Tag: Pubs

Love Actually

Christmas is almost upon us, and it’s a big deal for local businesses trying to make a few extra shillings before the January slump. As regular readers know, Liam and I like a drink or three, so we do our bit to keep the hospitality sector afloat – it’s our patriotic duty. One of our favourite city watering holes is the Gardener’s Arms (known by most punters as the Murderers), a traditional ale house stuffed with old-world charm, oak beams and exposed brickwork. The pub has a deliciously dark past – hence the nickname – and it’s usually our last port of call before we stumble onto our bus back to the village.

To drum up a bit of business, last year the jovial pub landlord posted a video on Faceache – a fantastic spoof of a scene from Love Actually, one of the nation’s favourite festive films. And it’s been posted again this year. Click on the image below. The video is a bit rude, so best move on if you’re easily offended…

Alternatively, watch it on YouTube…

If you happen to be passing the pub, be sure to pop in for a few sherries and admire the murder theme posted on the walls (Dr Crippin, Lizzie Borden, Bonnie and Clyde, Ruth Ellis, to name but a few). And the yuletide windows are pretty good too.

Dwile Flonking

A couple of summers ago, I wrote a tongue in cheek piece about Dwile flonking, a notorious East Anglian pub game involving two teams of twelve players, each taking a turn to girt (dance) around the other while attempting to avoid a beer-soaked dwile (cloth) flonked (flung) by the non-girting team.

Imagine my amazement to find out that the Locks Inn Community Pub, a gorgeous country tavern in the parish of Geldeston, has resurrected the boozy ‘sport’ as a trial of strength between the north folk (Norfolk) and the south folk (Suffolk) of old East Anglia. The Norfolk pub sits on the north bank of the River Waveney looking down on Suffolk on the south side.

Alas, we didn’t find out about it until afterwards and don’t know the result but I hope the merry folk made it a good clean fight. Okay, what I really mean is I hope Norfolk flonked our rivals into the dirt. And don’t even ask about the turnip tossing.

Totally flonking bonkers.

Beer is All Around

The big screen at Cinema City flickered green – Gremins green. So that was the end of that. No matinee at the flicks for us. What’s a couple of likely lads to do instead on a damp and dismal afternoon in old Norwich town? Find a pub, of course. Down the years, we’ve supped at most city centre watering holes and one of our favourites is the Murderers on Timberhill, a traditional ale house stuffed with old world charm, oak beams and exposed brickwork. The pub has a dark past – hence the name – and it’s usually our last port of call before we stumble onto our bus back to the village.

They serve a very quaffable house wine at the Murderers, at a very good price. And quaff it we do. At the time of our visit, the bar was rammed to the crooked beams with hard-drinking young bearded types. Boisterous but good-humoured, it turns out the hairy merry men had parachuted in from the North Sea gas rigs. And the riggers were hell-bent on spreading the love by offering sambuca shots to everyone from a loaded tray. It would’ve been rude to refuse.

Not to miss a PR trick, the Murderers has stepped into Christmas with a brilliant parody of a famous scene from that perennial festive favourite, Love Actually. So folks, I give you…

Cruising Down by the River

I stumbled upon a strange fella lurking among the trees who gave me the old ‘come hither’. So I came hither. Okay, that’s not true. I’m a little long in the tooth for that old malarkey. Having said that, while my sell-by date might have long expired, I like to think there’s still a bit of mileage left in my use-by date. Liam, on the other hand, may disagree.

In reality, a glorious autumn day took these two old codgers for a shuffle down by the River Chet. We’re making the most of the fine weather while it lasts – it keeps us out of the pub. It won’t be long before the trees will be totally bald and the bone-chilling drizzle will force us back to the bar for a hot toddy. Tod had better brace himself.

Red Bus Rover

It was our ‘wax’ wedding anniversary last week – sixteen years and counting. We’ve already got enough candles to light a small chapel, so they were off the gift list, and since we’re not part of the huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ set, waxed jackets were out too. So, we went for a celebratory bite instead. Our venue was the Unthank Arms, a traditional boozer in the heart of Norwich’s ‘Golden Triangle’ – a popular residential district west of the city centre. The Unthank is noted locally for top-notch pub grub, and we used to be regulars before we emigrated to the country.

As we tucked into our meal, I looked up and clocked this old enamel sign above the entrance to the loos.  

I’m fairly sure the sign refers to the old 37 bus route in London. Memories of my misspent youth came flooding back. The 37 was my main ride back in the seventies when my dad ran a ‘Bottle and Basket’ convenience shop in South London, making a decent living out of booze and bread. Back then, the 37 bus plied its trade between Hounslow in the west to Dulwich in the south. I rode the 37 to school in Battersea, my Saturday job in Feltham, my youth club in Richmond and my bestie’s gaff in Clapham.

The 37 still runs but the route’s changed since my teen heyday. The iconic Routemasters, famous for their open rear platforms –  just right for jumping on and off at red lights – and the (sometimes hunky) conductor and his clickety-click ticket machine, ding-ding to the driver to move on and ‘move down the bus please, plenty of room inside’ mantra have all been pensioned off, more’s the pity. These days, it’s all-electric vehicles that barely make a sound, bored-stiff drivers and bleep-bleep DIY card readers. More efficient, I’m sure, but unlike the seventies, not much of a ride.

Making Mischief

After a few months of hard graft and long days for the publishing malarky, we indulged in a little retail therapy in Norwich followed by a few sherries in the Cathedral Quarter. Unlike other parts of the city, this area has preserved many of its watering holes – just the thing for thirsty shoppers like us. Our final snifter was in the Mischief Tavern on Fye Bridge Street. The Grade II listed building, which sits alongside the River Wensum, was originally a 16th-century wealthy mercer’s house before tumbling down the social ladder to become a pub for the great unwashed.

In more recent times, the basement of the pub was once the venue for the Jacquard Club, a sixties folk music group which hosted the likes of Paul Simon, Judy Collins, Ralph McTell, Tom Paxton and George Melly. The club was founded by our very own Albert Cooper, our neighbour in the old Co-op warehouse before we escaped to the country to become village people. Known about town as ‘The Man in Black’, Albert sings the blues. He’s quite the local celebrity and even gets a mention in the Museum of Norwich. Albert turned 90 last year.

Remarkably, the pub itself still retains some 16th-century features, one of which is definitely not the rusty old condom dispenser in the gent’s loo.

Rather like the pub itself, the cock sock machine has seen better days. Still, we were served a very tasty bottle of Pinot Grigio at a very palatable price, so we weren’t complaining.

Last Pub Standing

It’s often been said that old Norwich town once had a pub for every day of the week and a church for every Sunday. But as we discovered on our recent Hidden Street Tour with The Shoebox Experiences, there were, in fact, over 600 pubs within the city walls. Come chucking-out time, the streets ran yellow with the piss from the pissed. The distressed city burghers tried several ways to stem the flood, all of which met with limited success until some bright clerk came up with the clever idea of paying pub landlords to install loos. And so the public house toilet was born.

Most of the pubs have since closed but enough remain for a good night out and, after our tour, we visited one of them – Last Pub Standing – the last of 58 watering holes that once stood along King Street.

It’s a popular, friendly and well-appointed tavern, and first up on the stag do circuit judging by the gangs of jolly young gentlemen parading past our table. One particular group were farmer-themed in cloth caps, jeans and braces. A bearded farmhand dropped down beside us. He asked me to adjust the floppy strap on his dungarees and invited us to join the party. I happily gave his strap a quick tug but declined his offer of extras. We knew joining the boys out on the lash would only lead to ruination – and pissing in the street, probably.

Our Independence Day

Our Independence Day

The fourth of July was independence day for boozers in England. For the first time since lockdown in March, pubs threw open their doors with staff waiting anxiously at the pumps. We were like rats out of a trap. First stop for a cheeky bottle of blush, the White Horse, transformed into a virus-free sanctuary (as much as anything can be) by the jolly landlord, Simon Peck, and his trusty staff. 

The pandemic revealed an entirely different side to Simon as a bumbling and uncannily accurate BoJo impersonator as you can see in this tongue firmly in cheek performance.

Simon even made it on to Look East, our regional BBC news programme. If you’re on Facebook, give the video a like if you would. Simon would be chuffed.

Next stop was the Swan for a couple and then the King’s Head for a final snifter. We didn’t quite make it up to the Angel. That’s on the menu for next time. Too early for opening time? I’m no expert so I’ll leave that to the know-it-alls to speculate. What I do know is each establishment did their bit to keep people safe and all the punters behaved. Was it worth it? You bet! We got totally tiddlypooped.

The Eavesdroppers

The Eavesdroppers

GCHQ Tee Shirt

One more pretty beer garden, one more eavesdropped conversation. This time, two young hipsters with ridiculously overgrown whiskers. They were in deep, earnest conclave.

 ‘Why didn’t you just tell me you were gay when I asked you?’

‘Dunno.’

‘So you go and lock yourself in the toilet for hours? I was really worried.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘Look, we’ve always been mates ain’t we?’

‘Sure.’

‘So what did you think I was gonna do? Tell you to fuck off?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Well, thanks a lot. What kind of arsehole do you take me for?’

‘Sorry, Zach.’

Judging by this and other posts about earwigging, you could be forgiven for thinking we spend all our supping days eavesdropping on the conversations of others. Honestly, we do talk to each other from time to time. Besides, I do like to take a little interest in my fellow man (and woman, of course). If it’s good enough for Her Maj’s secret services…

Now for some pretty pictures of the pretty beer garden at the pretty pub: The Plough, St Benedict’s Street.

Wisteria Lane

Wisteria Lane

Unlike many houses of God poking up through the mishmash skyline of Norwich, the old church of St Giles, so ancient it got a mention in the Domesday Book of 1086, is still saving souls today. At this time of year, it’s ringed by a dripping abundance of wisteria and very pretty it looks too. As the old saying goes:

Norwich has a Church for every week of the year and a pub for every day of the year.*

I took some snaps on the way to my place of worship, the Coach and Horses.

St Giles

*Sadly, this is no longer true pub-wise though there are still plenty of places to take communion.