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.