The Cittie of Yorke (Chancery Lane) 4 x pints Old Brewery Bitter, 1 pint Alpine Lager, 1 pint SS Extra Stout £12.86

Freshly boosted after the arrival of Liam at Old Street, we were overjoyed to find yet another new arrival at Chancery Lane, this time in the shape of the third West brother, Jevon, who was somewhat surprisingly a debutant on this long and winding road.

We found ourselves outside the Cittie of Yorke on High Holborn, a fantastic building containing an eccentrically spelled Sam Smith’s pub. As we paused for the necessary photo outside, we were accosted by a charming and glamorous American lady called Nikki who was looking for a reciprocal deal,

“Shall I do you guys first and then you do us?” was her immortal, easily misconstrued offering at this point. Much embarrassment was avoided as we realised she was offering to swap cameras temporarily.

The Cittie was a truly beautiful pub with lots of room, impressive high vaulted ceilings, dark wood everywhere, and huge old barrels above the back bar. We were in the heart of legal London here, and it would be easy to imagine lawyers in fervent consultation with clients in the side cubicles which bore more than a passing resemblance to church confessionals. The pub overall was deceptively large, with the long grand bar area we were in being supplemented by a downstairs restaurant area.

It being the last day, it being a notoriously cheap Sam Smith’s pub, it being Jevon’s first venue, or for any other arbitrary reason you could think of, we decided that we should have a pint in this one, from the weird and wonderful list that Sam Smith’s always provide.  Definitely a smart move because the beer was indeed ridiculously cheap, and even Shirt – a notorious Budweiser drinker (the bad kind) – confessed to liking his pint of SS Old Brewery Bitter. Wonders will never cease.

The Island Bar (Lancaster Gate) 2 x Gin and Tonic, 2 x bt Stella, 3 x bt Grolsch, 1 x diet Coke £40.50

A short hop along the Central Line to Lancaster Gate and it was time for our next set of guest appearances. Firstly we were met by Suzanne, a friend who had come all the way down from Manchester for the day and was looking exceptionally glam; plus another old friend, Adam, an actor who until recently had been in a ubiquitous car insurance advert and who had graciously agreed to wear the same jumper he had in the ad, just so we could enthusiastically point out to people that he was, in fact, a celebrity guest.

The Lancaster Gate Hotel is, unsurprisingly, right next to the tube station, and this meant that unfortunately The Swan down the road was cast mercilessly aside as a destination for us in favour of the dubious delights of the hotel’s “Island Bar”. I can only assume that they must have been referring to the Lancaster Gate traffic island when they named it, otherwise it would surely have been called the “Upstairs in the Corner” Bar. It was one of those special soulless rooms that seem to come from some sort of Ikea flat pack kit sold exclusively to mid-range hotels. Black leather seating and shiny surfaces were carefully tendered by immaculate barmen with black shirts and shiny foreheads, and as expected the prices were suitably rich. Not quite Landmark Hotel levels, admittedly, but not value for money by any stretch of the imagination. Mind you, I think it was the diet coke that really pushed this round over the edge.

Oh and by the way, one brief piece of advice for the Island bar. Anyone can actually purchase a bottle of Stella, from virtually any shop, for probably under a quid. So if you’re going to have the balls to charge your customers £4 a go to drink it in a cross between a works canteen and a furniture showroom, then at least make sure that it’s bloody COLD.

Enough of this pristine, polished, imitation of a bar. We had fresh new recruits to our Tubeway Army, we were drawing ever closer to our final destination, and we had already been through far too much (beer) to spend a minute longer in a place like this.

The City of Quebec (Marble Arch) 2 x ½ Aspalls Cider, 5 x ½ Stella, 1 x Diet Coke £15.16

On to the second pub of the day with “City” in the name, and this time it was even spelled right. And what a sight there was to greet us as we turned into the side street where it was located. There was a small outside seating area which to all intents and purposes had been invaded and conquered by the population of St Albans.

Ah, welcome to the quest, one and all. There were previous crusaders like Hazel and Dave Victory; we had Denise, Trina and Andre fresh from Ladies’ Day; there were gallant newcomers such as White Lion regulars Nick, Chris, Andy and Alan; and of course there were our supportive, understanding and extremely patient wives, Sue and Liz.  It was of course a wonderful moment, but hand shaking, kissing, hugging and excessive high fiving were in danger of seriously delaying proceeds, so we extracted ourselves from the melee as soon as we could and headed for the bar.

An ordinary but not unpleasant bar, it has to be said. The room was long and thin like a bowling alley with black glass chandeliers down one side, and obnoxious wallpaper down the other. There was more than a hint of All Bar One uniformity about the back bar, but on the plus side everyone was very pleasant to us as we rushed through the purchase and consumption of our beer and cider selection.

As we supped up and made ready to leave we got not one but two toilet reviews – firstly from Shirt, who informed us that the Gents were “nice and clean, but there were brooms in the corner, and that’s a no-no”, and then secondly from Hazel, who proceeded to tell us that the Ladies’ only had saloon doors on the cubicles, and so “if you got down on your hands and knees, you could probably see everything.” Quite.

INTERLUDE: Essential Pub Conversations Number 20 – What is the Ultimate Soundtrack to The Tracks of my Beers?

Fittingly for the last of our essential discussions, this had originally been mooted in the very early stages of our marathon, and brought up on several different occasions during our days out. Towards the end of the quest, it had even gone online, with readers of the blog contributing suggestions with some relish. In fact, special mention must go to Darryl, an old mate with a feverish imagination, who enthusiastically supplied no less than twenty different suggestions of varying degrees of absurdity, and who signed off his e-mail with the immortal words “Do I win £5?” To which the answer would of course be yes. If there were any justice, that is.

Anyway, back to the conversation itself. The premise was simple. What music would be best suited to a task as monumental and arduous as the one we had embarked upon? You could argue that all manner of marching music would help us whilst heading to and from pubs; that any sort of inspirational, classical powerhouse pieces would keep us motivated; or that some Cafe Del Mar style chillout sounds would keep us calm whilst crammed into busy tube carriages.

But no. What we really needed to aim for was one of those crap lists that you tend to see in all the wrong newspapers when paying tribute to a funny story. We wanted sub-tabloid standard puns, lame jokes, and the truly awful manipulation of any words that almost sound the same as ones relevant to our tale. We are talking London, we are talking trains and transport, and we are talking shameless riffs on tube station names.  In fact, we are talking the kind of thing that would make the title “Tracks of my Beers” look like a work of poetic genius.

No simple top ten for us here, the nominations were too numerous and the categories to diverse. Ladies and gentlemen, should you find yourselves on a challenging, mentally and physically exhausting transport based marathon, with only an i-pod for company and the promise of regular booze stops keeping you moving, may we humbly suggest that you rock out to some, none, or all of these beautiful tunes:

General/Obvious:

Down in the Tube Station at Midnight – The Jam

Going Underground – The Jam

Tube Snake Boogie – ZZ Top

London Calling – The Clash

Tube Station Related:

Warwick Avenue – Duffy

Victoria – The Kinks

Waterloo – Abba

Angel – Aerosmith

Mile End – Pulp

The Only Living Boy in New Cross – Carter USM

London Bridge – Fergie

Thieves in the Temple – Prince

Guns of Brixton – The Clash

Waterloo Sunset – The Kinks

Er, The Grange Hill Theme tune?

Tenuous and Perhaps Slightly Obscure:

Parklife (Finsbury, Queen’s or Green) – Blur

(Clapham) Common People – Pulp

(Golder’s) Green Onions – Booker T and the MGs

(White)Chapel of Love – Dixie Cups/Ronnettes

Up the (Willesden) Junction – Squeeze

Killer Queen(sbury) – Queen

Under the (Putney) Bridge – Red Hot Chilli Peppers

Just Plain Silly:

Morden Words – Extreme

Wanstead Dead or Alive – Bon Jovi

Leyton Sally – Eric Clapton

Bar-Bar-Bar, Bar-Bar-bi-can – The Beach Boys

Hammersmith to Fall – Queen

Shepherd’s Bush City Limits – Tina Turner

The Green, Green Park of Home – Tom Jones

Theydon Bois, Bois, Bois – Sinitta

Lay Leyton Lay – Bob Dylan

Wouldn’t it be Good-ge Street – Nik Kershaw

The Pinner Takes it All – Abba

It’s All Oval Now – The Rolling Stones

Mudchute The Runner – Kasabian.

Seriously, the hacks at the Daily Star can only dream of coming up with quality like that.

Dawn. A light mist hangs in the air and the ground is wet with dew, confirming to early risers that autumn is truly on its way. Russet leaves flutter down from the barely dressed trees and the sound of trilling birdsong provides a glorious soundtrack to what is a potentially momentous day in the history of London pubs.

Several hours later, we dragged ourselves from our respective pits and prepared to embark on our final triumphant parade. The culmination of a year-long obsession with public transport and beer. An odyssey that had taken us the length and breadth of our nation’s great Capital, into some truly memorable establishments, and, if we’re honest, many more that we were fairly desperate to forget.

Many who had been on parts of this journey with us were keen to see it through the last day – should we make it all the way, we knew we would see many of them at the end, joining us to raise a triumphant glass to the glory of a testing, time consuming and magnificently trivial quest. The run in we had picked was fairly simple (except for a tricky start), with only ten or so pit stops on our route. This would hopefully allow us to revel in the achievement even more, as we cruised home happily.

London seemed blissfully unaware of the incredible events unfolding within its borders today.

Ye Olde Green Man (Moor Park) ½ Becks, ½ Wainwright, ½ Spitfire, ½ Wizards Wonder £5.30

The first stage for us was Moor Park – The Return. Only a few days ago myself and Keith had been forced to give up on this station on the grounds of lack of time, and the fact that the local golf club was very private and very closed. We knew that Ye Olde Green Man was almost a mile away from the station, and luckily we were able to call on the ever reliable Mrs West to give us a lift to the starting point so we only had to make the journey one way.

Joining us from the start of this final stage were my brother Gareth West, already a three time T.O.M.B All-Star, and Shirt, who had taken his first drink from the Tracks trough in early September, and was clearly keen to slake his thirst once more.

In a truly unremarkable start to the day, we found that Ye Olde Green Man was a giant Ember Inn – huge but curiously dull, a bit like Bluewater shopping centre. It was a proper destination pub, with a large car park and garden area, and lots of exposed wood inside. To be fair to them they had some interesting ales on which were in pretty good condition given that we were the first customers through the door. Other than that the whole thing had faintly chainey feel, an impression that was compounded when the barmaid confessed to us that it was company policy to put the pub fire on permanently from 1^st October each year.  This conversation was bought about because I was irrationally enraged by the aforementioned blaze – the smell of a pub fire is a great one, but given that we had had a bit of an Indian summer, for me it was just a bit too much like admitting it was autumn.

No time to dally however. We finished our drinks and got set to tackle the daunting walk to Moor Park station – a seemingly simple part of the quest which nevertheless turned into a 40 minute farce as we collectively failed our cub scout orienteering badges. Having failed to bring the map print-out with us, we proceeded to take wrong turns on three different occasions; failed to flag down any cars to help us; had a lady point us in the right direction, only to then chase us down the street and say she had accidentally pointed us towards Northwood station; and asked one local-looking fella if he knew the way, only for him to confess that he had been about to ask us the same thing. Eventually after trudging for an eternity through the Moor Park housing estate looking at the huge houses and their almost certainly unnecessary fleets of 4×4 cars, we found our destination.

Still, one of the beautiful things about our mission was that no matter how hideous the walk was, when you finally did make it to the station it was only ever one stop before you were heading out to the next pub. Except this time we were going to Old Street, most of the way across London, and at least 12 stops and two line changes away. Bugger.

The Nelson’s Retreat (Old Street) 2 x ½ Landlord, 1 x bt Peroni, ½ Becks £9.70

Nearly one and a half hours into the final day and we had covered a magnificent total of one station and one pub. Not an auspicious start to the “triumphant parade”. We were due to be joined at Old Street by Liam, another T.O.M.B All-Star, who had very sensibly decided that he couldn’t be arsed to go all the way out to Moor Park. Perhaps he had foreseen the trials we would encounter.

So what sort of establishment would await us after such a long journey? What could we expect from one of the trendier parts of London, renowned for being a good night out?

An absolute shocker of a pub, that’s what.

The Nelson’s Retreat is no more than 50 yards from Old Street station, which is a shame because there are at least a dozen, infinitely better pubs no more than 100 or so yards further on. But, as always, we only needed the closest, so we settled down into a shabby pub with an excess of wood panelling and a lack of remotely pleasant bar staff.  The ale was as grotty as the decor and the fact that the “Thai Kitchen” appeared to be a small box built at one end of the bar did nothing to recommend the food to us.

I could wax on at length about the pungent toilets, the dirty glassware and the barely concealed animosity from the bar staff and locals alike, but it’s the last day, so just trust us – Don’t go there. Ever. Just walk past until you reach the next pub, ok?

INTERLUDE: Essential Pub Conversations Number 19 – What are the conversations that just didn’t cut the mustard?

As we edged ever closer to the final finish line on our marathon, we took the opportunity to review some of our notes and look at some of the stuff that hadn’t made it into the blog. As is ever the case on a journey of this size there were a myriad of potentially world changing conversations that fizzled out because of lack of time, lack of knowledge, or simply because we got a bit bored.

Perhaps we should revisit these in future, perhaps it is our duty to finish what we started, and there may yet be incredible revelations to come out of these partly formed discussions. On the other hand, maybe some of them just weren’t very good in the first place, or maybe some things are just better left unsaid.

Ladies and gentlemen, may we present the “Unfinished Business” selection of Essential Pub Conversations that just didn’t make the grade:

Who or What are the biggest Sell-Outs of all time?

Started after seeing the latest Iggy Pop/Swift Car Insurance poster at a bus stop. There didn’t seem to be much debate after that.

What are the greatest Biopics of all time?

Back in to our usual film territory, it soon became obvious that this was just going to be a short list of single name films (Gandhi, Patton, Ray, Ali etc). I think we gave up when someone tried to counter this trend by voting for Dennis Quaid’s wild overacting in Great Balls of Fire.

Who were the Greatest Leaders in History?

We suspect that this previously mentioned conversation could and should have gone the distance, if only for the opportunity to compare the leadership styles of Margaret Thatcher and Hitler. Special mentions too for Owain Glindwr (we were amongst Welsh People after all), a slightly informal call for “Bill the Conqueror”, and of course not forgetting the Team America version of Kim Jong-Il.

What are the most iconic sporting images ever?

Casually cast aside because it was all just too obvious. Ali standing over Liston, 1968 Olympic Black Power salute, Pele and Bobby Moore, The Hand of God, and so on. The whole thing probably only took ten minutes.

What are the most underrated films of all time?

Back to the movies yet again, there were some interesting early choices there (Memento, Snatch, The Princess Bride, and, er, The Last Valley). Unfortunately the whole thing descended into farce when a vicious argument broke out about The Shawshank Redemption – namely that whilst it did terribly at the box office, can you really call a film underrated when it was nominated for a best picture Oscar and regularly tops polls of all time favourites? Yes, we really are that sad.

What are the most memorable music/band symbols ever?

This was supposed to be a partner conversation to the album covers argument. However, once we got past The Stones’ lips, Iron Maiden’s Eddie, Pink Floyd’s pig, and ZZ Top’s Ford Eliminator, we quickly ran out of steam. Michael Jackson’s one white glove? Oh, for God’s sake.

What are the moments in history that changed the world?

This one was abandoned because it just wasn’t important enough. Ok, maybe that’s not true, the problem was that we were obviously in a massive hurry, and the whole thing was kind of ruined by the embarrassing semi-shorthand I was using to take notes.  The result was some of the more incredible events in history being recorded with words such as “Boston Teas”, “H8 and the monasteries”, the succinct, if mildly offensive “Nailing JC up”, and the utterly brilliant “Erica Roe – Twickers”. Momentous indeed. You could even say huge.

The Red House (Croxley Green) 2 x ½ Ruddle’s Best £2.50

As we tore ourselves away from the pub quiz and on to Moor Park, we considered the task ahead. We were looking for Stanley Lodge golf club to see if we could get a beer, since our research was telling us that the nearest pub was over a mile away.  When we arrived at the station there followed one of those moments of blind panic as we tried to work out which way to go from the entrance. In desperation, we asked a sensible looking local, who quite reasonably suggested that we follow the direction indicated on the large “Sandy Lodge this way” sign that was virtually in front of us. Alright fella, don’t be smug about it.

Full of renewed vigour, we followed the indicated direction, only to very shortly be confronted by a small and unwelcoming looking clubhouse wreathed in absolute darkness. Bugger. It also had signs all over it declaring it a private club, which meant that try as we might, we couldn’t in good conscience allow it as a venue under the stringent TOMB rules.

“Looks we’ve got a new starting point on the final day”, admitted Keith, looking forward to yet another trek.

Slightly deflated, we decided we had to press on to Croxley Green, where we headed for the Red House – a pub we had already viewed a couple of times from the mobile showroom that is the 724 bus which, we had decided, looked pretty good.

Appearances can of course be deceiving.

It was a Greene King pub, and despite the external promise it was a fairly dull and listless affair inside, which is a description which could be equally applied to the beer we had.  There were a couple of pool tables and a dart board in the room, along with various big screens showing nothing of interest whatsoever.

The strangest part was, there was obviously another larger part of the pub on the other side of the bar with a sign adorning the closed partition saying “Restaurant – No Smoking”. Odd given that surely there is no smoking anywhere in the pub since the ban a few years back. And even odder because the area didn’t even remotely look like a restaurant.  The final nail in the coffin for the Red House as far as we were concerned was the state of the loos, which were small and dirty, and as Keith reported, had “3 urinals, one of which was blocked and full of horribly pungent wee. Somebody really isn’t well.” Indeed.

The Horns (Watford) 2 x Pints Bombardier, 1 x large glass of Merlot £10.75

It had only in reality been a half day, but given the distances covered and the diversity of the drinking holes tonight, it felt like it had taken a lifetime.  And just to ensure that we didn’t feel too comfortable at the end, we were presented with the joy of Watford tube station, a place thoroughly embedded into the heart of suburbia, where if you don’t know where you are going it could be dawn by the time you actually find anything resembling a pub.

Fortunately we had actually anticipated this for once, and had conducted some thorough research into where we could actually go – even to the extent of measuring distances on a map of the area.  We had about half an hour to go before last orders, and we were headed for The Horns, an almost legendary music pub on the other side of Cassiobury Park.

Cut to ten minutes later, two men stood outside the doors of The Horns, hands on heads, anguish etched into their faces at the prospect of another crushing defeat when so close to the finish line. Our extensive research had of course completely failed to take into account the fact that because The Horns was a proper music pub, they had gigs on every night and usually charged an entry fee. 8 bastard pounds in fact – a disaster considering our stringent rules in this area.

We had two choices – find another pub equally close by in the next 6 minutes, or work some magic and blag our way in. It’s at testing times like these that you see the true measure of a man, and so naturally I just went into full on sulk mode, virtually stamping my feet in frustration and muttering things like “What are we doing here anyway? Bloody Watford’s not even in London.”

Keith on the other hand was all the while chatting quietly to the monster on the door – a man who looked like rather than going through all the trauma of being born and growing up, had simply been carved out of rock and provided with the bare minimum required to operate as a human being.

No chance, I thought. And yet, with a patience that belied the pressure of the ticking clock, Keith continued to gently cajole and encourage the beast before him. It was rather like Robert Redford in The Horse Whisperer – if Robert Redford was a Welshman in all terrain shoes, and the horse wore a bomber jacket and an earpiece.  Eventually (I think I was grumpily inspecting my nails at this point), a rather glam lady appeared and had a quick chat with my learned friend, before giving him a smile and a wink, and then issuing a nod to her giant doorman.

“What the hell was that about?” was all I could manage in a slightly incredulous tone.

“Well I told her what we were doing and why, and she thought it was funny. She said we could come in as long as we bought her a drink”

Freshly euphoric in the wake of this prime blagging display, we bowled into the pub and took our places at the bar, purchasing the traditional end-of-night pints for ourselves and an impressively expensive glass of merlot for the landlady. She was never going to have a half of mild I suppose.

So shabby were my notes at this stage, I have no idea who the band were that were playing. Suffice to say they were a fairly tidy if generic rock covers band, and we settled in to soak up an intensified atmosphere of nostalgia.  The pub itself is great by the way, as long as you like this sort of thing – a big old barn of a room with plenty of bar access, a stage in the corner and a hugely impressive sound system.  We chinked glasses in acknowledgement of just how close we were getting to the end of our quest. The penultimate day was finally complete, and a number of logistical banana skins had been successfully avoided.  Then we turned to the much more important game of trying to guess which rock cover would come next on the set list.

We knew it was going to be Bryan Adams. All together now – “I got my first real six string…bought it at the five and dime….”

Another station, another Wetherspoons. You can’t escape them for long, it would seem. Although, I have to say it did feel like a very long time getting from the heart of the city back out to the wilds of Northwood Hills on the Metropolitan line. 

Ah, Northwood Hills, the beautiful, enticing suburban paradise that gleefully welcomes its visitors by presenting them with a large knife-amnesty bin as they emerge nervously from the station entrance.

On this occasion the Tracks Twosome emerged nervously from the station only to be immediately soothed by the unmistakeable smell of another JDW curry night. I can only assume that it must be something genetic, but it definitely seems that as long as more than approximately 500mls of beer has been drunk, the smell of curry – any curry – immediately entices any normal British male into a bout of extreme salivation that would have Pavlov’s dogs looking away in embarrassment.

We wiped our chins and followed our noses through the door to be confronted by the usual – a by-the-numbers Wetherspoons that we feel like we’ve described dozens of times before. Still, once again they did have a fairly decent range of ales available from the usual suspects like Pedigree to the more unusual guests like Doc Dimsdale from the Tring Brewery. Pretty bloody cheap as well – not quite Swiss Cottage/Sam Smith’s levels, but certainly cheaper than the city Wetherspoons we were in earlier. In fact further evidence of the difference between big city bonuses and suburban thrift came in the shape of the branded spirits on offer – Keith pointed out that you could double up your vodka or gin for only a quid in Northwood Hills, but in the heart of the square mile it was a whole 50p more. More money than sense, those bankers.

INTERLUDE: Essential Pub Conversations Number 18 – What are the worst attempted accents in film history?

This particular one has been raging ever since Al Jolson opened his mouth in 1927 and told us that “you ain’t seen nothin’ yet” Apparently the local film critic immediately accused him of “not sounding convincingly Jewish or black.”

And so, the debate has raged through the ages, through all genres of film whenever someone who grew up in Kent has to play a Russian crime boss or someone from Uptown New York attempts to portray someone from Downtown Newcastle. 

Sometimes, there is just no excuse. Film stars get paid millions of dollars and yet regularly perpetrate crimes of such shocking aural ineptitude that they would be immediately fired were it any other profession. We strongly felt it was time for some of them to be named and shamed, and we did just that, in an epic pub conversation that last throughout this day and into the next one. The objective was clear – who are the stars who have either consistently offended with various attempts at regionality and nationality, or alternatively have produced a singular performance so completely heinous that they should be barred from being in front of camera altogether.

Enough preamble: Let’s get to the list.

Honourable mentions: Oh God, there were so many. The most common offenders were attempting either an Irish accent and failing miserably (e.g. Julia Roberts in Mary Shelley; Mickey Rourke in a Prayer for the Dying; Tom Cruise in Far and Away), or were Brits attempting American (Ewan Macgregor in Black Hawk Down, Michael Caine in The Cider House Rules, Bob Hoskins in Who Framed Roger Rabbit) or, worst of all, Americans attempting English or Scottish (several of whom made it onto the list below, but let’s not forget the likes of Heather Graham in From Hell, and, of course, Mel Gibson in Braveheart).

However, the final ten we went for consisted of these powerhouse performances:

John Wayne – The Greatest Story Ever Told: I suppose we should have put The Duke in for Genghis Khan in The Conqueror (not knowing how ancient Mongol sounded, he just didn’t bother). However, urban myth demands that he get in for “Centurion at crucifixion” in TGSET for managing to sound like he was fightin’ injuns whilst talking about Jesus himself. The legend has it that at take one, John puts on his best American drawl to deliver his line “Truly this man is the son of God.”  After a short pause, George Stevens, the Director, says “Great John, but can we do it one more time? I need you to put a little more awe into it. This is Our Lord Jesus Christ after all.” With a nod from the big man, everyone resets for take two. Action: “Awwwwww, truly this man is the son of God” Fact.

Mickey Rooney – Breakfast at Tiffany’s: Hugely miscast as the Japanese neighbour, comically bad, and potentially a little bit racist, it’s the worst thing in the film (even worse than George Peppard’s hair). “Horry Gorightry! Horry Gorightry!”

Patsy Kensit – Lethal Weapon 2. “He’s har-ding bear-hind hes deep-lo-martick cred-enshells esnt hee?” Worst Seth Efrikaan accent in history.

Christopher Lambert - in anything, but with particular reference to Highlander (Scottish/American/French) and The Sicilian (One of a very long list of terrible things about that film). In fact, his best role by far was Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, mainly because it consisted of him only having to grunt for two hours.

Dick Van Dyke – Mary Poppins. The absolute granddaddy of all crap cockernee accents, so famous and so terrible it has almost become revered over the years. Clearly the inspiration for Don Cheadle.

Don Cheadle – Ocean’s Eleven (and Twelve, and Thirteen). See above. “Baaarney Rubble!”

Christian Slater – Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. To be fair this could equally have gone to Costner. Gather the merry men, and let’s go fight the Sheriff of Nodding-ham

Brad Pitt – Devil’s Own. Atrocious “oirish” which just about righted itself by the time he came to make Snatch. Just.

Keanu Reeves – Bram Stoker’s Dracula. This one was just all kinds of shit. Scarier than Gary Oldman in the title role, and so wooden that Winona Ryder got splinters. Ted Theodore Logan would be ashamed.

Champion of Champions – Sean Connery, for multiple offences.  We don’t always have an actual number one of course, but in this case we decided we should make an exception. It’s a controversial choice, because they are not technically the absolute worst accents in history. Our man wins on the sheer audacity of it all -the fact that with all of the Nationalities in question he doesn’t even attempt anything even approaching an authentic accent. Why bother, eh when you can get paid quarter of a million for doing four lines at the end of the aforementioned Robin Hood?

As a result you get – a King of England, with a Scottish accent; a 2,437 year old Egyptian/Spaniard (Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez!), with a Scottish accent; a rebellious Russian submarine commander, with a Scottish accent; and (get this) an Oscar winning role as an Irish-American cop – with a Shcottish accent. Thatsh the Connery Way. Well done Sean.

The Misty Moon (Northwood) 2 x ½ Timothy Taylor Golden Best £2.60

Another station, another Wetherspoons. Wait, have we said that already? You really can’t escape them.

Having said that, the immediate difference between The Misty Moon and our other JDW visits today was that this one didn’t have the usual Thursday night curry night going on, but had instead gone for the Thursday Night Pub Quiz option. A feat they were attempting, I might add, with the aid of an amplifier that would have been dwarfed by your average 1980s Sony Walkman.  It was making a fair amount of noise, however, managing to successfully convey the dulcet tones of the resident quiz mistress successfully around the room. The fact that she looked quite a lot like Catherine Tate was only mildly spoilt by the fact that she didn’t sound anything like Catherine Tate. Can’t have it all, I guess.

Bless her, she had to pause at one point, because it seemed that the mini-me amp had stopped working, and needed some repair – a repair that was immediately attempted by a large fellow with long hair and a monkey wrench that was bigger than the speaker he was trying to fix. I don’t think he even turned the plug off as he worked, adding an extra frisson of potential danger to the whole proceedings.

Apart from this quiztastic point of difference, it was another very ordinary pub. Although, it obviously gets much posher as you come down out of The Hills and into Northwood itself, as the best bitter in here was an almost astronomical £2.60. That’s premium as far as these pubs go, but we didn’t have time to stand around and argue prices with Ms Tate – the night was drawing on and we had three more pubs to hit before we were done. It was time to go in search of a golf club…

West Green Tavern (Seven Sisters) 2 x ½ Strongbow £3.00

Round the corner and up the road from Seven Sisters was where we headed next, as abeerintheevening.com guided us unerringly to the West Green Tavern – a comfortable looking boozer with an impressive range of bottled beers and an easygoing African/Caribbean vibe. There was Dragon Stout and Supermalt, Tusker and Nile Lager, Wray and Nephew Overproof on the back shelf and posters on the wall advertising the 47^th Ugandan Independence Celebration Party. As usual, of course we were forced to plump for Strongbow as there was no real ale on.

The room itself was fairly sparse, a big square space with 3 big screens around the walls and a pool table in the middle.  There were some fairly serious looking speakers ranged around the floor – clearly considered more useful than actual chairs. Everyone was very friendly and happy except for the pub oddball who was sat at the bar muttering incoherently at his phone (rather than into it), whilst simultaneously fiddling with one of those giant rolls of blue kitchen towel. We decided to leave him to it and instead turned our attention to the TVs. Unfortunately they were all showing the build up to an Everton Europa League game, so we quickly turned away again.

One more thing – there was another poster on the wall giving a “What’s On” type rundown, and calling it the West Green Tavern Pub. Which is surely a bit like calling your local peak “Mount Mountain”, or driving around in a “Car vehicle”

The Green Man (Bank) ½ Bear Ass, ½ Otter Amber £2.36

It’s always a nightmare trying to fight your way out of Bank tube station at anytime even close to rush hour. No matter which line you are using you always seem to have to walk for bloody miles to find daylight, ducking weaving and bulldozing your way through the pin-stripe traffic every step of the way.

What you really need after all this effort is to find yourself a JD Wetherspoons, and we were just super lucky at this time. To be fair, it was properly buzzing, with plenty of city types discussing global financial meltdown over a bottle of Gallo’s finest pink plonk. True to JDW form it was a barn of a place as well, making it even more impressive that they had managed to fill it this early on a Thursday.  Perhaps they were all drawn in by the unmistakeable smell of Madras as the pub prepared for its weekly Curry night (“Curry and a pint – £5.99!”).  That or the city work ethic was taking its toll and they had come down to take advantage of the large Smirnoff and insanely large can of “Monster” energy that could be snaffled for a bargain £5.40. Jesus.

We of course were impressed by the fact that the oversized bar had no less than 12 hand pumps ranged across it, although we were subsequently disappointed to find that only 7 of them actually had any beer coming through.  Nevertheless it was an eye catching range, and we contented ourselves with making stupid jokes about the beer we had ordered:

“This is the first time I’ve had a Bear Ass in London” for example, or “My Bear Ass has a lovely smell”, and the even less subtle “Please miss, may I just try your Bear Ass?” Somehow the barmaid managed to keep a straight face on that one as she told us that she had honestly never heard anyone say it before.

Dion (St Paul’s) 1 x bt Bulmer’s, 1 x Gin and Tonic £11.75

We emerged into the semi darkness, lit only by the dramatically illuminated dome of St Pauls Cathedral, and the headlights of the 300 or so cars stuck in a traffic jam on Newgate Street. As a profound relief, for the second station in a row we were blessed with proximity, as it was only a short stumble round the corner to Dion, a very City of London type wine bar in the shadow of Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece.

There were lots of City of London wine bar types in there too, giving the place a pleasant, if slightly smug, buzz. They had very smiley staff, presumably to make you feel better about the price of the drinks. Although, at least they had Bombay Sapphire as their pouring gin.  The room was clean and tidy, formulaic in places, but with strangely mesmerising chandeliers made out of red champagne glasses.

A tantalizing looking plate of scallops wafted past our eyes, on its way to a table of power dressed folks already ploughing their way through a couple of bottles of something chilled and expensive. If you didn’t fancy the food or wine you could always content yourself with the cocktails on offer using any one of the hundreds of spirits arranged across an unnecessarily large back bar – Keith had mentioned that he was disappointed by the overall lack of Rum in the Western Park Tavern, and that was obviously because Dion had stolen it all. Still, everybody behind the bar looked like they could confidently handle a highball, a cocktail shaker and a muddling spoon.

Despite the fab looking food and gleaming spirit bottles however, it still felt like there was something missing from this place. In truth there are any number of city wine bars that do pretty much the same thing to an equal or more impressive level and Dion just didn’t particularly stand out. That’s what you get for naming your bar after a scary, turkey-necked, chart-bothering French-Canadian diva, I guess.

The Ferry Boat Inn (Tottenham Hale) ½ Amstel, ½ Batemans XXXB £2.80

Of course we were less concerned about the long walk to the Palmerston at the last station, because we knew that the next pub was no more than fifty yards away from Tottenham Hale station. Except it wasn’t. Indeed, for the second station in a row the pub that we thought we were visiting was gone. Kaputt. Closed. Brilliant.

It also turned out that – predictably – on this occasion we didn’t have anything else on our usually exhaustive research, so frankly we didn’t have a clue what to do. We eventually resorted to accosting the locals and asking them where the nearest pub was, and fantastically almost nobody had any idea where to send us. How can a dozen different locals not know where the closest boozer is? Either that or they were just desperate to get away from the two weirdoes who were so clearly in need of their next alcohol fix. Eventually we wandered into the local Pizza Hut and found an unlikely saviour in the shape of the waitress there, who told us that we needed to walk back towards Blackhorse Lane and find The Ferry Boat. Christ, it was bloody miles – almost halfway back to Blackhorse Lane.

The pub was called the Ferry Boat but the nearest stretch of water was the Tottenham Lock canal, which appeared to be just about as rank a piece of water as you could hope to find. I made a pea soup at home once, and it looked quite a lot like that, if you chucked in extra surface scum and old shopping trolleys.

Luckily the pub itself was a slightly more polished affair – very clean wooden beams, tidy looking chalkboards, and tiny clipboards presenting the days specials. It was all clean and tidy and the beer tasted good, although it’s always sad to see five hand pumps with only 2 taps being used, and for God’s sake can pubs stop offering “cask wine” when it is blatantly bag-in-box hiding behind a bit of Formica.

We turned our eyes back to the menus and miniature Specials. They were obviously pushing the food side of things in what they thought was an interesting and bohemian fashion – you don’t get pork fillet with apricots and thyme just anywhere you know. One of the aforementioned blackboards even had a list of herbal teas on it. They then took this eccentricity to a new level by offering “Soup of the Day – Goulash”. Soup? Seriously? Now I’m all for chunky soups, but surely someone needs to stop this madness and publish a clear differentiation between soups and stews. And broths and casseroles for that matter.

INTERLUDE: Essential Pub Conversations Number 17 – What are the most recognizable album covers of all time?

So many people, so many opinions. That’s how it had been for most of our recent days out, and whilst it made for stimulating debate and a broad spectrum of knowledge/bias/insanity, we decided to take the opportunity to go back to basics: It was time to pick a monumentally important subject and produce a definitive work based on nothing more than the highly partisan opinions of two drinkers of a certain age. It had to be back to music then – as fine upstanding fans of “proper” music, we were bound to give a balanced, up to date view on the subject in general.

We had been chatting on several previous occasions about our favourite albums of all time, which – given our earlier work on fantasy rock bands – would have been far too mundane a subject to consider for this mission. Instead, we turned our attention to the visuals. What are those albums that you immediately know, just from seeing the picture on the cover – the iconic images that are instantly recognizable by young and old alike (or in this case, old before our time).

Any rules on this one? Yeah go on then, let’s make it look like we spent some serious time thinking about it, and simultaneously kick out a whole load of obvious choices:

1. No band members – If the album has the faces of the band on it, then it becomes obvious who the artist is. This unfortunately means there is no room for virtually any of The Beatles or Bowie back catalogue (otherwise Sgt Pepper and Abbey Road would surely be up there), and also pushes out Appetite for Destruction by Guns and Roses (a close call given that it is actually only cartoon skulls of their faces).

2. No writing – at least not if it is the only thing on the album cover (which immediately disqualifies “Never Mind the Bollocks”)

3. No nudity – actually this wasn’t a rule at all. We just wanted to make sure there was no room for “Two Virgins” by John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Eugh.

So where did we end up? Well, in the end, it seems that we are indeed old farts. Either that or everybody forgot how to do album artwork after about 1982. In no particular order (as usual), our very own, hugely debated, top ten most recognizable album covers were:

1. Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon – in truth we were tempted by several Floyd titles (The Wall, Wish You Were Here, Atom Heart Mother) but we had to go for the most iconic. You know the one – black cover? Prism? About 200 squillion copies sold? Thought so.

2. The Rolling Stones, Sticky Fingers – it was by Andy Warhol, so it must be cool. It’s got a working zip and everything!

3. Dire Straits, Brothers in Arms – Middle of the road Dadrock it may be, but everyone has a copy of “the one with the steel guitar on.”

4. The Clash, London Calling – Awesome in every way. Iconic instrument abuse.

5. Nirvana, Nevermind – “Baby in swimming pool”. What do you mean this was in the nineties?

6. The Velvet Underground and Nico – “What was that one with the banana on it? Everyone remembers that one.” Bloody Warhol again.

7. The Eagles, Hotel California – “Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light.” Namely a picture of The Beverley Hills Hotel at sunset.

8. Meatloaf, Bat Out of Hell – After approximately 300 years in the worldwide album chart it is impossible not to remember the one with, er, a bat coming out of hell on a motorbike.

9. Led Zeppelin IV – It qualifies as long as the bloke with sticks on his back isn’t actually Jimmy Page in a comedy beard.

10. The Prodigy, The Fat of the Land – See, we do like modern music too! What do you mean you don’t remember it? The colourful crab? On the beach? Oh for God’s sake….

Honourable mentions were almost too numerous – which is probably why it took us so long to reach the final ten. They included: Blur, Parklife; REM, Automatic for the People; Primal Scream, Screamadelica; Mike Oldfield, Tubular Bells; U2, War; ZZ Top, Eliminator; Supertramp, Breakfast in America; Bruce Springsteen, Born in the USA;  and of course not forgetting Spinal Tap, Smell the Glove, “You have to ask, how much more black can you get? And the answer is none. None more black.”

Oh and by the way, the most embarrassing looking album covers of all time are all by furry booted-hairspray-crap-metal band Manowar. Trust us, they all look like a fourteen year old Dungeons and Dragons fan’s wet dream. Shouldn’t ever see the light of day.

We had of course known for some time that we might have to find a half day if we were going to make our desired finish on 3^rd October.  There were still a couple of stragglers on the Central Line that hadn’t been visited yet, whilst fast trains and idiocy had put paid to a few more of the stations on the Metropolitan Line. Finally, line closures had forced us to miss the stations at the top of the Victoria Line, and it would make sense to pick them up to take the pressure off on the final day. In fact, line closures had become something of an issue in our recent attempts at planning the final legs. At the start of September, Keith printed off a “disruptions” page from the Transport For London website which showed that there were no less than 35 line, part-line, or station closures during the month, the vast majority of which were taking place at weekends. Ah.

Still, we knew this was never going to be easy and that immortality surely always comes with a price. There was nothing for it but to gird our loins and stride manfully on. Under urgent discussion (in the White Lion, obviously) Keith and I decided that we needed to find a suitable evening where we could meet up and pick off these most irksome of unconquered pubs and lines. Eventually, a space was found in our high octane schedules (remarkably, we both still have day jobs you know), and we decided that starting up in Walthamstow – home of dog racing and dodgy boy bands with a talent for running themselves over – would be the place to start our mini-mission.  The day duly arrived (a Thursday no less), and on September 24th we emerged blinking into the early evening sunshine outside the station in the heart of East 17.  Unlike Brian, Tony and,er, the other ones, however, we had no time to “Stay Another Day” (sorry) – we had no more than a few hours to complete this curious and disjointed leg of our journey.

The Goose (Walthamstow) 1 x Pint Bombardier, 1 x bt Corona £4.35

We began in the auspicious surroundings of The Goose, part of a dreary chain that has lofty aspirations to one day maybe be a bit like JD Wetherspoons. Keith had actually arrived about ten minute before me, which clearly gave him the right to nurse a full pint as a starter for ten, whilst I, as the “latecomer” was restricted to a bottle for the purposes of “speed”. He’s a strict timekeeper, Lewis. 

The first thing that struck us about the Goose was how relentlessly ordinary it was. Probably quite an old pub, it had been modernized into that bog standard modern drinking hole mould – lots of sensible colours on the walls, 3 big screen TVs, raised seating areas with a variety of bland furniture and not one, not two, but three types of flooring to keep you interested. Wooden floorboards? Check. Area with crazy tiling? Sure. Hallucination-inducing patterned carpet? You bet.

The second thing that struck us was how desperate for customers these chains must be, as there was some sort of offer in  every direction you looked. These ranged from the quite enticing – Bombardier at £1.99 a pint – to the downright suspicious – “Glass of wine 99p!”. Seriously, how good can that wine be? You wouldn’t know whether to drink it or pour it into your car engine. They also had the ubiquitous Curry Night promo “Curry and a Pint £4.99”, a meal deal for “2 courses at £3.99”, and finally, if you felt the need to get leathered quickly and cheaply you could dive into the “Double Spirit and Mixer, £2.59”.

So, thinking about it, that’s five pints of Bombardier, a two course meal and a couple of large Gin and Tonics to finish off, all for less than twenty quid. Maybe there’s something in this after all…..

The Lord Palmerston (Blackhorse Lane) 2 x ½ Young’s Bitter £2.00

When we eventually found the Lord Palmerston, we saw that this was another pub that was full of super cheap offers to try and drag the punters in. I say eventually, because we initially thought we were going to the Essex Arms which the map was showing as about 200 yards away from Blackhorse Lane station. As we strolled down Forest Road however, we discovered a site which could only be described as an ex-pub. It was seriously derelict – in fact it looked like one of those scary old buildings from a cheap horror movie where one of the characters says “What the old Johnson place? Nobody’s lived there for years…”

We had already discounted our second option, The Tryst, on the grounds that it was a music venue only open Thursday-Saturday and charged you to get into their gigs (apparently you can take Salsa lessons there on a Monday though!) This left us moving towards the third option, The Lord Palmerston, which according to my meticulous research was “a bit further up the road”.

In reality it felt like about 5 miles – mainly because it was slightly uphill, I think. Fitness was still not one of our strong points on this mission, despite the distances involved.

We finally discovered a big corner boozer festooned in red and green glazed tiling and quirky stained glass on the outside, but relentlessly shabby on the inside. Plenty of space mind you, around a central bar, it was just that all that space and everything in it was fairly careworn, to put it politely.  The usual dartboard, TVs and Pool table were all present and correct, as was a couple of dejected looking locals and a rather mediocre drop of Young’s Bitter.

Of course had we been a young couple out on an East London date, we could have got acquainted with each other over the pub’s “Double Deal Thursday – Two meals and two drinks for £8.99!” Had we been regulars, we could have reaped the benefits of a Lord Palmerston Collectors Card – “Earn £££s for Points down your local! The sky’s the limit!” It looked a bit like a boozy Tesco’s Clubcard Scheme. Tempted as we were however, it seemed that you have to spend fifty quid to earn a £1.00 discount, and life is just too short to spend that much time in this place. Nice building, shame about the pub. And the walk. And the area in general.  Onwards!

Liquid Nation (Ladbroke Grove) 4 x ½ Gaymers £6.80

The Chaps Striking a Classic Pose at "IquidNatio"

There was an air of intent about our group now, something almost intangible that suggested that our lady friends had merely been warming up so far, and were preparing to go into serious party mode at any moment. We wondered if we would make it all the way through to the last pub before this storm of female hedonism broke. We thought probably not.

We had arrived at Ladbroke Grove, slap in the middle of Notting Hill, and no more than a stone’s throw from the gentrified markets of Portobello Road.  Even closer than this, however – in fact right next door to the station – we found Liquid Nation, a bar so resolutely engaged with music, it appeared to have a balcony constructed purely of old vinyl albums. Ok, that’s a slight exaggeration, but it was positively festooned with resplendent 12 inchers (good lord!), and there were other murals of old cassettes and the like around the room.

The band that were playing on the small stage opposite the bar were actually pretty good, and probably deserved a slightly larger and more attentive audience than the one our lubricated rabble offered. Still, myself and Keith immediately adopted the “music appreciation pose” where you lean against the bar, watch the band, put on your most serious face and nod almost imperceptibly in time to the music. I’m sure the boys on stage duly noted this and accepted us for the live music connoisseurs that we are.

We stuck to the cider at this point, and I suppose £3.40 a pint for Gaymers was about par for the course in this part of London.  By now of course we had no idea what the girls were drinking, only that they were doing so very noisily, and that some of the glasses seemed to contain exotic, brightly coloured liquids. By this time the band were probably getting ever so slightly embarrassed by the lack of attention being paid to them, so we gently ushered most people into the industrial, graffiti-covered outside area, where much singing, carousing, and potentially embarrassing amateur photography duly followed. In truth Liquid Nation was a pretty good bar, which should have been busier with customers who were truly appreciative of the live music on offer, but instead they got us – by this point looking increasingly like a hen night that had been gate crashed by a gent’s pub quiz team.

The Metropolitan (Westbourne Park) 3 x pint Hop Back Summer Lightning, 1 pint Amstel £13.30

The Met is a pub that I know well, having spent much time in these parts in previous years. It is right next door to Westbourne Park station (a blessed relief on this particular night, given the size of our party), and is a lovely spot for a bit of lunch, some chilled drinks in the garden, or even just as a party-tastic haven from the madness of the Notting Hill Carnival each August bank holiday.

We bowled in fresh from the delights of one live band, only to be spoilt by the prospect of yet more gig action in our very next destination. This coupled with the friendly atmosphere and our ever growing party (two more friends of Sue – Jez and Laura – had joined us at Liquid Nation, and quite frankly we were beginning to lose track), was enough to tip the excitement levels into the red zone. Time for the storm to break.

To be fair, we had been making pretty good time over the latter part of the day, and so we suggested that perhaps we should have a pint here and listen to a bit of the entertainment. This seemed to be all the invitation our lady friends needed to give in to their desperate need to party – and the talented young man who was offering the aforementioned musical entertainment was going to get the full benefit.

I wish we had noted his name down now, because he was actually very good (professional levels of journalism from the boys as always) – he basically had a guitar, a microphone, a saxophone, some effects pedals and a looping machine (clearly the correct technical term), so that he could create a pretty impressive sound all on his own by layering his instruments and his voice over the top of each other.  Most performers tend to relax more as they move through their live set, but in this instance our man was clearly looking more and more terrified as the performance continued – not due to things going wrong or adverse crowd reaction, but rather because some of the ladies from our group had clearly taken a shine to him and were dancing ever closer to him, and in a slightly more suggestive manner with each song. I say slightly suggestive, when what I actually mean is massively suggestive. Seriously, Lady Ga Ga/Madonna (delete according to age) would have blushed and looked away. You know who you are girls. Mrs Lewis, on the other hand, being entirely content with her hubby and not remotely interested in the on-stage eye candy, took another approach and decided that it was time to dance on the bar (her defence being that she had asked Gordon the manager first). Clearly an awesome time was being had by all, and the pub was rocking.

In the face of all this quality entertainment it was very easy for the two main protagonists to get distracted from the task at hand:

“Oh Christ it’s quarter to eleven!”

Brilliant work again chaps. Having stopped a bit longer in The Met because we were “making good time” (and because it is basically a brilliant pub) we were now in danger of doing a High Barnet, and failing to reach our final pub before the bell tolled and time was called.

One very quick shout around the group later, we realised that we had almost no chance of getting everyone out at the same time, or indeed of prising some of the ladies out of the Met at all (some of them may still be there to this day, having moved in and demanded the same live act every night). So, an advance party of the T.O.M.B faithful including our respective wives, Mairead, Andree, Greta and Pete made a run for it to try and find our way to Royal Oak in very short order…..

The Daniel Gooch (Royal Oak) 3 x Gin and Tonic, 1 x Tomato Juice, 3 x ½ Black Sheep, 1 x bt Corona and about 7 packets of crisps (including Monster Munch!) £25.70

Ladies Day Survivors Wait in Vain for a Bus Outside the Daniel Gooch

Approximately 14 minutes later, yours truly arrived at the bar of the Daniel Gooch, panting heavily and asking for “Three halves of Black Sheep and, er, some other stuff please”. I of course had no idea what the “other stuff” was, having bravely said that I would make a run for it to make sure we can get the drinks and why didn’t everyone else follow on, and then  having completely failed to ask what anyone else wanted. The barman didn’t care too much however; I think he just wanted to make sure I didn’t die on his carpet, as it would have definitely meant he’d be even later getting home.

He managed to just about disguise his contempt as I phoned Keith to find out what else was required.

“Are you inside already – they’re trying to charge us seven quid each!” was the first thing I heard when he answered the phone.

“What?” was about all I could manage.

“Are you already in?”

“Where the hell are you?”

Turns out they were queuing outside Cherry Jam, a club that was technically closer to Royal Oak station, but immediately disqualified under our rules, precisely because they would try and charge you seven bastard quid just to get through the front door.

Fast forward five minutes, and everyone was finally in The Daniel Gooch chinking glasses together in celebration of another day completed. The barman hadn’t even been too grumpy as I relayed the second half of the order to him from the phone – I suspect he thought that just serving us all was the path of least resistance to getting out the door at least vaguely on time. He certainly couldn’t have thought I was likely to start anything, as I was still wheezing like an asthma sufferer in a coal mine. We settled in and surveyed our surroundings – which looked for all the world like a cross between a railway arch and an 18^th century galleon. Seriously there was wood panelling everywhere.

We began to dissect the day immediately, and from our voice notes there seemed to be general and convivial agreement that it had been a fabulous ladies day, with quality support from all our guests. Then, however, we found that there was one final scandal to emerge:

We were discussing Gareth/Greta’s attempts to eat something in every pub of the day (a bold task that in fairness he stuck to manfully), and were trying to fill in the gaps. Remember the Pig and Whistle? Remember the landlord’s son that Liz took a shine to? Well, his name was Jack, and it seems that in between ridiculing my Karaoke skills with my wife, he was busy eating his tea (a growing lad needs his fuel) which consisted of a few slices of pizza. Except that after one particularly vigorous bout of wailing and pointing at me in horror, the poor, hungry lad turned round to find that his last slice of semi-Italian deliciousness was mysteriously gone. Yes folks, in shallow pursuit of T.O.M.B notoriety, Gareth Lewis, stole food from a FOUR YEAR OLD BOY.

Quite funny really.

By the way, Jack – if you ever read this, drop us a line. We’d like to apologise on behalf of Tracks Of My Beers, and if you just say the word we’ll come back to the pub via the Ladbroke Grove Domino’s to hand deliver a medium Pepperoni Passion, all for you. And I promise not to sing if that helps….

The Pig and Whistle (Latimer Road) ½ Strongbow, 2 x ½ John Smith’s Smooth, ½ Carlsberg £4.60

On we moved, ever closer to the end of the day via the Tube Station at Latimer Road. This is in North Kensington, which is just a nice way of saying that it’s the scruffy bit of town that the locals don’t want to admit is Notting Hill. From previous visits to the area, I knew that there was a pub virtually under the railway bridge, appropriately called The Station. I knew that it had large brightly lit windows, a welcoming feel, and a completely awesome beer garden.  It was also about 20 yards further from the station than the Pig and Whistle, which was a dodgy looking estate type pub with plain brickwork, few visible windows and no outside lighting whatsoever. Yet again, close but no cigar.

In we trooped, resigned to our fate, and found ourselves in a room which was not a million miles away from a cross between a working men’s club and a staff canteen.  I don’t think they’d ever seen this many lady customers in one go before.

There were a couple of bare walls, and a couple with strange art that could best be described as cartoon sports murals (it may have even been “sponsored” art, since one of them had a strange picture of a tree with a Fosters beer tap on it). There was a raised  area to one side with a pool table on it, and another smaller bit of stage near the front door where a couple of grumpy old boys were setting up a karaoke machine.

Oh dear.

It was clear that, given my history in this area, plus the fact that we were with a large number of semi-inebriated ladies, there was very little chance that we were going to get out of there without doing some singing.  As usual, it was the mischievous pairing of my wife and Mrs Lewis who put my name forward to do a turn, deciding that I should, for the second time in T.O.M.B history, share my version of Daydream Believer with the world.  Unfortunately, old bloke number one then informed me that they were having trouble with the telly, and would I mind singing it without the words? Fine, except for the fact that I only knew the first verse.

Cue the spectacle of me trying to sing to my adoring masses (well, some of them were watching, anyway), whilst simultaneously trying to lean over and let old bloke whisper the next line to me.  Still, the second half of the song is basically just the chorus repeated about a hundred times, so I could stop listening to my aged prompt and concentrate on a bit of audience participation. Everyone seemed happy to sing along apart from Liz, who was in cahoots with the landlord’s son (aged about 6 or 7, we thought) – encouraging him as he theatrically, and repeatedly, threw himself down onto the sofa clutching his ears as if in pain. There’s always a critic somewhere.

INTERLUDE: Essential Pub Conversations Number 16 – What Wonderful Things Do Girls Talk About When They Are Out On The Town?

Sex. Was it really ever in any doubt?

Given the brief about the various highbrow discussions that myself, Keith and our various guests had indulged in during our time on the Marathon, the ladies knew that they had the opportunity to insightfully dissect any number of issues that affect the modern world we live in.

Instead, what we got was a stream of lustful outpourings about every possible variety of the male form. Age, sexual orientation, rebelliousness or otherworldliness – all were metaphorically measured and undressed in the course of these enthusiastic discussions. Even our fair wives were taking part (clearly dragged unwillingly into the fray by the naughtier members of the team), and it seemed that virtually no man, bar perhaps their husbands, was safe from impure thoughts.

Therefore, whilst trying desperately not to blush too much, we bring you the sordid tale of our Ladies Day “objects of desire”, all arranged in their simple but striking categories (all of which are displayed exactly as the ladies had written them, by the way).  Be afraid men, be very afraid….

Top Ten “Silver Foxes” (or “Old men”, as Keith said)

George Clooney

Bryan Brown (off of Cocktail?)

Hugh Jackman (a bit harsh calling him a Silver Fox, I think)

Clint Eastwood

Robert Redford

Kevin Costner

Richard Gere

Trevor Eve

John Nettles (Bergerac himself!)

Samuel L Jackson

It should be pointed out that someone had actually tried to cross these last two out, so we can only assume that not everyone was a fan of Pulp Fiction and Midsomer Murders.  There was also a gracious nod to Gallic flair, as someone had written “Gerard Depardieu ½ point”.

 The ladies soon moved on to the subject of bad boys that they were irresistibly drawn to, which turned out to be an interesting bunch to say the least:

Top Ten “Wrong Uns”

 Johnny Vegas (seriously?)

Boris Johnson

John Leslie

Mickey Rourke

Eddie Izzard “if he’s wearing a dress”

Bill Beaumont (eh?)

Frankie Boyle (a suggestion from Irene Stock, who had popped in for ten minutes to say hi to the girls)

Jose Mourinho

Charlie Sheen

Martin Sheen (Have they forgotten that he is possibly the finest US President who never actually existed)

It got even stranger from here:

Top Eleven “Dead But Would Do” (I’m not kidding – that’s what was written)

Paul Newman

Steve McQueen

Patrick Swayze

Cary Grant

James Dean

JFK

Kurt Cobain

Heath Ledger

River Pheonix

Errol Flynn

Young Elvis (clearly a personal choice, as it had been scribbled in very different handwriting at the bottom of the page)

To be fair to the ladies, this particular list was born from a moving tribute to Mr Swayze who had only recently Dirty Danced off this mortal coil. I’m not sure what you can say about the next one:

Top Five “Gay, But Yes”

John Barrowman (girls, could you really handle the fact that his pillow talk would consist of singing show tunes?)

Rock Hudson (could also fit into “Dead but Would Do” of course)

Will Young

Jeremy Irons (isn’t he married to Sinead Cusack?)

Kevin Spacey (not proven!)

Surely this one was a little bit lazy ladies? You’ve got a list of five men, one of whom is dead and two of whom probably aren’t actually gay. There was even a further shock when I saw Gordon Ramsay’s name at the bottom of the page, until we realised that he was actually supposed to be in the Wrong Uns section.  Thankfully, the girls managed to redeem themselves in the eyes of men all over the country with their next list:

Top Five “Ladies I Would”

Angelina Jolie (although not Kerry, because “her lips are permanently chapped”)

Souxie Sue

Anna Friel

Mila Jovovich

Zoe Ball

Well done girls, well done.

 Just in case you thought that everything they talked about came from the gutter, our female companions finished their discussions by talking about music and films. I suspect they were playing to stereotypes with these ones a bit, but nevertheless they came up some deeply emotional stuff:

Top Ten “Songs to Cry to When Dumped”

Against All Odds – Phil Collins

All by Myself – The Sealion Dion

I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor

Hopelessly Devoted to You – Olivia Newton John

Without You – Nilsson

I Ain’t Missing You – John Waite

Everyday Hurts – Sad Cafe

Three Times a Lady – Commodores

It’s Raining Men – The Weather Girls

Ah, there you go – some good old weepy, sit-in-your-pyjamas-at-home-looking-at-photos-whist-eating-ice-cream music. And The Weather Girls of course which is a totally inspired choice – it certainly makes me feel like crying every time I hear it.

Top Six “Chick Flicks”

Dirty Dancing

Meet Joe Black

Pretty Woman

Love, Actually

Charlie’s Angels

Bridget Jones’ Diary

A good solid list, but it was clear that they were running out of time, as there were only six films captured. The biggest shame was that they subsequently didn’t finish the final list which appeared to be “Top Songs to Shag To”.  Judging from the start this could have been a classic, seeing as they had already moved on from the traditional likes of “Sexual Healing” and on to the more frisky “Shake Your Tail Feather”, and then to the brilliant choice of “Ride of the Valkyries” (I love the smell of Napalm in the bedroom?) Ladies, you are rude, crude and occasionally completely bloody mad, but above all, very, very funny.

The Stinging Nettle (Goldhawk Road) 3 x ½ Bombardier, ½ Kew Gold £6.06

The Stinging Nettle: No idea who any of this lot are

The scheduled rendezvous point was at Goldhawk Road, where we discovered that our new recruits were already waiting for us at The Stinging Nettle – just over the road from the station. Our feminine hoard managed to stay together on the journey down the Hammersmith and City line, albeit in boisterous, high-decibel fashion which may have slightly unnerved some of the other tube customers going about their Saturday business.

The pub itself had had a right proper makeover, all fancy wallpaper and stylish chandeliers in the main bar. It had some snazzy outdoor tables which actually folded down from the wall of the pub, plus plenty of eclectic looking furniture in the main room.  There was an upstairs bar too, but we didn’t really get to see that because it was being used for some private bash or other. The little cherry on top, though, was the small roof terrace on the first floor overlooking the rural beauty of Goldhawk Road, accessed via a spiral staircase near the front of the pub.  It was on this glorified window box that we found Lisa, the Birthday Girl, her sister Sara, and her fella Matt, busy getting involved with some celebratory Jaeger-Bombs that Louise had wasted no time in buying for people.

Professional to the end, me and Lewis stuck to the ale, which we were delighted to discover was in seriously good condition, if not the cheapest we had seen all tour.  Gareth was also pleased to find that they had Tyrell’s crisps – he had probably gone almost 20 minutes without eating anything by this point. We managed eventually to drag everyone, Lisa included, away from their mouthwash flavoured liqueurs and back out to the street for a group photo, which in turn made it easier for us to persuade them all to join us back on the tracks – even if that meant that the noise in our particular carriage was building to a deafening crescendo.

Bar FM (Shepherds Bush Market) 2 x Gin and Tonic, 1 x bt Stella, 1 x bt Bud £14.00

KL, JW and Liz Ignore Random Bar FM Employee

Well this one was completely off the radar.  We weren’t 100% sure where we would end up from Shepherd’s Bush Market station, but thought it would probably be the Edwards bar on the corner of the Green.  However, somebody spotted an unassuming looking doorway just off the main road, instantly showing the necessary credentials for us by displaying the word “Bar” above the door.  A couple of shouts around our increasingly large entourage and we piled through the doors and down the stairs.

Let’s be honest, it was a basement bar that on first impressions looked like it was a lap dancing club before any of the girls or indeed punters had turned up – moody, watchful bloke at the door, lots of cheap looking banquette/booth seating (must have been finest “leatherette”), a stage area (admittedly without a pole), and lots of unsubtle mood lighting. However, first impressions can be deceiving, and it turned out that we had actually wandered into a Karaoke bar, or at least a lap dancing bar with a non-nude Karaoke night. In fact, as we ordered our drinks, a drum kit was also being set up on the stage area, so it looked like there was going to be some live music alongside whatever amateur caterwauling there was later. A quick glance at the Karaoke list showed a fairly huge range of tunes, but as Mrs Lewis was very quick to point out “Where the hell is ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’?  Good question. No self respecting Karaoke night should be without such a drunken classic.

Although we were pretty much the only customers in at this point, we immediately set a tableau that is seen in bars up and down the country as we drifted into our natural pub comfort zones – girls roaming around dancing, taking photos and generally having fun, whilst the gentlemen stood at the bar, nursing our drinks as we tried to appear cool and unaffected by it all. Or maybe we were just there to offer Gareth moral support as he went in search of peanuts.

Albertine Wine Bar (Wood Lane) 1 bottle Prosecco (between 6!) £19.80

Time for a hidden gem.  Well, not that hidden to be fair because it was right on Wood Lane, which is a busy road leading away from Shepherds Bush Green. A slightly unusual but clearly visible gem then.

We knew it wasn’t far from the subterranean delights of Bar FM to get to Wood Lane Station, a tube stop so shiny and new that it didn’t even appear on our master copy of the London Underground map. We decided that it was a nice night for a stroll between stations, and soon discovered Albertine Wine Bar a little way around the corner.

It was a very continental, old-style wine bar, with bay windows looking in on ever so slightly shabby wooden tables and chairs throughout, decorated with nothing but candles. There was a tiny bar in one corner, which also doubled up as an off-sales counter, showing a dizzying array of wines arranged in the racks behind. Simple chalk boards on the walls offered seriously tempting cheese boards or meat platters, and there was also a more extensive menu of hot plates and tapas style food available.

Maybe we would have felt differently if we had been in on a week night and found it full of BBC types from the office up the road, but you can only review what is in front of you at the time, and in truth we thought it was an absolute cracker of a place – a hugely refreshing change from some of the chains and dives we had seen so far on the tour. I suppose considering our bias towards local beverages, it had to be considered a negative that there didn’t appear to be any English beers on (or indeed any beer at all). However, this was something of a moot point, since Mrs Lewis had already decided that we were going to join her in some bubbles at this establishment – and when Mrs Lewis is in the mood for fizz, only a brave or foolish man would even think about arguing. Prosecco ended up being the order of the day, and very good it was too.

Moving on was inevitable, but I think we could have spent quite some time in this place – the temptation to sit, drink wine, eat cheese and talk endless bollocks was a strong one. We did eventually mobilise the troops however, and prepared to take leave of our new friends.  I only hope that the folk at Albertine liked us as much as we liked them – the place probably only held about 40 people, and we were up to almost twenty by this point.  “I hope we weren’t too loud”, I had whispered into the Dictaphone as we left, which considering the members of our group, is a bit like saying “I hope the sea is not too wet”.