Well, that was a pretty interesting night out.
It started out the way these usually do, it's getting late in the afternoon, outside the sun is beating down, the temperature is at its socialising friendly optimum of 22 degrees and when Julia turns down my suggestion that we eat out for dinner however, she thinks it might be good to walk down to the local for quiet drink. Well then there's simply no going back and I can see the master
plan unfolding before my eyes.
First things first, as we are walking out of the lift I turn to Julia and say, what about a quick one at The Grenadier.
Julia may not be the world's best geographer however even she knew the Gren wasn't anywhere near Pimlico, however she let that one go.
Down into the tube with full knowledge that at just after five and at peak hour time, I thought that we would simply jump onto the Victoria Line and exit left at Green Park, then wander down through Green Park to the Gren.
However, when we reached Green Park Julia insisted on cutting down the walking distance which meant we had to take a one stop trip via the Piccadilly Line to Hyde Park Corner. I was very reluctant to make this move and like a fool just headed towards the Piccadilly platform . Now just consider for the moment that to reach that particular platform we had to walk for a good six minutes through absolute bloody hoards of workers charging in different directions.
As we zero in on the platform, Julia shouts at me, where are all these people going? Trying (unsuccessfully) not to smile, I said, well dear , we and about ten thousand others are now about to make a mass assault on one westbound train with a maximum passenger capacity of 1,200. I think it's going to be a tad tight.
TIGHT! . It was a bloody nightmare!. Unless you have lived through one of these encounters it's hard to get your head around what it's actually like.
The Platform Master was screaming through the PA that embarking passengers had to move back ( not a goer there, sorry) so that passengers could disembark. It was chaos , simply as that. We missed the cut on the first three trains (if we had stuck to plan A, we could have been kicking back in the Gren by now, not a thought to be shared at that particular moment)trains are having trouble exiting the station as people are leaving the odd limb or back back or walking stick to the mercy of the vice like train doors. And unless the doors close the train simply doesn't move. As an aside, Julia was bitten by a set of these doors the other day leaving a lasting thought that she wasn't going to go through that experience again. The Platform Master for the umpteenth time screams that the train won't depart until loose limbs or other projectiles are either inside the train or outside along with the rest of said individual's body. Fourth time lucky, and we hurl ourselves into an impossibly small space.
Victory is ours!
A minute later we stagger out of Hyde Park Station ecstatic that we are free with all limbs in working order and no bumps or bruises.
We positively charge down Grosvenor Place, fly into Grosvenor Crescent, hang a hard right into Wilton Crescent, sprint down the length of Wilton Row , charge up the steps of Grenadier , no easy task since as there are maybe a hundred drinkers outside on the cobblestone street drinking like they were at some kind of upper middle class beer festival.
I then take great joy in banging my fist on the pewter counter in victory and demanding that the Eastern European barman serve us two massive glasses of Sav, and the sooner the better!
A couple of drinks and an hour later and we are off to another favourite watering hole, The Horse and Groom in Groom Place. Now this is where things get a little weird.
As we walk through the front door the large Irish publican (Hayden/Aiden?depending on whether you're tone deaf) who is having a quiet pint at the end of the bar looks up and in a very large voice yells out " aaah, my favourite Kiwi. Good to see you." I was last there in May 2011, I'm thinking, how the hell can this dude remember me? Said publican then says "where's your friend? (that's you Colin) I haven't seen him in here since probably Christmas."(what a guy, what a memory)
After we have ordered a bottle on NZ Sav, Julia takes me to one side and says, out with it, come clean on me, what do you and your mates get up to on your jaunts over here that ensure a publican can pick you out from God knows how many thousand drinkers a year down the track. I just let her question hang in the air, drowned out by the cacophony of sound generated by fellow drinkers.
We certainly got value for money out of that bottle, proven by the fact that once we exited the pub we promptly got lost and ended up outside the Nags Head in Kinnerton Street.We had no choice, this pub has history and we have history with this pub. Straight inside, no question of Sav, Chardy or Pinot Gris.
You can have red or white, five quid a glass , take it or leave it.
Down to the basement bar, a fantastic drinking spot.
Ten minutes later in staggers the publican, a crotchety old guy who way back used to run a pub north of Auckland.
Said gentleman, takes one look at me , bends his head in my general direction, and says , welcome back. By this stage I'm starting to wonder if Julia thinks I've got shares in these Belgravia watering holes.
We had reached the point of the evening that things are becoming pretty animated and frankly , highly enjoyable. Julia and yours truly have similar senses of humour so by about ten we were laughing at anything and everything so hard our sides started to hurt.
Finally we agreed we would call it a night so headed back to Pimlico.
As we exit the tube and start the five minute stroll to Dolphin Square we were about to navigate past our closest local, The Gallery. It's maybe eleven and this joint is fair pumping, so using the conscience-clearing excuse that we needed a toilet stop, we dived inside for a quick roadie. In the history of the universe, has there ever been a quick roadie? I don't think so. We plonk ourselves down next to a group of four guys who have just been to soccer training. These guys proceed to dump their bags on the floor, head straight for the bar and order jugs of beer. We could hardly believe our eyes . Each of these chaps ordered a jug apiece. And I guess you are thinking, I wonder what these jugs hold. Well, I can tell you we were wondering the same thing and one of the guys informs us there are four pints to a jug, and yes, this is a thrice weekly ritual.
Home to sanity of the flat.
What a brilliant evening!
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