Pubs have been on my mind quite a bit recently, even though it was restaurants I really missed during lockdown.
As I wrote last week, it’s a long time since I was a regular pub goer but that hasn’t stopped me compiling a random list of 'Pubs I Have Known'.
I intended to name ten, with a brief explanation, but it ended up being 18. Read on:
The Niblick, St Andrews
I went to school in St Andrews and The Niblick was the first pub I ever went to. It has changed its name (and owner) several times since but at the time (mid Seventies) it was rumoured to be the place where you were most likely to get served if you were under age. There was another pub that had a similar reputation but it’s worth noting that neither bar attracted any trouble and none of us got drunk for the simple reason that we didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves and get chucked out. We were surrounded by adults and in hindsight I’m sure the bar staff knew and kept a discreet eye on us. From a parent’s perspective, surely that’s better than teenagers gathering in parks to drink God knows what completely unsupervised?
The Victoria Bar, Dundee
Every other Saturday as a teenager I would walk past the Victoria Bar on Dens Road on my way to watch Dundee United. From the outside it looked small but intriguing with the usual frosted windows that prevented 'minors' from seeing adults drinking. When, eventually, a friend and I plucked up courage to nip in for a pint it was quite a culture shock. It was so small there were no seats so everyone had to stand. On the wall were tiny wooden shelves to rest your glass. But what I really liked was the wooden, sawdust covered floor. Today, when I’m in Dundee for a match, I still walk past the Victoria Bar but the sawdust is long gone, I’m sure, and it looks much bigger. I think they must have bought the adjacent property and extended it. My current favourite pub in Dundee is the relatively new BrewDog in the Grade A-listed Chamber Building on Panmure Street – if, that is, I can get a stool at one of the wooden tables. I'm usually the oldest person there so I like to order a pint and sit quietly reading a newspaper.
St Machar Bar, Aberdeen
In 1976, aged 17, I went to university in Aberdeen. It was cheaper to drink in the student union bars so I don’t remember spending much time in the local pubs. An exception was the tiny St Machar Bar at the top of the narrow cobbled High Street in Old Aberdeen. It was close to the library where I should have been working and it was also next to the bus stop where I got on and off the bus every day, so the temptation to pop in for a pint was irresistible. Funnily enough, in our third year my flatmates and I were all diagnosed by our GP with mild alcoholic poisoning. Of course, I told myself, it had nothing to do with the hours spent in the St Machar Bar. The cause, I convinced myself, was almost certainly our flatmate Dougie’s terrible home brew.
The Albert, London SW1
If there’s a Sliding Doors moment in my life this is it because, had I not gone to The Albert one sunny evening in August 1980, my life would have taken a completely different direction. I was in London for a job interview with a business magazine when I arranged to meet a friend who was already working in London. He suggested we meet in The Albert, a traditional Victorian pub in Victoria Street (now dwarfed by large office blocks), and it was there that I was introduced to Madsen Pirie and Eamonn Butler, founders of the Adam Smith Institute. They in turn introduced me to Michael Forsyth (now Lord Forsyth of Drumlean) who had also popped in for a drink. They knew each other because they had all been at St Andrews University together. Hearing that I was looking for a job Michael invited me for an interview at the PR company where he was a director. Until that moment I only wanted to be a journalist and I was prepared to work anywhere - Cumbria, Cornwall, you name it. However, when Michael offered me a job the following day, the lure of London was too great and I accepted immediately. Everything that followed was a direct result of that fortuitous meeting in a pub.
The Old King Lud, London EC4
Given my long-held desire to be a journalist it was ironic that my first job (in PR) was with a company based in Fleet Lane which, as its name suggests, was very close to Fleet Street. A friend worked for an advertising agency nearby but instead of one of the many Fleet Street pubs we would meet after work at The Old King Lud on the corner of Ludgate Circus and Farringdon Street. Built in 1870 this old Victorian pub sat directly under Holborn Viaduct which meant it shook slightly whenever a train rumbled overhead. Memorably we were in the Old King Lud when the first ships left Portsmouth for the Falklands in April 1982. The atmosphere that night was incredible. Everyone, it seemed, was behind Maggie’s decision to send the task force to the South Atlantic and after several pints quite a few of us were talking about joining up, although we thought better of it when we sobered up the next morning! The Old King Lud closed in 2005. Today the building is part bank, part cafe and the viaduct has been demolished. As for my first office in Fleet Lane, that was pulled down years ago and what remains of Fleet Lane has been renamed Old Fleet Lane. Confused?!
The Cockpit, London EC4
In 1981 my boss, Michael Forsyth, set up his own PR company and four of us moved to a small office above a sandwich shop in St Andrews Hill. Nearer St Paul’s Cathedral, but still close to Fleet Street, the area felt very Dickensian, a warren of narrow streets and dark, gloomy pubs. A few doors down from our office was The Cockpit where we sometimes had a pie and a pint for lunch. (It was either that or the sandwich shop.) Dating from the early 19th century, it got its name because originally it really was a cockpit. I spent a morning last year having a nostalgic walk around the area. The old Observer building, which was just down the hill from the pub, has been replaced by a modern office block but The Cockpit is still there. It’s described here as a ‘quaint little back-street boozer’ but to me it’s more than that because it represents a London that is fast disappearing. I’d love to think it will outlive us all and still be there in another hundred years but I hae ma doots (as they would say in the Victoria Bar, Dundee).
The Blue Lamp, Aberdeen
In the summer of 1981 I returned to Aberdeen to visit friends. For some reason we ended up in The Blue Lamp, a pub I had never been to before (or since). I would have forgotten all about it had it not been for one thing. On that afternoon Ian Botham decided to hit the Australian bowlers all over Headingley, turning a Test match on its head, and we watched the drama play out on a tiny TV at the back of the bar. Apart from a couple of disinterested locals we were the only people there but it was a genuine ‘Where were you ...?’ moment. Unforgettable.
Name unknown, London E1
In the early Eighties, decades before bits of the East End became trendy and even gentrified, I found myself in a pub in Whitechapel on a cold Saturday night. I was living in Marble Arch and had never been to the East End. I don’t remember the name of the pub but it was the only building left standing on what appeared to be a bomb site. From the outside it looked desolate and abandoned. However, when I walked in through thick double doors, the contrast inside was extraordinary. It was exactly how I imagined a Prohibition speakeasy might have been. Noisy, fuggy, intoxicating, with hundreds of people roaming around or sitting at tables, smoking and drinking. Small on the outside, inside it was like the Tardis with one room leading to another and another. What really struck me was how everyone appeared to have dressed up even though it wasn’t a special event. I have never experienced anything like it before or since.
Deacon Brodies Tavern, Edinburgh
On May 14, 1983, I was in Dundee to watch United beat Dundee 2-1 to win the Scottish League Championship for the first and only time in the club’s history. After the match, and the lengthy celebrations that followed in the ground, I walked to the station and caught a train to Edinburgh where I celebrated some more with an old school friend who, now I come to think of it, was the same person I had a drink with in the Victoria Bar seven or eight years previously. We met at Deacon Brodies, an atmospheric but rather touristy pub in the Royal Mile. I remember it being a bit weird because although I was congratulated by a few strangers who spotted my United scarf, no-one else had the slightest interest in the historic scenes I had witnessed in Dundee that afternoon. For me it was a once in a lifetime moment. For everyone else in the pub it was just an ordinary Saturday night. Oh well.
Lamb and Flag, Covent Garden
I lived in London for 13 years, moving from Marble Arch to West Kensington to Hammersmith and, finally, Camberwell. In that time I never had what I would call a ‘local ‘, partly because I either met friends in central London - which was more convenient for everyone - or we would gravitate to an ever changing list of pubs by the river. The Old Ship and The Dove in Hammersmith were regular haunts and in central London we would often meet at the Lamb and Flag in Covent Garden. It’s not very big so we rarely got a seat let alone a table. Instead we would stand outside, pints in hand, before moving on somewhere else. On Sundays in the late Eighties we would sometimes go to a pub overlooking the river near Kew Bridge where we would sit outside on the terrace. The highlight of those evenings was the always punctual arrival of Concorde as it flew overhead on its descent to Heathrow. You’ve no idea how beautiful that plane was until you saw it flying directly over your head. Years later I boarded one at Duxford Museum in Cambridgeshire and was shocked by how narrow and spartan it was inside. Still, who wouldn’t want to fly from London to New York in three hours?
Thistle Street Bar, Edinburgh
In December 1992, eight months after I got married, we moved to Edinburgh. For the first 18 months we rented a lovely flat in a narrow cobbled street in the heart of the New Town. We were actually the first occupants because it was created by our landlord (the father of the friend I met in The Albert). After several years buying up adjacent rooms that became available as single occupier residents moved out (or died), Aldric had been able to create several self-contained flats to rent or sell. Ours was a two-bedroom flat with kitchen and bathroom and a good sized sitting room. Overlooking Thistle Street, the sitting room still had the original 18th century sign above the door that read, ‘No more than 14 people shall live in this room’. Given it was the same size as the main bedroom, one can safely assume that the same rule covered that room as well. Imagine the noise, and the stench! Two doors along from the flat was the Thistle Street Bar. We were never regulars but it earned itself a footnote in my family’s history when, on one of my parents’ occasional visits to Edinburgh, my father inexplicably made a joke about the Scottish pound note he had been given by the barman. All I’ll say is, it’s best not to cast doubt on the legitimacy of Scottish currency, even as a joke, in a Scottish pub, in an English accent. Talking of which, at the far end of Thistle Street is the Oxford Bar which is famous for being the favourite haunt of Ian Rankin’s fictional detective John Rebus. A small, rather spartan establishment (which I liked), it had a reputation for not suffering fools (or Englishmen) so I rarely drank there and when I did I was careful to keep my mouth shut.
The Phoenix, London SW1
When I joined Forest in 1999 our office was in Palace Street, less than half a mile from The Albert in Victoria Street. The nearest pub however was The Phoenix which was directly opposite which meant lunch was a choice between the pub or the cafe next door. (The cafe, which was run by a Spanish family who for years I thought were Italian, usually won.) Since we moved out in 2005 slick new offices and a shiny shopping complex with trendy bars and restaurants have sprung up nearby but The Phoenix is still there and like the immediate area it too has been spruced up. I’ve been back a couple of times - once to address a meeting of the ASI’s Next Generation Group in a private room that I didn’t know existed - and it was much nicer than it was. Meanwhile Audley House, where our old office was, is now the registered address of the Independent British Vape Trade Association (IBVTA). It really is a small world.
The Distillery, Plymouth
Pubs and smoking have always gone hand in hand and before the smoking ban I was interviewed in a variety of pubs and bars, some more memorable than others. In April 2003 I was invited to appear on a late night programme, Bendall at Bedtime, broadcast by ITV on Friday nights in the West Country. Each week the programme was recorded ‘as live’ in a different pub or bar in Devon or Cornwall. The week I was a guest filming took place at The Distillery, a converted gin factory in Plymouth. I travelled down by train and thanks to the generous hospitality of the production crew filming was a lot of fun. For my bit Ron Bendell and I sat at the bar while he interviewed me. Presenter and crew had to wait until filming was almost finished before they could have a drink. Similar restrictions didn’t apply to guests.
The Salisbury, London WC2
Another location that sticks in the mind was The Salisbury, a large Victorian pub in St Martin’s Lane near Leicester Square. Again, it was before the smoking ban and I was being interviewed live with Amanda Sandford of ASH for the local evening news. The abiding memory I have is of Amanda waving her hand like a fan in front of her face to disperse all the smoke she seemed to think was swirling around. To be fair, it was a bit fuggy, but her reaction seemed excessive. I got the impression she wasn’t a pub person and whatever the air quality she still wouldn’t have enjoyed it.
King’s Head, London N1
The smoking ban was introduced in England on July 1, 2007, but far more memorable for me was February 14, 2006. That’s the day MPs voted to ban smoking in all enclosed public places in England including every pub and club. It was a day of almost non-stop interviews, bookended by two interviews at the King’s Head Theatre Pub in Islington. The last time I’d been to the Kings Head was in the early Eighties when I saw Victoria Wood perform live in the tiny auditorium at the back of the pub. Now that memory was being expunged by the smoking ban. The BBC reporter at the Kings Head was Branwen Jeffreys. Branwen is now the BBC’s education editor but in those days she was a consumer correspondent. She thought the location worked perfectly so after interviewing me for the lunchtime news she asked if I would return that night, after MPs had voted, to comment on the Ten O’Clock News. When the time came I wasn’t in the best of moods and what I really wanted was a drink. Luckily I was in the right place.
Gerry Stonhill's ‘Individual’ Mason Arms
Like several other pubs on this list I only visited Gerry Stonhill's ‘Individual’ Mason Arms once and, surprisingly, it was in the course of doing a good deed. The aforesaid Gerry Stonhill was so grateful after I drove him home from Gatwick after a nine-hour flight from Cuba (long story), he insisted on treating my wife and I to dinner with overnight accommodation. Sadly we were denied what I'm sure would have been a unique experience when, days before we were due to go, a kitchen crisis prompted him to close the pub with immediate effect and put it on the market. (It transpired that his long-serving chef had retired and the replacement had walked out after two weeks.) I was genuinely, seriously, gutted. You can read the full story here. Michael Winner’s review of the pub is priceless, one of the funniest things I have ever read. The Mason Arms is now under new ownership but Gerry Stonhill's ‘Individual’ Mason Arms will never be forgotten. I just wish I'd had the chance to enjoy the full experience before it closed!
The Pheasant, Keyston
We've lived in Cambridgeshire since 1999. Our village used to have three pubs, now it has one plus the local sports club. Two years ago the pub in the neighbouring village closed as well. I’m part of the problem because I rarely if ever drank there. The Pheasant in Keyston is probably my favourite pub in the area but, 13 miles away, it’s hardly ‘local’. In fact, calling it a pub is a stretch. Gastro pub? Perhaps, but it’s really a restaurant because unless you live in this ‘tiny, well-heeled Cambridgeshire village’ I can’t imagine why you would go there just for a drink. Alas The Pheasant was due to close even before Covid-19 struck which is another reminder that if you don’t support your local pub/restaurant it may not be there forever, however good the beer, food or reviews are.
Finally ...
... a special mention for the Lake District pub that I stumbled upon with three friends in August 1974. We were on a walking/camping holiday and had spent the day yomping across fell and dale. We had lost our bearings, couldn’t find our intended campsite and were in desperate need of something to eat and drink when we chanced upon a pub. Unfamiliar with any beer that wasn’t called Newcastle Brown Ale or Tartan Special, we approached the bar and requested “Three pints of Special, please.” To which the barman, in front of several other customers, replied, “What’s so special about it?” In our tired and confused state it dawned on us that Scottish and Newcastle’s Tartan Special was unknown in that part of the world. Thankfully, taking pity on us and ignoring our age, the barman introduced us to something much better. “Here you go, lads, have a pint of bitter.”
PS. Don’t forget the Forest webinar on Monday - ‘Patriotism, Smoking and the Pub’. To register click here.