BITE user comments - senberbex
Comments by senberbex
The Railway Bell, South Woodford
Amongst all this post Big Sam turmoil, we’ve watched the falling pound and the fluctuating banana, and the sun has still risen the next day
What we can’t have, though, is Fosters disappearing from our streets. Is it me or are there less FOSTERS taps about? When was the last time you heard two people at each other’s throats, debating the merits or flaws of the amber nectar. Never mind ‘voter shame’. Drinker apathy has taken told of us.
I believe that the BFB should commit to Congress, before this decade is out, to finding the worst pint of Fosters served in London, sending Crow to drink that pint, and then return him safely to South Woodford. We do these things not because they are easy but because they are HARD.
9 Nov 2016 14:39
'Isss bladdy lavvly in there', said the Turkish pilot. 'Isss call King and Castle, opposite Windsor Castle in Eeengland. We flying there now.' I noted his enthusiasm, whilst casually re-engaging the autopilot that he'd mistakenly disabled when his copious beer belly unconsciously pressed against the control panel. 'Now get out of the cockpeet, if the stewardess sees you in here, she'll lash our bare arses'.
With that image burnt on my memory, I took my leave and returned to my seat. Landing at Gatwick, I simply ran from the plane steps to the perimeter fence and scaled it mirthfully. I eschewed immigration and customs and abandoned my luggage. Hampered by Cuban heels, I ran a pain-filled 28 miles as the crow files to the King and Castle across fields, ignoring cat-calls from farmers and wolf whistles of fugitives and holed-up highwaymen.
On arrival, I discovered its unique feature, one the Turkish pilot failed to mention - the pub has no floor. One enters and immediately takes hold of scaffold poles and traverses them 'monkey-bar' style to the bar. Transvestite robots populate the bar and efficiently tell you which 20 ales are unavailable. I was reduced to a gallon of Devil's Backbone. Its rather awkward to drink while you hang from the scaffolds - you have to let go with one hand and swipe your beer from the bar to mouth and back again before you fall into the swamps below. The toilets are another matter entirely - I feel sorry for the poor attendant, balancing and juggling his aftershaves and wares. They really should invest in a floor.
20 Jan 2016 15:50
After fighting earlier in the day in a West-Essex Wetherspoons, (at 10.30am since you ask), this fine pub was a pleasant counterbalance for an evening's discourse with more decent-minded chums. Landlord and two other guest ales were in fine fettle, as was the pretty miss serving behind the ramp. She was from somewhere on the Continent but I couldn't tell where - I kept it strictly business you understand.
Speaking of the Continent, I fell into conversation with a Swiss, who enlightened me on the finer points of two of his favourite national sports - Swingen (a type of wrestling) and Hornussen - which is a cross between enigma and defying any description. 'I cant believe you don't play it here', he entreated. 'What would I need?' I enquired.
'For a pick-up game? Simple - you need the Nussen (puck) the nettes, the zsdickenscwahb (racket)......and a Swiss Farm
1 Apr 2015 14:34
Always a great boozer to meet at when you've just been released from Chokey. I always sink me first Tizer in here after I've done bird and plan my next 'blag' with Big O, Lobotomy Jim, Drugs Kev or whoever else in the local crew happen to be about.
An unrivalled book collection lines the walls of the main bar. And I've often taken inspiration for my criminal enterprises from the pages of such classics as 'Directory of British Chartered Accountants 1957'. Some cynic suggested they bought these books by the yard, but I dispute such an eclectic collection could be assembled by such means.
Must dash, Weird Pete has just returned with my Creme De Menthe, along with the plans of the Allied Irish bank vault in the High St......
13 Mar 2015 15:38
*Note this IS a review of The Red Lion, but with a lengthy pre-amble.
Had some plumbers round Tuesday and Wednesday putting in new central heating. They liked and early start – 8am prompt ffs. Which meant I had to get up even EARLIER – didn’t realise it was dark at that time. I do *not* like early starts especially with wine the night before.
They were a bit younger than me - and the apprentice seemed like a real dead-eyed dope. I kept mostly out of their way, but as is unavoidable in a flat, couldn’t avoid the white collar / blue collar clashes. I just gave them the odd bit of nonsense banter and avoided any questions about their work, and it was clear they wanted to keep ‘barriers up’ between the proles and the bourgeois.
At one point Mungo asked if he could move my desk in the box room. I said sure, and got up from my throne in the lounge and went in to help him lift it…..or so I thought. As I caught one end of the desk (quite solid and heavier than it looks) he stood at the other end completely slack-armed. He just watched as I awkwardly shuffled the desk with one end raised! ‘Gah, no Pontefract cakes for that churl at tea’ I thought.
They seemed to spend the entire time in the bathroom for some reason, and from the sounds of it were building a very crude time machine hewn from girders, so I was reduced to going to Tescos round the corner when ever I needed to ‘go’ - to avoid interrupting them. Using the Tesco customer toilets each time was like being in a condensed version of ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’. If you ever wondered where all the patients went from this building that was a former mental hospital…….’Hell-ooooww’ someone said in a slow lisp as I walked in.
I thought this would be a perfect day to try out The Red Lion for lunch as well to kill some time. I did a lap past The Olive, just to check out their lunch board (good prices, but a bit empty) and walked up towards the Lion. I toyed with what splendour I could dine in at The Walnut Tree (nearby Wetherspoons) for the same money I was about to spend, but reminding myself of the ‘plumber purgatory’ put the thought from my mind. Entering on my own, I immediately made a table of about 6 lunching mummies feel uncomfortable as I hovered near them reading the menu, which was not the utter ponce-fest I was expecting. I got the fish and chips with pea-something-or-other and was served by a very lovely young barmaid. I sat near the back so I could watch her work and also eavesdrop on four smug thirtysomethings (two couples). Mike Leigh would have shot his bolt at what I overheard…..property prices and ‘how we don’t have to worry about that any more, etc’; one of them having just returned from working in America – ‘they have loads of different accents over there don’t they?’ and their married neighbours who loudly argue about each other’s persistent philandering and call each other ‘c**ts’ at the top of their voices. The Alpha looked over at me as he said this, but I just smirked back at him with an expression saying ‘keep it coming….’
A nice fat cod fillet arrived with a decent amount of chips – think what you’d get if you ‘ate in’ at a chip shop – I was pleasantly surprised. Unfortunately the modern take on ‘peas’ was a strange affair – all fur and no knickers as Marcus Wareing might comment to a hapless Masterchef contestant. I enslaved the barmaid to bring me vinegar – and betrayed my humbler origins.
With the conversation dried up on Table Smug, I thought I heard Page’s bow and Plant’s wail (rumour has it Led Zeppelin played here) as I mopped up the ‘crivens’. I took my leave with a camp flourish.
Later that afternoon, I decided to vary my ‘p1ss routine’ and went into The Walnut Tree. The contrast from the Red Lion was not lost on me. As I stood at the urinal, I heard the inevitable clatter of crutches being dropped as someone was trying to open the door to the toilets (true).
27 Nov 2014 18:06
As a venue for a simple Gothic Puppetry get-together I founs this place to be most odd. First, a moat, made by a tributary of The Walbrook, one of London's 'lost' medieval rivers must be navigated. Once the waist deep slurry has been forded, a slippery volcanic mount must be ascended - only the fittest and bravest prevailing here - due to the spiralling, ascending causeway being so slippery that a vigourous sprint up its kilometre length is the only way to maintain forward inertia.
Once atop the promentary, one is confronted with more peculiarity - the bar rotates around a fixed 3-dimensional escalator....or is it the other way round?? The lack of external fixed reference points makes spatial orientation and the ability to ascertain relative position an extreme challenge.
Aside from this, I found the Fosters to be well kept and agreebly palatable. Service was brisk but competant. A rooster was shaved in seconds without having to ask.
25 Oct 2013 16:45
"Blah, blah, blah.....missing scientist
Blah, blah, blah.....atom bomb......
blah, blah, blah...that SLAG is wearing a wire!
How could you do this to me, Fingers?
I aint going down for no copper!!"
I heard the above snippet of conversation whilst standing between outer and inner doors deliberating on whether to enter for my 11am medicinal pints of ale. I think I'll come back tomorrow......
15 Oct 2012 13:22
The landlord here, Cliff, has a sumptuous pair of man-boobs
I hear they serve a good roast, but I'm only ravenous for HIS dumplings!!
12 Oct 2012 15:00
The Flying Scotsman, Caledonian Road
Last time I passed by in a taxi, it looked like it had closed down. As the taxi waited at the traffic lights at the Caledonian/Pentonville Rd jn, I noticed the pub name scrawled on a blackboard in chalk! I was then pleasantly surprised to see a patron take his leave via a side exit....the pub was still open!!
Through the doorway, I could just make out the dirtiest stripping music of all time - aka the 'Grange Hill' TV theme. Then the lights changed to green and I was brought back to an unwelcome reality.
27 Jan 2012 17:08
The Three Colts, Buckhurst Hill
Three Colts was a famous execution site before capital punishment was abolished in Buckhurst Hill in 2008. Three live colts were actually used for executions, with the condemned being mounted on the animals nooses around their necks. A hand-bell signalled the horses to gallop, unseating their doomed riders, as crowds of ale drinkers looked on.
The gallows have gone, but the establishment remains, as do the three colts, who are stabled at the rear of the pub. They still rear-up and bolt around the yard when the landlord rings the bell for 'time' and a chilling thwack of tensing ropes can be heard on nights when the wind is low and westerly.
Today, its a nawty little boozer. A good place to meet 'chimneys' before hitting the Golden Mile. Oos Calling it on?
8 Dec 2011 11:22
The Freemasons Arms, Covent Garden
I'm often irritated by reviews here that sound like they would be read by Stephen Fry with an arched eyebrow. Full of phrases Iike 'we found ourselves in need of further libation' and 'we took the landlords blush nose as an unmistakeable invitation to imbibe'. They inform us of nothing.
For instance, this pub - the Freemasons Arms. The reviews below mention nothing of The Robots. The place is crammed full of them, and you cant fail to notice them. I can only conclude from the collective and selective blindness, that the reviews below were written by The Robots, with the full knowlege and co-operation of the cyber-Landlord.
Anyway, I must admit that they can justifiably claim the title of 'best pint of Fosters drunk before 11.30am in London'. After that time the amber nectar wanes as the sun approaches its noonday zenith, and as any schoolboy will attest, the speed of the earth's rotation at latitudes above the Tropic of Cancer do the Fosters waters no favours at all. Like the Guiness drinker's lament in Lagos, the brew does not travel well. The cyborg Landlord accidentally told me a secret when some of his circuitries were malfunctioning in the July heat. "Dont bother with any of the Ales" he said in a harsh digital warble. "All the pumps are filled with Fosters". He then went on to parody the Paul Hogan Fosters commercials of the 1980s for the amusement of the other Robots and locals. "Can you tell me way to Cockfosters". I've never heard a Robot impersonate a Chinese tourist, but all I can say is no one was laughing.
A notable piece of trivia to bore fellow Robots and drinker - This pub claims to be the first meeting place of Andy Bell and Vince Clarke who went on to dominate the world in the late 80s/early 90's with their brand of bender-beat synth pop.
Legend has it that Jimmy Somerville was Clarke's intended 1st choice of singer and Somerville arrived early for the meeting. Bell at the time was working behind the bar, and duly spiked Somerville's Snakebite with blackcurrant. Somerville's blackcurrant allergy instantly flared up and he staggered outside and threw up in a policeman's helmet. (Or on his helmet). Bell innocently waited for Clarke's arrival and the rest is history.
I can also recommend the Scotch Eggs
18 Nov 2011 10:35
The Lord Aberconway, Liverpool Street
"First, catch your hare", boomed the landlord. His steely glare never wavered as I approached the bar. The pub was deserted except for me and him.
It was a June Friday at 6 o'clock. I know it was 6 o'clock as I could see the dustmen tearing the last of of the lead from the roof of The Guildhall in the
City of London, ready to trade it in for admittance to their 8 o'clock 'Muffins and Monkey' show. I digress. "First catch you hare" the landlord boomed once again.
He pointed to the blackboard and all was enlightenment. The kitchen special was of course, Mrs Beetson's fabled 'Jugged Hare' and famously, the first line of the recipe exhorts the cook to 'first catch your hare'.
I dashed out into Bishopsgate and immediately spied the ears of a dominant male bounding behind a bollard at the junction with Houndsditch. Several hours, and a large man-hunt (with a bloodthirsty, torch-weilding mob and many greyhounds) later - and I had my quarry. The hare fought, lied and endured interrogation bravely but eventually we broke him and he confessed to 'grevious exactions'. He agreed to come back to the Lord Aberconway and almost cheefully leapt into the landlords waiting pot. He even agreed to peel onions and carrots as we waited for the waters to boil.
"I suppose you have no jug either?" The landlord spat. "What manner of knave be you, sir?" He was hasty, for I threw a pot before his eyes, my potters hands worked their glassy magic to create a form of feminine splendour. Within 2 hours the kiln had baked the finest jug seen outside the Walls of Athena and the landlord. was eating his words. "Something to drink?" He asked, as I raised the hare up on a hook to hang for 2 weeks. "Fosters" I replied.
He took the bucket and made to go to the well to draw up the Fosters but I stopped him. "No, Sir. I have been insulted, and I will not buy wares from you."
He guffawed contemptuously. "How then, will you enjoy the refresments so desired of Messers Fosters?" "I am in no rush, churl" I rejoindered. "You see the hare hanging amongst the pulleys and shafts of sunlight? But I looked, and the hare was no more. A can of Fosters swung timoursly and forlorny, peirced on a rusty hook. Be on your guard traveller - dark plots abound within this hostelry, as this account fulsomely attests.
I declare that I be of sound mind on this day the seventeenth of june in the 11th year of the 21st century of Our Lord.
17 Jun 2011 17:43
One of the better sex-pubs in London. A man holding a Golf Sale sign whispered 'beer, mate?' as I passed him
outside Liverpook St. I nodded hesitantly and he beckoned me to follow. We took the Circle line to Baker St, him with his
big iridescent cardboard sign and not saying a word to me throughout the ride. When we arrived at Baker St, I had no oyster
card! My companion told me that when the stinking busker came through the carriage at moorgate playing a wretched rendition of
'Land of my Fathers', he had picked my pocket and given the oyster to the busker in the hope he would leave us in peace!
'That's bloody Marvellous', I said. 'How the frig am I going to get to work for the next month??' 'Ah', he twinkled, with a knowing,
theivish grin.....but said nothing more! And alas, he had no oyster card either! So we climbed over the ticket barriers in ungainly fashion - not an
easy task with that 'golf sale' sign. My companion was further hampered by a frizzy afro wig that had slid down in front of his eyes at inopportune moments
After about 20 minutes of struggle, we managed to get body mind and spirit out of the station and a short moment later we were at the bar of The Volunteer
ordering frothing flagonzolas of Droobeepunfarb. One sip and I was glad I made the detour. At that moment an orchestra filed in and set up on the floor.
'What's this?' I enquired of the barmaid. 'You'll like it, these lot are absolute FILTH!' she chirped'. She wasn't wrong - an instant later my
ears were aflutter with the sound of the Dirtiest Stripper music I'd heard in all my born days. If you see the Golf Sign man, say you know me.
22 Mar 2011 17:21
Weary from my afternoon wanderings, I sought refuge in this hostelry. I tried to heave the phone-box I was carrying through the front entrance but my efforts were in vain - I scuffed the pub door's architraves and left deep gouges in the red livery of my beloved kiosk.
I asked the barman if the landlord would pay for the damage but he snorted contemptuously. Thankfully, a cab driver - who's carriage I had absconded from without paying - helped push the phonebox the rest of the way into the pub as the London rain began to lash down.
So what of this esteemed establishment? The first thing that one notices are the arrival and departure boards and constant announcements for trains at Paddington station. It appears that the Pub's arcane lease is bound to that of Paddington Railway Lands, and although located several miles away, the Pub is required by a clause in said lease to 'give proper visual and aural notification of all rail traffic movement at the mainline station'. All pub patrons are handed a copy of the lease and are required to read all twelve pages of legalese before any beers wines or spirits can be bought. This all seems faintly ridiculous, when one can glance through the pub window on a clear day and employ x-ray vison to see straight through St Martin in the Fields church to Charing Cross station directly beyond, and not Paddington.
After perusing the clauses I was satisfied to order a capital cask ale, but on taking a first sip, I was rudely punched in the stomach by the Landlord. Apologising, he explained that 'station licence hours' were now over and that I would have to leave. I tried to take another sip, at which point he nodded to the shifty young barkeep. The freebooter instantly set about my beloved phone-box with a truncheon, and in half a minute had done as much damage as a band of skinheads on a May bank holiday. The landlord then joined the sweating youth, standing beside him to urinate inside the phonebox. Collecting my thoughts, and empty glasses - to serve as compensation to the landlord for the disturbance I had caused, a middle-aged harlot propositioned me. 'Fancy a freebie, sweetie?' Although the dame was a little frayed and stout, I must admit that a guilty pang of pride lurched in my belly. What gentleman, with a grain of vim in his veins, would not feel spit on his cane and sheen on his pucker after such a saucy gambit??
I left in restorative shape and reflective spirits, with phone-box proudly stuffed in my jacket.
2 Feb 2011 15:06
The Pontefract Castle, Marylebone
Suffused with Herringbone, Doused in Khaki, I stumbled wearily and hastily inside. Pursuing Morris Dancers fled when they saw the landlord�s carcass � gibbeted and strung up at the entrance � a warning to the curious.
Delirium Tremens seized me and robbed me of words. No matter � the barkeep had my Letchforth Broth fizzing in its Pewter horn before I hit the ground.
I grabbed at antlers on my way down and ripped the skulleous relics from their mountings. Somewhere a bell rang. No-one came. An instant later, a door was thrown back almost off its shacklings, and two bell ringers made desperate flight across the flags whence the dog-fight had reached a climax. �Run!!! The bell mountings have ruste-
This mortal appeal was torn from lavished lungs and salivated kidneys, its last breath robbed. A two-ton, rusted, cast-iron monster came crashing though the ceiling and obliterated the pair as it struck the flags with dreadful force. An earth-shattering boom blew out the windows. Shards of exploding iron devastated walls, furnishings, men and beasts.
As I breathed my last, I raised myself to the counter to take a draft. I found The Letchforth was drinkable and well-kept, which is hardly a stunning endorsement. There are plenty of other decent Ale Houses in the vicinity. The Latrines were in good repair and worthy of mention to any respectable Pyromaniac.
21 Apr 2010 17:54
I have something to say about this place. Shifts and Intrigues abound, and I would venture to state that should Lucifier himself enter the Saloon, he would soon find his tail pulled. I happened upon the Red Lion on the night of Michealmas last, weary from long and fruitless perigrinations in the name of a worthless Whigs canvass. I had been told of the place by a D Waspnest of Snares Brook, who alluded to the fact that both 'Bonce' and 'Scrifton' were in stock. Enquiring of the proprietor, he gave no satisfaction on the matter but this was a mere trifle for what followed.
Turning away with a bottle of miserable substitute, I noticed Gladstone, Angora rabbit and companion was not to be seen. I frantically searched, appealed to the scant custom and the proprietor, but all knowledge was denied.
I gave up the rabbit for dead, camped by the fire and took mournful swigs from my little glinker of discontent,but did not fail to notice the furtive glances and doubtful mutterings between the others and the Proprietor could not entirely keep his dark plots covered by extreme effort of a passive countenance.
Be on your guard, traveller
4 Jun 2009 14:39
Walked in, stepped onto the planks that were balanced on milk crates and gingerly approached the counter. A barman on stilts did his best to ignore my presence, but couldn't avoid getting into an immediate argument about the word 'Grosvenor'. I say it's 'Gross-ven-or' and he insists its pronounced 'Grove-ner'. This is a blow to me as I have worked in Grosvenor Square for 18 years.
He lost a stilt in the exchange (it had soaked up a pool pork render from the floor and then disintegrated). Blaming me for this, he then turned the pumps off, except for the Spitfire. I asked for a pint but he would only give me half. I ordered two - it didnt need to be like this. I ordered a roast dinner but he would'nt give me a plate - I had to eat it straight off the bar. It didnt need to be like this. I'll go back there.
18 Nov 2008 10:20
I like the carpet, the way it jumps out at you, crawls up your torso and squeezes your neck so that one can almost imagine wearing a giant ruff. This sensation is particularly pleasing if you are alone or have arrived early ahead of others. Strong lager can be consumed on the premesis, as long as a receipt from the Tesco Metro can be produced on demand.
Seems also to be a pick-up joint - for policeman seeking building materials. I've been propositioned in the gents many times - the last occasion was asked for 'any 4 by 2 you can spare'
20 Jun 2008 12:42
The review below (by Badgerballs) is an obvious attempt to discredit a fine pub. Never having been myself, I still object to blatant lies - I speak as a former Queens Lifeguard when I say they would never indulge in such behaviour in a pub toilet.
A friend of mine was a regular for years, said they had the best ales in London. He only stopped going when the landlord's chronic halitosis began to spoil the beer.
17 Oct 2007 10:51
Another boozer where service is inexplicably slow. Always one person serving both sides of the bar, the other bar-staff present but all doing far more important things....
1 Oct 2007 14:42
Bar service - is like something devised in the novels of the great Russian surrealists - where the main character is sent on wild goose chases and up blind alleys only to end up hours later back where he started!
Instead, I recommend the 1 ltr bottles of Budvar which can be bought at the Tesco 24hr shop a few doors along, and opened by the security guard! We did this and had a good couple of hours drinking outside. The pavement is all public highway, the barstaff can't cope - so everyone's a winner here?
1 Oct 2007 14:36
The George And Dragon, Fitzrovia
Want to find a pub roast dinner like it should be served? Does such a place exist in London?
Yes, you'll find it here. Two large slices of meat, each as thick as steaks, 2 yorkshire puds and lots of spuds and veg, all for less than 6 pounds.
It sounds simple, hundreds try and fail
28 Sep 2007 16:58
O'Neills is the only decent pulling joint/cattle market for miles. Im confused by other posts, so a quick survival guide:
1. Dont remonstrate with the bouncers. Why would you? Its like putting your arm in a meat-slicer - you just dont.
2. Keep your eyes open for lairy groups. Avoid trouble before it starts - its easy enough to move away and go and stand near some nice ladies instead.
3. Dont give it the big-un. You'll soon meet someone who thinks they're rock as well. Cue an avalanche of glass and bouncer-meat.
4. Respect a woman's virtue, even if you cannot vouch for it.
28 Sep 2007 16:49
Wouldnt be surprised if you saw a couple of pit-bulls slugging it out on the floor near the bar as you walk in - its that kind of place.
Went there once with a friend of non-WASP origins. I had to wait outside while he negotiated my entry. Once inside, I'm sure I saw Ben Kenobi fending off punters with a light-sabre - this really is the cantina from Star Wars.
I stuck to the mate like glue, unfortunately he proceeded to provoke one of the locals into a confrontation. An explosive situation was only defused when I quickly ordered Angostura and Tonics all round, as the punch on the lip I received from the barman brought laughter from all sides.
20 Sep 2007 17:39
The Walnut Tree, Leytonstone
Patrons should proceed across the threshold with caution. Liars, rogues and cutpurses await. But the bar staff alone should not of upmost concern. Legions of ruffians fill out the floors and pour themselves into every recess of this godforsaken Crucible of Desperados. Clint Eastwood's steely countenance in A Few Dollars More would soon crumble when facing down the locals in here.
You'll meet The Joker, whos chilling laugh can be heard the length and breadth of the place. Kleinfeld, Sean Penn's amoral lawyer from Carlito's Way exists in the real-life form of 'Ronnie', clad in 80s casual wear and ready to pounce and club the unsuspecting drinker into submission with cockney trivia and a relentless stream-of- consiousness patter.
Classic Rock Fans - You won't believe your eyes when the old man off the cover of the Led Zeppelin IV album totters past you with a cup of tea. And you'll double take when he pulls out a laptop and starts doing tax returns.
As policeman scoop out their fruit-machine winnings with their helmets, the bar itself remains a service-free zone. There's always ever more inventive excuses found by the staff to be doing anything except serving drinks. I've never seen a set of beer pumps absorb so much Brasso, or a fridge that has been opened more times in order to do a peak-time stock-take. Trying to catch a particular ale or beer that apears to be available proves maddeningly elusive - like a bad dream in a Franz Kafka tale.
Tim Martin, Chairman of the Board, book yourself in to the local hotel for a long stretch if you ever visit here for a spot-check!
30 Apr 2018 18:45