The Old House At Home, Hersham

From aol blog Hersham Herald
Old House at Home

To the north of Sadcake Park, in the shade of an enormous horse chestnut tree, stands the frontage of 'The Old House at Home'. Black boards and hoardings vie for space on the unkempt front lawn proclaiming the economical delights offerred to those who might venture furtively inside. 'Hamburger, chips, cola and a packet of crisps - only �2.99!' 'Wide Screen Euro Football!' 'Fosters �1.50p per pint!' 'Come Inside - Families Welcome!'.

The pub is best visited in the post lunchtime twilight zone. As you push against the brown door you will be welcomed as the fourth customer of the day. The other three have been there since opening time. They're all male, women don't come in here. An unshaven middle-aged man with a faded tattoo of a swallow in the valley of his thumb and index finger, is in the middle of the room. Sitting at a high table huddled over a half drunk, half flat, pint of lager, he pulls the last drags out of an impossibly small rollie. Two younger men lurk in the shadows on a dark leather settee, match boxes and torn rizla papers on the table, swigging from bottles of Budweizer. The air smells of Dettol and vomit.

The barmaid tells you that the Bitter's off, and she makes a ham fisted attempt at pouring a Guinness. She eventually passes the glass over a sticky counter with froth pouring down the sides. She goes back to the corner to look at her Argos catalogue dreaming of the time she can afford a pink plastic push - along musical pram and doll at only �19.99p, for her baby Chelsea.

If you persevere until 4 o'clock, the door will open again and again and from now on, the Fosters pump will hardly stop pouring. A dozen or so men in jeans and old football shirts covered in oil, paint or plaster gulp the lager down and exchange belches and bad jokes in between slurps.

A red 'C' registered flat backed lorry overflowing with horizontal leylandii trees and scaffolding pulls up in the car park. There is no company name or telephone numbers on sides, no tax disc and a cardboard number plate on the trailer it is pulling. Some of the Hersham Caravan Community have come in to pass fifty pound notes across the bar and amuse themselves at the expense of the barmaid's bust.

Time to go.

16 Jan 2005 23:34

The Royal George, Hersham

The Royal George
(Extract from Blog @aol 'Hersham News'

If Colossus were to stand astride Sadcake Park (and I can't see that he would ever have the inclination so to do) with one foot in The Old House at Home, his other would probably be in the Saloon Bar at The Royal George. At exactly opposite ends of each other are two of the most diverse pubs you could imagine.

As soon as you walk in, there is an atmosphere. In winter a roaring log fire struggles against the draught in the chimney and the action of opening the door, fills the saloon with sweet smelling, choking smoke. In summer, the door will probably be wedged open already, so your entrance will be that much more surreptitious.

Many a stranger to the establishment has mistakenly assumed it is a queer's pub. Often as not, every bar stool will be taken by a middle aged man, and the few youngsters that venture in, huddle in a corner on velour benches or gather at the far end by the fruit machine. Anyone who has ever had the opportunity of inspecting homosexuals closely however, will quickly realise that this is not one of their haunts. True, there are a couple of female gardeners whose friendship goes beyond the floribundae and is without question, of the closest sort, but most of the clientele is male, heterosexual and, to the casual observer, decidedly odd.

The fashions (if that is what you could call them) comprise in winter, of thick polyester and wool mix jumpers, corduroys or jeans, trainers at �19.99 from Kempton Park Market and Dennis the Menace socks. In summer, shorts can be seen but more likely casual slacks of the John Collier variety, polo shirts from Marks and Spencer or a Portsmouth Footbal shirt from 1994.

With few exceptions, men don't come here to pose. They are here for one thing and one thing only; the beer. And as much of it as they can possibly drink without getting a bollocking from their wives when they go home.

It is a Young's House and the ale is like nectar to the discerning palate. It comes foaming up the pump from the cellar at precisely the right temperature to arrive in mugs and glasses as bright and clear as the morning sun over Loch Lomond. It is always delicious and the appreciative customers can't get enough of the stuff.

Ray and Sandra run the show and considering the fact that I have never seen either of them with a glass of Young's bitter in front of them, they really do rather well. Ray hails from Luton but has a distinctly Saafff London accent. He rolls up to ninety fags a day in between sips of gin and bitter lemon and stands centinel at the bar ensuring that the riff raff from the other pubs around, don't cross his threshhold. He knows more jokes than Bob Monkhouse and is a demon at a game of cribbage. Sandra is the sort of landlady that every landlord dreams of. She does all the work.

The head barman, Simon is in his early twenties but looks twice his age. With a pate like a billiard ball and a middle age spread, he shuffles up and down the bar at a deceptively fast speed. He has to, for he is the butt of piss taking, bad jokes and streams of insults from Ray and his entourage. As he shelters in the Public Bar from the latest salvo of invective, he ponders a suitable reply. After a moment or so, with a boyish grin and wide open eyes, he'll return and say, "At least I'm not an old fart like you", and retire while the audience wonders if this is the best he can come up with. The sport is soon over.

Most of the customers were weaned in the place. From mother's milk to best bitter with the occasional solid in the form of a buffet which Sandra is wont to put on from time to time. Amongst the oldest is Dave the driving instructor. He claims to be seventy something but looks like an advert for Oil of Ulay. Then there is Bob the Quality Assurance man from British Airways. He's fifty something and looks like the 'before' part of the advert for Oil of Ulay. Scruffy with an unkempt beard and trousers that he bought in an Army surplus store back in his adolesence, he passes his time between coughs by picking unidentified bits of food and other detritus from his checked jumper.

Ken the zoo security man, Ken the taxi and Ken the haemorrhoids always sit together near the gents in case their colostomy bags need emptying quickly. Reg 'the wedge' and his darling wife, Lady Falmouth (before they had a row over some Brussell Sprouts and now drink down 'The Brick' in protest) normally make up the crowd at the far end along with Architect Mike and Doug the golf.

In the snug bar - renamed the 'Bowlox Bar' in recognition of the drivel that is usually spoken there - you will find Chris the plod pouring over a Daily Telegraph crossword sucking interminably at his pipe blowing clouds of Condor into the upper atmosphere and trying to compete with the down draught from the fire place. Pete the transport stands quietly with glass in front of him and a packet of the cheapest fags he could find on his most recent trip to Doncaster. Sitting on a stool next to him, is Wobbly John. Crippled from childhood with some ghastly disfunction of his lower limbs which leaves him barely able to walk, he is the unordained father of the house.

It is a delightful pub full of odd characters each with their own story to tell; each with their own thoughts to hide and each with a shared affliction: A life long addiction to Young's Bitter.

29 Nov 2004 16:22