Friday Photo(s) #70

'...a photo, probably taken on my phone while out walking, or maybe an oldie retrieved from the family archive, perhaps even an anonymous antique snapshot plucked from what remains of my collection of such ephemera. To accompany it, a tune, ideally one that's at least partially inspired by the image...'

Long boozy evenings in packed, noisy pubs was very much my thing back in the smoking age, but these days I like nothing better than to push open the door of a near deserted hostelry just after midday, enjoy a couple of quiet pints, then head off home in time for lunch. Only yesterday, as I type these words, I wandered round to my local at a little after 12 to find just one other person in the place, a really friendly old boy in his late 70s who is always surprised when I greet him by name, as he doesn't know mine. We've chatted several times over the past few years and our conversations generally revolve around the same subject - the many former pubs that have disappeared in the 40+ years he's lived in town. He vividly recollects every establishment, the names of their respective landlords and, quite often, a number of the regular characters that propped up the bar in each one. He's quite the raconteur when he gets going. As I got my hat and scarf together, readying myself to leave, my elderly companion stood to shake my hand, wordlessly thanking me for my company. He knows my name now, but by the next time I see him it will probably have slipped away and much of our conversation will be repeated once again. He has early onset dementia, it's been obvious for some time. For now he manages his day to day life by leaving notes to himself around the house and having a structured routine, one which revolves around a quiet lunchtime pint or two in comfortable, familiar surroundings. 

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These anonymous photos of staff in an empty pub probably originate from the mid 1960s and were unearthed by me at a car-boot sale around 10 years ago. I'm grateful that the landlord of my own local is not as sour-faced as the one pictured here appears to be. I think I'd struggle to relax and enjoy my pint with him glaring across the bar at me.  

'The Man Who Loved Beer' is, on the surface, a typically lush Lambchop song (one of my favourites by the band), though on closer lyrical inspection it's an adaptation of a dark ancient Egyptian text 'The Man Who Was Tired of Life'. It originally appeared on their 1996 album 'How I Quit Smoking' and was covered by David Byrne on his 'Grown Backwards' LP in 2004.

Lambchop - The Man Who Loved Beer

Friday Photo #33

I paid a flying visit to the smoke last weekend, to check in on my aunt and catch up with my cousin, whose own, literal, flying visit involved significantly more miles than mine. She flew in from New York to stay with her mum on Friday before heading home again on Tuesday. 

Three highlights of any trip to my aunt's little corner of London are; 

1) Newham Bookshop. A glorious indie on the Barking Road. Enter this place at your own risk. The last things I need at this stage of my life are yet more books to add to the never-ending pile, but once through the door I lose any sense of self control - resistance is absolutely futile. It's a wonderful Aladdin's Cave of a place. 

2) Central Park Café. The park itself is a fabulous local resource, but the café at its heart is a real community hub, welcoming families and their canine pals into its generous space. In addition to a friendly welcome and a decent brew,  they bake a fresh rack of delicious sourdough every morning, seven days a week. I nipped in to pick up a warm loaf before leaving on Monday and demolished half of it at home that very evening. 

3) The Boleyn Tavern. Following a lengthy and much needed refurbishment, The Boleyn welcomed thirsty punters back into the historic pub in June 2021, since when it's been my local whenever I'm in town. The food is great, the beer selection is ever-evolving and the contents of the free jukebox are seemingly purloined from my own record collection. I couldn't ask for anything more.

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Dave Bartholomew, who died in 2019 at the ripe old age of 100, was no slouch in the songwriting department, co-penning such r&b staples as 'I'm Walking', 'Ain't That a Shame', 'Walking to New Orleans' and 'I Hear You Knocking'. Here he is in 1952 though, performing a cleverly written Billy Austin song. 

You'd never find these kind of shenanigans going on at The Boleyn.

Dave Bartholomew - Who Drank My Beer While I Was in the Rear?

Friday Photo #32

The closest pub to my gaff had already ceased trading by the time I rolled into town a couple of years ago. It wasn't alone either. Two more former hostelries also stand abandoned and forlorn within a mile of my front door. I quickly became convinced that my would-be local, in spite of its listed building status, was destined to eventually become a residential property. So imagine my delight when, out of the blue, the old place was purchased and reopened as a boozer in the Spring of 2022. Since then the pub has become something of a bolthole for me on a day off, a place to while away an hour at lunchtime with a book, either indoors, or, during the heat of the Summer, out in the yard (it can't really be called a beer garden). The pub was open for a couple of hours on Christmas Day, allowing me the perfect opportunity to stretch my legs, enjoy a pint and have a bit of a chinwag with a group of friendly strangers at the bar, before returning to the solitude of my flat. 

As I mentioned previously, I didn't do too well on the eating front during the busy run-up to Christmas, variations of toast and porridge mainly, so I was determined to enjoy a decent meal on the big day itself. When I got home from the pub I roasted every vegetable I could find in the fridge, threw in a few pieces of Quorn, piled the lot onto a monster Yorkshire pud and doused it all with lashings of gravy. It may not look (or sound) that appetising to most readers, but my goodness it was welcome, delicious and filling. The only problem was that following the long, exhausting festive period at work, the bracing wander to the pub, a midday pint and such a hearty repast, within a very short time I could barely keep my eyes open. Long story short, I was in bed by a little after 6pm and didn't stir for a full eleven hours. What a glorious and much needed lump of sleep that was.

Bill Wells & Aiden Moffat - Dinner Time

The Revolution Starts at Closing Time

After visiting both of my Aunts in London for a couple of days, I spent Saturday evening in deepest Essex with two of my oldest friends. There was a time when we would spend two or three nights a week putting the world to rights and arguing about music over a succession of warm beers in the corner of a smoky pub, steadily growing less coherent as the hours wore on. But that was 35 years ago. These days, it's a logistical nightmare to get the three of us together, in spite of the fact that we live less than 70 miles apart. In fact Saturday was the first time we've all been in the same room for over 18 months. Though the alcohol didn't flow in quite the way it used to - one of my pals was driving and I had a bit of a dicky tummy - it was a joy to catch-up. We put the world to rights and argued about music just like the old days, but most of all we laughed - a lot.

In the halcyon days of the early 1980's, this was our anthem.

Serious Drinking - The Revolution Starts at Closing Time