You’re welcome

We’re not up that early. It’s half nine before we get down to the breakfast room.

I let K. do her thing first. She gives me a pot of tea to entertain me while she loads up a plate. Then it’s my turn. Fried egg, bacon and fried tomato. About the minimum to constitute a cooked breakfast.

I don’t bother with the offal tubes. They aren’t nice. Nor with the hash browns. I’m in Britain. They have no place in a breakfast here. Sorry. Especially ones that look like a triangle of deep-freeze battered fish, as those here. Beans I’ve always considered optional.

It’s pretty crowded. Lots of tourists. Many over, I’m guessing, for a bit of shopping. And not the light kind.

Breakfasted, we’re ready for the morning’s activity. Which is a short walk away. On Euston Road. Where the puddles are even larger than yesterday. Seas of filth washing black tides onto the pavement with each passing bus. Lovely.

The Wellcome Centre is our destination. Where there’s an exhibition K. wants to see. On beauty.

Other than security guards, I’m about the only bloke. Even though the exhibition is about both male and female (and other genders) beauty. Not sure what that is telling us about society. And I’m only here accompanying K.. As it’s free. I wouldn’t have paid.

K. is slightly disappointed. “It sounded more interesting in the internet description.”

“Isn’t that true of everything?”

Escaping out onto the dreck-laden pavement, we’re directly opposite Euston station. Which is cleverly hidden by a bland office block. But in front of that are the only remaining old bits of the station. One of which houses the Euston Tap.

“Fancy a pint over there?” I ask.

“Can do.” I’m pleased to hear her reply.

It’s not very full downstairs. But there are fuck all seats. Luckily, two are unoccupied. Which is where we plop our arses.

“Look. They’ve got a Mild. And it’s only 4.40 a pint.” What the fuck? It’s been over six quid in the other pubs.

“I’m having a pint. Do you want one as well?”

“Yes.” K. does like a pint of Mild. One of the many reasons I love her.

It’s Marble Mild. At 4.1% ABV, quite strong for the style.

“At this strength, it’s like a pre-WW II sixpenny Mild. And …”

“Not interested, Ronald.”

Um.

I switch rapidly to: “Rather nice, isn’t it?” Which it is. Malty and not too sweet.

The taps aren’t very ergonomic, placed weirdly high. Especially the keg ones. The poor lass serving can only just about reach them. And that’s wearing deep platform shoes.

K. polishes off her beer pretty quickly.

“I can see you didn’t enjoy that.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, she replies: “I’ll have another pint, please.”

Which I get her. I understand what’s best for me.

The short walk back to the hotel involves some more puddle-avoiding on Euston Road. How can the street get so filthy?

“Do you think they ever clean the streets?”

“It doesn’t look like it.”

Sandwiches and whisky back in our room. None of the latter for K.. She has a four quid fifty, 2-litre bottle of cider.

After snacking, K. is off again. To the Foundlings Hospital. I’m staying behind to rest. And to save the ten quid it costs to get in. There’s whisky that needs drinking, too. Did I mention that?

When Dolores gets back from the depressing baby place, I ask:

“What’s the plan is for this evening?”

“Wetherspoons.” She replies, succinctly. Fair enough. At least it won’t leave us destitute.

We walk past the old tram tunnel to Shakespeare’s Head. The closest Wetherspoons. The only one in walking distance. *

It’s pretty full. Not with Christmas parties. Just a jolly Saturday evening crowd. We eventually find spots on a large round table. Where a very mixed group of people are chatting merrily away.

Three female pensioners from Essex are seated next to us. A very cheerful bunch. Being a few drinks in probably helps. Opposite is a flutter of youngie people, happily joining in. It’s all very social.

“Everyone is younger than me now.” I mention, unwisely, to one of the pensioners.

“I am.” She replies proudly. That’s me told.

London Pride for K., Abbot for me. Which costs not that far short of a fiver. More than the Marble Mild. London prices are weird.

As we’re having so much fun, we stay for seconds.

It’s not too late when we get back to the hotel. Dolores slips off to sleep while I watch Match of the Day. With my friend the very cheap whisky.



Euston Tap
190 Euston Rd.,
London NW1 2EF.
https://www.eustontap.com/


Shakespeare’s Head
Africa House,
64-68 Kingsway,
London WC2B 6BG.
https://api.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/london/shakespeares-head-holborn



* Or so I thought.

NEIPA, CAMRA and Wetherspoons

Thanks to Boak & Bailey for explaining the best beer clickbait terms. Now I just have to construct a post that somehow lives up to its title.

NEIPA. A hot topic currently. Some have suggested it represents a seismic shift in beer culture. Others that it's just a passing fad. This is where it's great having your head stuffed up the past's arse as much as I have. Only time will tell. Speculation now is just, well, speculation. 23rd December 2022, to be precise. Until then, anything written about the historic significance of NEIPA is just waffle.

In the 1950's, British beer geeks would have assumed Brown Ale, Milk Stout, Keg Bitter and Light Ale were the drinks of the future. And we all know how that turned out. By the 1990's these styles were as cool as Rick Astley and as sexy as scabby tramp.

Forty years, that took, I hear you complain. True, but the geeky internet world has speeded trends up a treat.

Right, just need to work in CAMRA and Spoons now.

Returning to the theme of the long term, forking out for a CAMRA life membership was one of my best decisions ever. How much dosh has that saved me? Not to mention all the free tokens at beer festivals over the years. Best investment ever.

When I first took my kids to Wetherspoons, I was also thinking long term. About what I could do with them in the UK once they were adults. Take them to Spoons, obviously. Getting them accustomed to the unique atmosphere was one of my key aims in our visits to Britain. Cola light for Alexei, cranberry juice for Andrew, strongest cask beer they have and two double Bells, no ice, for Dad.

Now they ask: "Dad, can we go to Wetherspoons, please?" And, "If you're getting youself whisky, can I have a vodka?"

That was easier than I thought. Constructing a post around three randon clickbait terms. Could be a new theme. Throw some more clickbait at me and I might write more crap like this. Or not, depending on my mood.

Me and my Spoons

 Or rather my kids and their Spoons. We've recently been in Manchester. Much of it spent in Wetherspoons. Mostly to feed the boys without ripping a gigantic hole in my wallet.

We tried three of the four city centre Wetherspoons. They were surprisingly diverse. In beer selection, atmosphere and service. The beer quality was good in two. *

Paramount was top for me. My hand twitched involuntarily as I cruised along the bar and spotted a DIPA, a 6.5% Porter and stuff that reminded me how poorly I've been keeping track of of Britain's brewery explosion. I should have stuck with the Porter. For, well, ever. Totally my kind of beer. And in proper condition. I liked it so much, I went back again just to have another pint.

The kids preferred the Moon Under Water. Mostly because the wifi was better, but also because it's roomier. And I have to say that the service was top class. Very friendly staff who clearly enjoyed their work. The beer selection wasn't as wide or interesting, but all the ones me and Dolores tried were in good condition. And we got stroll arm in arm down Speicher Straße** with pints of Kingsdown Ale. Not that I particularly want to remember Swindon. I've spent much of the last 20 years trying to erase all trace of it from my mind.

The poshest looking Wetherspoons, the Waterhouse, was disappointing. Tables too close together, rubbish wifi and an undrinkable pint. The staff weren't that nice, either. We left within 10 minutes.

Comparing the Paramount with the Port Street beer House - reckoned to be one of the best beer pubs in town - was revealing. I preferred the beer in the Paramount. And not just because it was half the price.

Where would we be without Spoons? Trying to eat soup with a knife and fork.




* I only had one pint in the other, so it could just have been one duff beer. I should say that I ordered a single pint. I couldn't drink it all, it was so revolting.
** How Google Translate interpreted Memory Street.

Two drinks

At least it gave my kids had a good laugh. The story about Wetherspoon's limiting adults accompanying children to just two alcoholic drinks. "You'd only be in pub five minutes, dad."

I've quite often taken the kids to a Wetherspoon. Usually the one in Lincoln. It's not particularly out of choice. Just one of the very limited options when you have children in tow. By the time we hit 'Spoons I've trailed around all the places the kids want to go - bakery, toy shop, firing range - I'm ready for a drink. Make that several drinks.

I start with a pint of the strongest cask beer on offer and accompany it with a double whisky. That takes the edge off the day. By the time the food turns up, I plan on being on my third round.

In Groningen on Saturday, I would have been in trouble after 12 minutes in the first pub. If it had been a Wetherspoons with an idiot manager. And in the second one, too. I had more of a thirst on by then. So after just 8 minutes. Yet my kids didn't run riot. Instead they gave me useful advice like: "Dad, no more than three jenevers." "Drink Dubbel not Tripel." Maybe having German passports makes my kids behave so responsibly. Being British myself, I act like a mindless twat.

What effect is all my abuse having on the kids? They hate our excursions so much they keep saying "Dad, can we go to the pub?" I can't be doing much wrong.