Zavvi, pie, but no peas

Two items were on the agenda for our first day. The Imperial War Museum and Zavvi on Tottenham Court Road.

Unwisely, we changed from the Bakerloo to the Northern Line at Charing Cross. It's about a two-mile walk along a winding, underground passage. It'll help wear off the chips and crisps. Stay positive. That's what you have to do.

The kids like Zavvi. It stocks all the games they can't be arsed to release in Holland. I like it because they have an enormous range of DVD's. There was just one downside. The music being played. Some horrible industrial, hardcore sub-jungle dance music. The sort of stuff you'd put on just before a club closes to drive everyone out into the street. I'm not quite sure why you would want to play it in a shop. Maybe that's why the kids were able to choose remarkably quickly. Last time they'd hummed and hawed for nearly an hour. This time, there was barely even a hum.

I was the one taking his time. Should I get that Likley Lads boxed set? Yes, of course. Look, they're even drinking pints on the cover. Who could resist that? All three series of Bottom? Yes. Lexie's bound to like it. All that swearing and hitting each other. Right down his street. A dozen Goodies episodes? Yes. The kids love them. Should only come to 100 quid or so. Peanuts compared to what I spend on books.

That evening, we left the kids with my new fliptop, a USB stick full of films, a can of petrol and a box of matches. (Just joking about the last two. Really it was a half bottle of vodka for Lexie and a couple of stick hand grenades for Andrew.) Dolores and I headed off for the pub over the road. The Lucas Arms.

I noticed with surprise that it was another Greene King pub. I didn't remember them having such a big London presence. Man United were strolling through their tie against Celtic. The only free table was directly under the large screen. This time, I opted for Abbot. It was quite a shock when I tasted it. Not a bit like the Old Speckled Hen and County I tried earlier. Greene King must have at least two recipes. It was a bit pepperminty and lacked the malty depth of the other two. We only stayed for one.

Wandering further south on Gray's Inn Road, we came across another pub after a couple of hundred yards. The Blue something or other. Yet another Greene King house. And not a particularly inviting one. We continued our walk. "Oh look. There's a Young's pub. Calthorpe Arms. That sounds familiar." The door was covered with Good Beer Guide stickers. Good enough for me.

There was just a single, not that large, room. Not quite so many watching the footie. A single figure number of customers. Maybe they get busier at dinnertime. I ordered a pint and a half of Special. It was a bit gloomy. The ancient decoration wasn't helping. "They could do with some new curtains. I wonder when they last redecorated?" I suggested. "At least the carpet isn't sticky." Dolores was referring to the Esplanade in Melbourne. Its carpet had disintegrated into a sticky black mess that made it difficult to lift your feet. Like walking through treacle. I wonder if they've replaced it yet?

On the way back, Dolores suggested a detour to see if we could find a Tesco's. A drunk with a Tesco's bag had crossed our paths earlier. Tesco's are a bit like rats. You're never more than 10 feet away from one in a British city. The one at King's Cross was managing to escape us, somehow.

I was in a pie sort of mood. Nothing else would be able to fill the pie-shaped hole in my stomach. Finding pies is becoming a nightmare in London. Most chip shops appear to be kebab shops with a sideline in fried fish. (A couple of years ago me and Matt walked right across Soho in a vain search for a pie.) We came across a fish and kebab shop. "Oh look, they've got pies." I'd spotted the cheerfully colourful foil of Pukka pies. Result.

The kids were still alive. Without even any visible signs of injury. They immediately noticed my pie. "Can I have some pie, dad" Lexie said. "I want some, too." chipped in Andrew. I got a couple of mouthfuls. Better than nothing, I suppose. Lucky I had those four bottles of Guinness Foreign Extra Stout to console me.

Tesco Drinks Challenge

Second day in London, I was judging for the Tesco Drinks Challenge. I did it last year, too. It's becoming a regular gig.

The judging takes at the Workx, in a room that looks like an operating theatre. Everything is white. The day kicked off with tea and coffee and a short talk on how we were meant to judge. "Just give your own opinion." No problem for me. I always give my personal opinion.

My group had 21 beers to judge. It should have been 22, but one wasn't there for some reason. It did sound interesting, the missing beer. Or rather, quite odd. It was a Stout with mangoes and other weird stuff amongst the ingredients. That was a change from last year. The tasting form included a list of ingredients. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. At least we weren't left wondering what the weird taste was in the beer with sherry.

Most of the beers were fairly well straight down the middle. Only one was really duff, tasting like celery. But nothing was really great, either. A couple were fairly decent. I would have had several glasses of a tasty strong Stout, but someone else had already polished it all off. There was plenty of the crap one left, though.

The social aspects are one of the reasons I travel to the UK for the tasting. At lunch I sat next to Martyn Cornell, a bloke from the Durden Park Beer Circle, whose name escapes me, and Dale. I'm so used to that glazed eye look when I start talking about old brewing manuals that it's a shock not only to get a response, but an interesting and informed one. I picked up a few good tips about books to look out for. Best not mention it to Dolores. They're likely to be pricey. I hadn't realised that Loftus had authored more than just "The Brewer". There was much praise for Roberts and it seems his is the earliest detailed description of IPA brewing. You lucky devils. I gave you an abridged version a couple of posts back.

Did I mention that the tasting took place in Parsons Green? All of 200 metres from the White Horse. No prizes for guessing where we headed after lunch. I get so little chance to have hardcore beer history discussions with real live people. I certainly wasn't going to pass one up. Once again, the gaps in my own knowledge were highlighted. I've said this before, but it's worth repeating: the more I learn about beer and brewing, the more I realise how little I know.

Most of my fellow judges had to rush off for other appointments. At least that's what they told me. It could be that I have personal hygiene issues. Robbed of fellow obsessives to obsess with, it was time for the second activity of the day. I set off for Clerkenwell.

I've come to know the area around Stonch's pub well, what with the London Metropolitan Archives being just a few hundred yards away. And the site of Reid's Griffin brewery is just at the top of the street. Exactly the sort of places I lurk around. But I'd never even noticed the pub before, tucked away off a side street of Clerkenwell Road.

Stonch wasn't there when I arrived. So I ordered a Landlord and got ready to wait. But first I needed a wedge. When I returned from the bog, Tim Hampson was in the bar. He'd been in the White Horse when I left. What a coincidence. It turned out there was a British Guild of Beer Writers committee meeting planned. Small world.

This may be coming across as an exercise in name-dropping. I guess it is. Funny thing is, during the four years I lived in London, I never bumped into anyone I knew. All drinking sessions with friends had to be meticulously planned several months in advance. Now I was falling over people I knew left right and centre.

Stonch looked surprised when he entered the bar. He'd forgotten about the committee meeting. I'd hoped to have chance for a decent chat after the committee disappeared upstairs to their meeting. I would have, if customers hadn't kept annoyingly insisting on asking to be served drinks. Where did they think they were? In a public bar? Oh shit, they were. Stonch as landlord takes some getting used to. Though he did look the part, leaning on the handpumps and bantering with the punters.

It's time to drop another name. James. James Whitbread. Yes, one of those Whitbreads. Standing next to a descendant of the family that had originally brewed my Porter and SSS was pretty weird. Seems he's a regular there. Soon the Old Puke was flowing and the conversation rambling. I suggested he started a brewery. Funnily enough, that thought had crossed his mind more than once.

Now I could start throwing around several more names. But I've juggled enough already in this post. So I'll leave it there. I doubt you would recognise many or care if you did. I left early, around 8 o'clock. There was a hard day's archiving ahead of me. I wanted to be up early and at my best. I know. I find it hard to believe, too.

London trip

Tesco have invited me to judge in their Drinks Awards again this year. They don't seem worried that I don't have a certificate to say I'm a qualified beer judge. But we're talking about Britain. No-one gives a toss about that sort of meaningless qualification.

It's a paid gig. Well, they slip you a few quid for expenses. Not that it covers my costs, but it does help subsidise my stay in London. I'll be in town for 3 days. There'll be plenty of time for the archives. And hopefully a visit to Fuller's (If the nice brewer from Fuller's is reading, would the afternoon of Tuesday 30th September be OK for dropping by?)

Yes, I'll be fitting in a lot. Handily, the judging takes place just around the corner from the White Horse in Parson's Green. (I wonder if they've replenished their stock of Harvey's Russian Stout? Me and my fellow judges polished off all they had last year.)