Arthur’s column

This report from my good friend Geoff on the antics of the last few days. Notice how this page seems to change about once a year at the moment? Far cry from the weekly missives of old! Now – Geoff – take it away!

Arthur Meets Miami

by your Guest Author, Geoff

Luckily I didn’t have to work last Friday, as Arthur wuz in town. In cooperation with the nation’s enemies, he arrived on a 6:00am flight on Thursday morning, which really is the best time to invade any sleepy state. Arthur decided that the best place to attack Miami is from the south, so in a rented red Mustang he “sallied forth” (his words) to the Keys, originally aiming for Key West, but ending up just south of Marathon. I worked. Arthur stopped for lunch and a beer, and I stayed at work. He lay on the beach in the sun while I worked, and even swam in the Atlantic while I worked. I worked some more while he enjoyed the sunshine in the convertible on the way back. But then revenge, we (Jade and I) ambled across the road to Monty’s for a beer while Arthur drove back up to our apartment in Coconut Grove. Let that be a lesson to you all.

Check out this page about this. Thanks also to Funtastik

After we rendezvoused at Monty’s, the executive committee decided we should go to SoBe (South Beach) for dinner before dropping off the red beast. After a short drive past several valet parking attendants, a short phone call to Henry (whom I hope has put the cat out) lead us to Delanos Hotel, apparently the birthplace of Roman style decadence. Or least they spiked our drinks with hallucigens so as to make us believe that Salvador Dali lived and worked there recently. Very good dinner, Jade got offered a large sum for certain services (declined , and Arthur and I proved that we can still get lucky by finding some people less competent than ourselves at the pool table. Later, after dropping off the car and finding a taxi back here, we rounded out the evening at Murphy’s and the Tigertail. Whooof.

On Friday morning Arthur and I went swimming at the Venetian Pool. This public pool was built back during a building boom in the 1920′s and is more like a Grecian Spa than anything else. A few laps helped clear the head before lunch at Texas Tacos with some Mexican beer.

Check out Venetian Pool

Later, while Jade cooked one of her amazing curries, Arthur and I ambled down to Scotty’s bar down by the yacht club, for a few beers and watched rich people have their boats dropped in the water by large fork-lifts. Back to eat the curry, yummo, then across to Monty’s again for Pain Killers (if you want to know what painkillers are, please come visit us and we’ll introduce you to this Miami invention). I danced while Arthur maintained a steady supply of Pain Killers. This might have been fatal, and on Saturday morning there was certainly some timidity amongst the troops.

Thanks to Montys Restaurants

Then some real fun – Arthur rented a motor boat for Saturday morning and we sallied forth (again, don’t ask me why) into Key Biscayne, up under the Rickenbacker Causway, past Bayshore, on out the harbour mouth, a short ride past the beaches of SoBe, and then south to the northern tip of the Keys. The first thing we saw living in the water were a couple of sharks chasing fish, so we decided to go swimming (a bit later, really). We saw lots of nice soft corals, and two lighthouses. Back to return the boat just after midday, I retired hurt (an old war wound started to play up) while Jade and Arthur had lunch and wine at Monty’s. By that stage it was getting perilously close to Arthur’s birthday, so he sensibly decided to spend it on an aeroplane, flying back to Europe. Elian’s gonna miss you Arthur – come back soon!

S T O P P R E S S

The story Miami was talking about at this time

Footnote

Thanks, Geoff, for a wonderful time. I could live in Miami! Recommended visiting.

Cheers!

Arthur

By Gabriel Hopkins

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My second trip away from London in as many weekends began in good fashion last Friday. Destined towards Newcastle, for a real escape from the big city, I had two priorities on setting off:

• Sleeping through the journey (three and half hours on a fast train)
• Not getting into trouble with the locals (a rough lot)

Solution to first problem, a few beers. Problem with solution: remaining sober enough to avoid aforementioned trouble once in the North. It transpired that reaching Newcastle, and waking up just in time to get off the train to avoid ending up in Edinburgh, which is not a wise idea late on a Friday night, I had rather overdone it.

The locals are nicknamed Geordies. They speak in an almost indecipherable accent, wear t-shirts on the coldest nights, and often have a fetish for fighting. So, head down and walking in as straight a line as possible I headed off to find a taxi. It is not unknown for taxi drivers to also hold a rather alarming level of hatred towards “Bloody Southerners”. All went well, however. Cab no. 48 was driven by a northern convert who had spent a couple years south of the Watford Gap, and he forgave me my heritage.

Once out of the city centre, the atmosphere became much more relaxed. Relaxed prices are equally notable. I thought the cabbie was joking when he charged me less than a fiver for what had been a reasonably extensive journey. Later, I learnt the error of my ways. A really decent pint measured in at a little over a pound – no wonder the city is famous for its alcoholism!

Most of the best pubs are run by Scottish and Newcastle Breweries who make McEwans’ beers, Newcastle Brown Ale, Theakstons and the strange tasting 80 shilling. Very few drink anything but Scottish and Newcastle Drinks. Understandably – all of them are good beers and seem to suit the climate – overcast and windy. My favourite of the S&N portfolio is McEwans Exhibition. The Best Scotch (half Ale, half Lager, no whisky) also ranks highly.

My first night was spent in The Lonsdale, a perfect local. Two bars divide the oldies – the flat cap brigade of twenty years ago and what in term time is a large student mass. The quiet room, which has no jukebox, a television, darts and a surprisingly noisy fruit machine was only too resistable. The other was very pleasant – Juke box, fewer hacking coughs, women (and even a few girls) and nicer seats. A lovely night out in the suburbs.

Saturday night proved to be time to hit the town, or ‘toon’ as they Northeners pronounce it. The tradition is that the boys and girls go shopping during the afternoon on a street called High Bridge for a new outfit, designer and expensive, every week. They then wear the outfit out that night, usually to a selection of pubs and clubs in the adjoining Bigg Market.

The Bigg Market was, several years ago, rated the most dangerous street in England. Not that there are any muggers or murderers, but more simply because if you haven’t got muscles like Sylvester Stallone, you risk getting involved in a fight. If you have got muscles like Stallone, you’ll definitely end up being challenged. Not a nice area and as soon as the sun started going down, I stayed well clear.

Not to far away from the Bigg Market, but far enough, is Newcastle’s quayside. We started off at the Offshore 44, which sits almost directly underneath the Tyne Bridge (pictured above). The Geordies would tell you that at £1.90 per pint this place was extortionate. After a while, I started agreeing with them, but I think that was just because they looked violent. A couple of pints of McEwans later on, I felt less intimidated and almost began to try a bit of Geordie vocabularly. All in all, the extortion was well worthwhile the opportunity to sit in a comfortable chair and look out at the beautifully lit river.

Soon we had moved to a cheaper place, the Bridge Hotel. From that point onwards things become a bit mingled in my memory. I remember that I worked out that it must be possible to obtain eight pints for a tenner and then tried to find out whether it was also possible to drink them. At some point later in the evening, I remember a night club with lots of very muscley young girls and even more muscley young boys holding very titghtly onto one or more of them. I was relieved the following morning to also note that I had incurred no bruising whatsoever!

“Arthur” is on holiday

By Gabriel Hopkins

Very possibly the only good thing to come out of “European Union” is English Sunday Opening. Yesterday for the first time in over fifty years, it was possible to drink throughout the Sabbath. About time too.

A fortnight ago, heading back from a little holiday in Cornwall, a friend and I had reached Bristol and decided to go for a well-deserved drink. It was on of those balmy summer days which have made the traditional silly season very laid-back indeed. All we wanted that early afternoon was a refreshing pint, so we went to a pub I know well from previous trips to Bristol, the Albion. As I got the barman’s attention and started to request the urgently-required two pints, we were sourly disappointed to hear “Sorry lads, we’re closed.”

Yesterday, things were different – strolling into the same pub at 4 pm, drinks were in ready circulation and the four traditional hours of closing were finally vanquished.

Whether or not the change in the law is really a good thing in a wider sense is far more difficult to discern. Remembering that the old closing hours were the only reason many men returned home before darkness set in, there must be many wives and children (or even husbands and parents) of hardened boozers who would like to revoke the law already.

Personally, my only complaint is that the powers-that-be didn’t decide to change pub legislation a few weeks earlier, when a coke or an orange juice really didn’t hit the spot and we were ready to raid an insecure-looking off-license just to get hold of a couple cans of even the worst lager.

Bristol in the sun, a relatively unusual predicament, is certainly one of the best places in the country to enjoy a slow afternoon. This weekend, I had the pleasure of staying with my brother in an area of the city called “Clifton”, the Kensington of the West. The most notable features of the suburb are beautiful architecture and a relaxed atmosphere.

Saturday night started at “The Mall”, which is unsurprisingly on The Mall. Best features included a quiet jukebox and comfortable seats. Worst features were definitely the two thick bouncers who came on duty towards the end of our time there and promptly asked everyone I was with for proof of age, even though there were enough empties in front of us to prove that their colleagues hadn’t been quite as fussy.

Decided in “The Mall” that prolonged afternoon drinking most definitely demands lager rather than anything heavier. My brother resisted the advice and stubbornly kept to his Tetley’s which he regretted later on.

Dinner was accompanied with the National Lottery and my next recommendation, Carlsberg Ice. I didn’t like the look of this stuff, as it seemed to be a rip-off of Fosters Ice. The Carlsberg version is equally nice to the Fosters, maybe more so and another good afternoon beer.

The rest of the evening was passed at the Albion, which I mentioned before. A really nice pub, if not a bit young. We were lucky enough to see one of the funniest things in Bristol that night. On the next table, a group of about eight friends, every single one with buck teeth. Maybe they are in a club! Truly bizarre.

“Arthur” is on holiday

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By Gabriel Hopkins

Don’t worry, times aren’t getting tough. I say that in advance because this week I have been travelling far afield to North London, home of dodgy drunks, drugs and even more which doesn’t bear thinking about.

One thing to remember when you’re spending time in the deep North is dress down, so I scrapped the suit and put on some suitably worn atire for the journey (generally East to West) along Holloway Road, starting at an old favourite, the dubiously-entitled Fat Harry’s. Harry it appeared wasn’t around, but there were lots of men with their various terriers and pitbulls sitting around the bar and playing pool. Fat Harry’s is a friendly pub, and reasonably inexpensive too, I remember a hysterical New Year’s Eve there, but I shouldn’t digress.

Further up towards Finsbury Park, but generally heading west is the George Robey, one of these intensely cool places where the young bands play. Luckily, a reasonable escape can be found away from the sound of bawling guitars and funny-looking chaps playing synthesizers. There are two rooms. One with the loud music and late-drinking, the other a rather dark and dingy pub. Memorable was the de rigeur pint of Guinness and pack of cheesey crisps combination. Best not too stay in the Robey too long, as the locals often appear to be getting peaky.

Next, after a quick hike down Seven Sisters Road, where there seem to be enough Kebab and Fish and Chip shops to feed a developing nation, the Hog and Hound. The landlord of the Hog and Hound obviously believes that his pub is deeply cool, and the people who were posing there thought the same. How wrong they were. When you pay for your water and beer combination, you get the eery feeling that you’re subsidisng all those ‘period’ bits of nonsense nailed unselectively to the walls. During term time, this is the only student pub in the North end I know of. As Rick Mayall said, “Nobody likes students, not even students like students.”

Opposite is the Nag’s Head, which is worth a quick glimpse. Rather too legendary, the Nag’s Head is always full to the brim and so after a quick but good pint, it’s off to my favourite pub on Holloway Road, the Hercules.

Many people who I have taken to the Hercules have found the experience rather unsurprising. For a relaxed drink in an unrelaxed area, I find the Barras & Co. pub a great relief. You can always find a comfortable seat and although the view is less than scenic out the windows, inside the architecture and the surrounding are also pleasant. Nice beer too.

The Irish pubs along Holloway Road, that is to say the ones that appear to sell nothing but Guinness and Murphy’s are to be avoided, unless your family have been drinking there for sometime and you once lived in Ireland. The punters in these places and there are thousands, including the Mulberry and the Half Moon, have a peculiar addiction to all things connected to line dancing and other Irish Institutions.

After being so negative about Holloway and Archway’s less English drinking establishment’s it’s only fair to also recommend one of the Irish Pubs. I would like to be more exact, but by the point we got there, memory was not strictly on my side. I can tell you that it is adjacent to Archway tube, but there the recollection ends. For argument’s sake I shall refer to the mysterious pub as the Eire. A less than accurate concordance with drinking regulations is the first thing to strike you about the Eire as you enter at 12.30 and find it still full of young lads drinking and buying beer. The sheer illegality of the place is rather striking throughout one’s stay there. A pleasant pub, especially for Alcoholics.

“Arthur” is on holiday