noted that far too many of the folks there at this bloated venue were so hermetically attached to their electronic devices that hundreds of tests and tweets must have reached the exodising Big Country fans that the Graceland concert was starting that they were compelled to march Morlock-like to the muted mainstage area.

There are many music and other reviews of this fantastic sound scape, like this one and this.  But, in the interim we came up with some new, we hope, international sign language…I have really poor and deteriorating hearing due to years in bars and nightclubs, an explosion incident during a carpenter apprenticeship on the MARTA construction sites I worked long ago, and many years in labs supported by noisy vacuüm equipment: as a result, conversation in loud situations is impossible.

Wellies have become fashion, unless you might wander into this mud puddle. The guy probably isn’t a narc; I’m just old and that’s what I would have thought, years ago.

 

So, things we want to point out to one another to have a laugh require a bit of shorthand.  For instance, if we want to point out stupid footwear (usually, but not always, unusually high heels on otherwise inappropriate shoes) we do the walking fingertips using the pinky to point along the line of sight:

If some one is too old and/or fat to manage a shirt they are displayed in we pull a cheek (originally both cheeks but efficiency rules):

And, bald guys with a ponytail get one of these:

Or new one is the sign for “too drunk to be out in public.”  You can do it by crossing your palms in front of your face but it has already morphed into the one-hand version with crossed fingers in front of your nose and the pinky pointing at the offender.  The cross is the Cross of Saint George, the vertical/horizontal bits of the Union flag representing England and the English.  Get it?

Like this:

Before I say anything about the London Marathon, let just take a second to say that the Angerstein Hotel can go fuck itself.  Thanks, that’s a load off my mind.

The booklet the London Marathon authorities sent included a map of the route with a little pint glass marker at every pub along the way (which was a logistical godsend for me)–you’ve really gotta love the British…they even put a can of London Pride in the starters’ goodie bag.  However, it occurred to me that the route was fenced almost the entire way to keep the riffraff away from us elite athletes; I wrote to a number of these pubs asking if I could call in an order from about a mile out to be brought to the kerb and I’d put together correct change and gave them my bib number.  The Lord Nelson (Isle of Dogs, about 16.7 miles  from the start) was the first to respond closely followed by the Porter’s Lodge (Monument at about 23.5 miles) both offering to comp me the beverages; then the  Angerstein Hotel came through soon after (another free offer, as bogus as the one at the Porter’s Lodge, at 5.3 miles) and I stepped up the search for someplace in the range of 8-14 miles.  Sweet: this was shaping up to be the best marathon ever…or second best after this one.

Similar to the runner info magazine, the online interactive map shows the pubs nearby (the pint mugs are drawn on the little orange markers)

My original plan was to take the World Record for fastest marathon dressed as a nurse, then this jackoff did it much faster than I possibly could (whilst flaunting the “dressed as a nurse” bit).  Then, fastest marathon playing a ukulele was rejected by the Guinness people as “too specific,” whatever that means.  A friend in Georgia then asked, “if you want to do something absolutely ridiculous and somewhat memorable, why don’t you just go as yourself?”  Brilliant in its simplicity, as indeed so am I, that is exactly what did.

Me, one day before and a few minutes after the race

Preparation for this event–I don’t think it appropriate to call a 50,000 person clusterfuck like this a “race”–involved all the normal endurance practice: slowly ramping my weekly long runs to around 20 miles, doing some of these with 4-6 beer stops, and carrying a bit of training weight in the form of a cold can of Carling throughout (although some of this was sacrificed en route in the name of the 100/100 Challenge).

Approaching Tower Bridge and the halfway point it was still wall-to-wall people

Since a lot of the training runs came at the end of the workday in the lousy winter weather so that I was forced to carry a towel and dry clothing and a heavy coat on most trots, I was already prepared to carry a light backpack with a couple of dry t-shirts and some extra Vaseline for my nipples; I also packed the 100th Carling, a cuban cigar and lighter, a bunch of oat cookies, and my mobile (to phone the pubs).  One thing that might have helped would have been to include a few runs directly into crowds trying to exit busy subway stations which would have prepared me for the first two or three miles of the crowd.

After the hike from Blackheath Station, the Blue Start looms over the hill (roughly at the Greenwich Meridian)

Okay, enough whingeing about the big race logistics.  Once you decide to just enjoy the day as a day out, the London Marathon can be fantastic.  It is, more than anything, a fundraising machine but there are some compelling and even heartbreaking stories enacted before your very eyes (these are covered in great extent by better writers in less smart-arsed venues, but try to find the one about the paralyzed woman in the mechanical suit or any of the ones where a loved one ran in memory of the recently departed).

My own run was interrupted to make calls to the ostensibly free beers and, of course, to make stops in pubs for pints.  These have been covered on this blog already (links to the names):

Inside The Rose of Denmark at 5.1 miles
In front of The Angerstein (gfyourself) at 5.3
Inside The Farrier’s Arms at 8.5
At the fence near the Lord Nelson at 16.6
Inside the Porter’s Lodge at 23.5

Then, at the 25 mile marker I lit up a Cuban, pulled out Carling #100 of the 100/100 Challenge, and ambled along to the finish.

The weather was perfect, sunny and lightly breezy despite the dire warnings from the Met Office of 30 mile headwinds and torrential downpours.  Most folks were pretty civilised and I don’t feel at all bad about my splits (a bit embarrassed, but such is my day-to-day existence).  Keep in mind that these include the beer stops (a couple of which were inordinately long) and that there were 37,000 folks in the narrow roadways (I could touch at least two people without stretching out my arms full length nearly every step of the way):

 

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The Marathon was done, we had eaten a nice dinner at Bizarro Italian (more here and at the end of the month for the wine review), and the Angerstein Hotel could still go fuck itself.  A little walk around the modern architectural nightmare that lies adjacent to the canal next to Paddington Station and we were ready for a beverage, and I was ready for a shave.  I spotted the Fountain’s Abbey across from St Mary’s Hospital and we wandered in.

The main bar was busy but, I later learned when I went up to de-beard, there are two upstairs areas that are fairly private if not rented out for a function.  This is a nice old Victorian house and I needed some nice, old, Columbian coffee and whatever bourbon they could offer to wash down a handful of codeine–even at my abysmally slow pace the Marathon had taken its toll.  Fortunately, they were out of coffee and the tiny Polish woman dashed out to a Costa nearby and brought me something delightful and then poured up a large helping of Maker’s Mark.  Bliss.

This was Alexander Fleming’s local…I’m alergic to penicillin, but do quite admire his altruism and professionalism.  I’m not at all sure about the portraits on the fireplace, but I would like to think he’s the one turning his back on it all.

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I was able to get a beer, eventually, in the Porter’s Lodge, unlike having to supply my own in front of the Angerstein Hotel (did I mention before that they can go fuck themselves?).  Rob at the Porter’s originally offered a free beer after I asked if I could buy one and have it brought out to the London Marathon route, 50 feet away, and gave me his cell number.  I checked back and got a corrected number as he originally gave me one with an extra digit, but he still seemed keen on it then (I can post the emails like I did for the Angerstein if necessary).  On the day, I first got his voicemail, then a message from O2 that the service had been disconnected during my call…if you didn’t want to do it, why offer?

Then, I decided to jump off the course and go over to the dystopian hellscape bunker that is this bar and found my way to the serving area where three tenders were slowly dealing out easy orders to two customers. Okay, Rob didn’t turn off the phone because they were swamped…. Five minutes later, I finally offered to buy the Fosters that took Guinness-time to pour off the customer ahead of me, pointing out that I was under something of a time constraint.

Finding a place to down this was easy but there were so few customers (what a surprise) that I had to get one bleary eyed old alcoholic (I know, I know…pot-kettle) to try multiple times to take this photo for posterity.

Thanks, Rob.  I hope this is the write-up you were shooting for (it could be worse).

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Like the Angerstein Hotel (which can go fuck itself), I asked the fantastic Lord Nelson if I could buy a beer and have it brought to the fence during the London Marathon and like the Angerstein Hotel (which can go fuck itself), the marvelous Lord Nelson offered to comp me that beer. Unlike the Angerstein Hotel (may if go fuck itself for all eternity), The Lord Nelson not only honoured their freely given offer but tracked my slow arse down through spectators four-deep at the rails.  Bless them and all who polish their bar with elbows.

I spotted the pub down the road and realised I was on the wrong side of the pack, so threaded my way to the right and found an eddy of no runners at all.  Spotting the pub door, I got as close as I could and told the fans there that someone was supposed to have a beer there for me.  Easily 6 were thrust my way, but I smiled and said, “no, Gemma said she would have me a beer, inside, maybe she’s at the bar.”  The nearest guy, probably the only one that could make out my horrendous American accent, said, “at the bar? Right, then,” and dashed in when seconds later a ripe young thing appeared through the crowds smiling with a pint of Spitfire.  I am living the dream.

It is a fantastic building and these quayside pubs have remarkable histories.  Stop by and say you heard about them here.  I owe them some custom, myself.

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Approaching the Farrier’s Arms, I almost forgot about how much the Angerstein Hotel can go fuck itself.  I received even more of the appropriate psychologically palliative care within this wonderful, if small, boozer.

Once more, I threaded my way through the crowds and approached the bar.  The older of the two women told me where to find the toilet. “Not yet, love, I would like a pint, first.”  I ordered a Fosters and the landlord, I believe, showed up with a tray of gummy bears saying, you deserve these more than the others do.”  Damn straight.

We had a nice visit, the four of us and some of the punters. This is the kind of place you really like to stumble upon (or into) and it really cheered me on the long haul to my next scheduled stop.  Thanks, guys!

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The Angerstein Hotel can go fuck itself (as I have said here, and here…oh, yes, and here as well…and here, and here).

I didn’t ask for a free pint, I asked if I could buy one but due to the fence could someone bring one out.  Not only did they offer to do so, they offered to do it gratis…the lying sacks of shit.

Original request:
From: “Dr. Slow Ride” <dr.slowride@xxxxxx.xxx>
To: angersteinhotel@xxxxxxxxx.xxx
I’m running the Marathon a week from Sunday and I’d love a quick pint (looking for beer stops about every four miles or so).  If you ARE open, I can ring you with my running number when I’m about a mile away to make sure I have correct change for the pint (the barrier gets in the way, so I’d have to beg curb service, sorry).  Hope we can do business! Cheers, drsr

Their response:
From: “angersteinhotel@btxxxxxxx.xxx”
To: dr.slowride@xxxxxx.xxx
Hi Dr Slow Ride
you may have free pint on us at the Angerstein HOtel, please call before arrival, we look forward to seeing you and GOOD LUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
REGARDS
sHERRIE EMMA AND ALL AT THE ANGERSTEIN HOTEL

And, then the phone call on the day:
“Hello, Angerstein.”
“I’m the guy in the marathon that is supposed to call for a beer.”
“The guy in the marathon that is supposed to call for a beer, you say?” and in the background “no, get rid of him.”
“Yes, is there a problem? I can still pay.”
“No mate, you’re too late, we’ve already done that,” then after a short pause, “no, mate, I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Is Emma there? Or, Sherrie?”
“Yeah, I don’t know what you’re talking about mate.” And, the line went dead.

The Marathon starter’s goodie bag included a can of London Pride. I had that out in front of the bar and got a guy to take the photo but he let his daughter do the work (shown above).  I hope they read this.

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Before I say anything about the wonderful Rose of Denmark, allow me to point out that the Angerstein Hotel can go fuck itself.

Left high-and-dry by the proprietors of the aforementioned shithole, I veered off the London Marathon course when I spotted the delightful façade of the Rose.  Excusing myself through the crowds of well wishers with, “pardon me, runner needs a beer, excuse me please,” I quickly arrived at the busy bar.

“I’m sorry to interrupt but I’m on the clock.  Can I possibly jump the queue and get a pint of…?”
“London Pride?” the landlord asked while changing his trajectory from the pint’s rightful owner to me.
“Excellent.  Just what I wanted,” I lied.  “Can I get this man one as well?” I asked but the fellow refused and even took my photo:

We had the briefest of chats and I accepted my change and the well wishes of the assembled.

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We had dinner at a fantastic Italian place (notes on La Dolce Vita in the wine review at the end of the month) and I fancied a bit of whiskey for a night-cap (thinking: “must go to Marathon start hungover…”).  Just off the roundabout we spotted the Flowers of the Forest and wandered into the crowded room with wooden floors and minimal furniture. Three guys were hugging, either affectionately or on the verge of fisticuffs or both but, regardless, very VERY drunk.  Most of the rest of the crowd seemed to be holding it together but were all seated safely away from these guys and close to the door.

We sat not far away, on the other hand, in the name of science or observation or because we just don’t know any better.  One of the guys sat abruptly on the ground and one of the others started dragging him away by his feet.  The guy with the bad case of refrigerator repairman trousers bent down to help but then started wrestling the upright guy on the pool table.  No one else seemed to take any notice.

The kid on the ground arose with some effort and looked like he was going to puke.  The bartender set up another round (I think it was the kid’s shout) and they all said, “hooray,” in a very non-committal and vaguely humanoid manner.  The kid then wandered outside to, I reckon, poop in his pants and sleep in a pool of his or anyone else’s vomit; we made a note to turn him face down but didn’t see him when we left.

I am fairly certain that I was not as hungover as these guys the next morning.