Here are some notes I wrote while in Lodon for the historic beer conference thing. Been too busy to post them until now.
That pub on the way to Tottenham Court Road*
Almost walked straight back out again until I spotted the Truman Scorcher. I really dislike the way Taylor Walker pubs are replacing London Pride with the deceptiveley-named London Glory. It's 16:10 and pretty empty. Just me and a bloke in the spell of his phone.
Mmm. Something not quite right about the beer. A touch of sourness. Doubtless the pub's fault. Don't think I'll be finishing it.
Still stinky. I'm taking advantage of being in London by myself to drop by. Dolores isn't a fan.
Sambrook's Candle Maker IPA 6.8% ABV.
Black IPA that is. And it's pretty damn black. As dark as midnight down a well at midnight on the dark side of the moon. Opaque in a good, not orange juice sort of way. Not that you'd notice from the taste. Well, maybe a little at the back end, where there seems to be a touch of non-hop bitterness.
I managed to get a highly-desirable seat by the gents. Handy when you're as old and weak-bladdered as me. As for the smell - it doesn't really make any difference here.
Quite liked that black IPA. So I got another. Could be the ABV talking, mind.
Had a crazily-scheduled beer appointment at noon yesterday, just a few hours landing back from the US. Turned out to be as much a business meeting as a piss up. I think. Being a bit confused at the time, I'm not 100% sure.
London has its own particular atmosphere. Busy, not not quite in such a concentrated, frantic way as New York City.
Why did I suddenly start humming "No Fun"? Because it has a catchy riff? Because I am having fun. Of the sat in a pub with a nice beer and nothing I fucking need to do sort of way.
"You're crazy, Ronald." has been a recurring theme in my chats with Dolores. I understand what she means. But it's a mortality thing. Where once there was an endless horizon, the earth has turned flat. At one point, I'm going to drop off the edge. And the drop gets closer every day. I'm getting shit done while my legs, guts and brain are still working reasonably well.
Regrets? Not having better handwriting.
Need a wee. Thank Stalin** the bog isn't far.
Reading the Evening Standard - all fluff, puff and bluff.
* Marlborough Arms
36 Torrington Pl,
London WC1E 7LY.
Tel: +44 20 7636 0120
** That's for Jeff. Know you don't like taking the Lord's name in vain,. So I substituted the red/dark lord's.
69 Cobourg St,
London NW1 2HH.
Tel: +44 20 7681 4930
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