Pubsignman
10-05-2012, 18:20
I've read a couple of books recently that had some interesting descriptions of pubs in them, giving an small insight into what pubs were like at various points in history. I thought it might be nice to have a thread to post any memorable pub related passages from books you've read.
I'll start with a couple from George Orwell's 'Keep the Aspidistra Flying', which is set in London, 1934. In the first, the book's protaganist, Gordon Comstock, stands outside a pub debating whether to enter and spend the last pennies he has to his name.
In Camden Town the pubs were full and noisy, though
this was only Thursday. Three women, red-armed, squat as the beer
mugs in their hands, stood outside a pub door, talking. From
within came hoarse voices, fag-smoke, the fume of beer. Gordon
thought of the Crichton Arms. Flaxman might be there..
He felt dreadfully thirsty already. It had been a mistake to let
himself think of beer. As he approached the Crichton, he heard
voices singing. The great garish pub seemed to be more brightly
lighted than usual. There was a concert of something going on
inside. Twenty ripe male voices were chanting in unison:
'Fo--or REE'S a jorrigoo' fellow,
For REE'S a jorrigoo' fellow,
For REE'S a jorrigoo' fe--ELL--OW--
And toori oori us!'
At least, that was what it sounded like. Gordon drew nearer,
pierced by a ravishing thirst. The voices were so soggy, so
infinitely beery. When you heard them you saw the scarlet faces of
prosperous plumbers. There was a private room behind the bar where
the Buffaloes held their secret conclaves. Doubtless it was they
who were singing. They were giving some kind of commemorative
booze to their president, secretary, Grand Herbivore, or whatever
he is called. Gordon hesitated outside the Saloon bar. Better to
go to the public bar, perhaps. Draught beer in the public, bottled
beer in the saloon. He went round to the other side of the pub.
The beer-choked voices followed him:
'With a toori oori ay.
An' a toori oori ay!
'Fo--or REE'S a jorrigoo' fellow,
For REE'S a jorrigoo' fellow--'
He felt quite faint for a moment. But it was fatigue and hunger as
well as thirst. He could picture the cosy room where those
Buffaloes were singing; the roaring fire, the big shiny table, the
bovine photographs on the wall. Could picture also, as the singing
ceased, twenty scarlet faces disappearing into pots of beer. Already he seemed to have the metallic taste of draught
beer on his tongue.
Gordon moved back to the saloon bar. The window was frosted, and
also steamy from the heat inside. Still, there were chinks where
you could see through. He peeped in. Yes, Flaxman was there.
The saloon bar was crowded. Like all rooms seen from the outside,
it looked ineffably cosy. The fire that blazed in the grate
danced, mirrored, in the brass spittoons. Gordon thought he could
almost smell the beer through the glass. Flaxman was propping up
the bar with two fish-faced pals who looked like insurance-touts of
the better type. One elbow on the bar, his foot on the rail, a
beer-streaked glass in the other hand, he was swapping backchat
with the blonde cutie barmaid. She was standing on a chair behind
the bar, ranging the bottled beer and talking saucily over her
shoulder. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but you could
guess. Flaxman let fall some memorable witticism. The fish-faced
men bellowed with obscene laughter. And the blonde cutie,
tittering down at him, half shocked and half delighted, wriggled
her neat little bum.
And in this passage Gordon visits a pub with his well-to-do friend Ravelston;
Presently they passed a low-looking pub on
a corner in a side-street. A sour cloud of beer seemed to hang
about it. The smell revolted Ravelston. He would have quickened
his pace to get away from it. But Gordon paused, his nostrils
tickled.
'Christ! I could do with a drink,' he said.
'So could I,' said Ravelston gallantly.
Gordon shoved open the door of the public bar, Ravelston following.
Ravelston persuaded himself that he was fond of pubs, especially
low-class pubs. Pubs are genuinely proletarian. In a pub you can
meet the working class on equal terms--or that's the theory,
anyway. But in practice Ravelston never went into a pub unless he
was with somebody like Gordon, and he always felt like a fish out
of water when he got there. A foul yet coldish air enveloped them.
It was a filthy, smoky room, low-ceilinged, with a sawdusted floor
and plain deal tables ringed by generations of beer-pots. In one
corner four monstrous women with breasts the size of melons were
sitting drinking porter and talking with bitter intensity about
someone called Mrs Croop. The landlady, a tall grim woman with a
black fringe, looking like the madame of a brothel, stood behind
the bar, her powerful forearms folded, watching a game of darts
which was going on between four labourers and a postman. You had
to duck under the darts as you crossed the room, there was a
moment's hush and people glanced inquisitively at Ravelston. He
was so obviously a gentleman. They didn't see his type very often
in the public bar.
Ravelston pretended not to notice that they were staring at him.
He lounged towards the bar, pulling off a glove to feel for the
money in his pocket. 'What's yours?' he said casually.
But Gordon had already shoved his way ahead and was tapping a
shilling on the bar. Always pay for the first round of drinks! It
was his point of honour. Ravelston made for the only vacant table.
A navvy leaning on the bar turned on his elbow and gave him a long,
insolent stare 'A ---- toff!' he was thinking. Gordon came back
balancing two pint glasses of the dark common ale. They were thick
cheap glasses, thick as jam jars almost, and dim and greasy. A
thin yellow froth was subsiding on the beer. The air was thick
with gunpowdery tobacco-smoke. Ravelston caught sight of a well-
filled spittoon near the bar and averted his eyes. It crossed his
mind that this beer had been sucked up from some beetle-ridden
cellar through yards of slimy tube, and that the glasses had never
been washed in their lives, only rinsed in beery water. Gordon was
very hungry. He could have done with some bread and cheese, but to
order any would have been to betray the fact that he had had no
dinner. He took a deep pull at his beer and lighted a cigarette,
which made him forget his hunger a little. Ravelston also
swallowed a mouthful or so and set his glass gingerly down. It was
typical London beer, sickly and yet leaving a chemical after-taste.
Ravelston thought of the wines of Burgundy.
I'll try to dig a few more out that have stuck in my memory over recent years.
I'll start with a couple from George Orwell's 'Keep the Aspidistra Flying', which is set in London, 1934. In the first, the book's protaganist, Gordon Comstock, stands outside a pub debating whether to enter and spend the last pennies he has to his name.
In Camden Town the pubs were full and noisy, though
this was only Thursday. Three women, red-armed, squat as the beer
mugs in their hands, stood outside a pub door, talking. From
within came hoarse voices, fag-smoke, the fume of beer. Gordon
thought of the Crichton Arms. Flaxman might be there..
He felt dreadfully thirsty already. It had been a mistake to let
himself think of beer. As he approached the Crichton, he heard
voices singing. The great garish pub seemed to be more brightly
lighted than usual. There was a concert of something going on
inside. Twenty ripe male voices were chanting in unison:
'Fo--or REE'S a jorrigoo' fellow,
For REE'S a jorrigoo' fellow,
For REE'S a jorrigoo' fe--ELL--OW--
And toori oori us!'
At least, that was what it sounded like. Gordon drew nearer,
pierced by a ravishing thirst. The voices were so soggy, so
infinitely beery. When you heard them you saw the scarlet faces of
prosperous plumbers. There was a private room behind the bar where
the Buffaloes held their secret conclaves. Doubtless it was they
who were singing. They were giving some kind of commemorative
booze to their president, secretary, Grand Herbivore, or whatever
he is called. Gordon hesitated outside the Saloon bar. Better to
go to the public bar, perhaps. Draught beer in the public, bottled
beer in the saloon. He went round to the other side of the pub.
The beer-choked voices followed him:
'With a toori oori ay.
An' a toori oori ay!
'Fo--or REE'S a jorrigoo' fellow,
For REE'S a jorrigoo' fellow--'
He felt quite faint for a moment. But it was fatigue and hunger as
well as thirst. He could picture the cosy room where those
Buffaloes were singing; the roaring fire, the big shiny table, the
bovine photographs on the wall. Could picture also, as the singing
ceased, twenty scarlet faces disappearing into pots of beer. Already he seemed to have the metallic taste of draught
beer on his tongue.
Gordon moved back to the saloon bar. The window was frosted, and
also steamy from the heat inside. Still, there were chinks where
you could see through. He peeped in. Yes, Flaxman was there.
The saloon bar was crowded. Like all rooms seen from the outside,
it looked ineffably cosy. The fire that blazed in the grate
danced, mirrored, in the brass spittoons. Gordon thought he could
almost smell the beer through the glass. Flaxman was propping up
the bar with two fish-faced pals who looked like insurance-touts of
the better type. One elbow on the bar, his foot on the rail, a
beer-streaked glass in the other hand, he was swapping backchat
with the blonde cutie barmaid. She was standing on a chair behind
the bar, ranging the bottled beer and talking saucily over her
shoulder. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but you could
guess. Flaxman let fall some memorable witticism. The fish-faced
men bellowed with obscene laughter. And the blonde cutie,
tittering down at him, half shocked and half delighted, wriggled
her neat little bum.
And in this passage Gordon visits a pub with his well-to-do friend Ravelston;
Presently they passed a low-looking pub on
a corner in a side-street. A sour cloud of beer seemed to hang
about it. The smell revolted Ravelston. He would have quickened
his pace to get away from it. But Gordon paused, his nostrils
tickled.
'Christ! I could do with a drink,' he said.
'So could I,' said Ravelston gallantly.
Gordon shoved open the door of the public bar, Ravelston following.
Ravelston persuaded himself that he was fond of pubs, especially
low-class pubs. Pubs are genuinely proletarian. In a pub you can
meet the working class on equal terms--or that's the theory,
anyway. But in practice Ravelston never went into a pub unless he
was with somebody like Gordon, and he always felt like a fish out
of water when he got there. A foul yet coldish air enveloped them.
It was a filthy, smoky room, low-ceilinged, with a sawdusted floor
and plain deal tables ringed by generations of beer-pots. In one
corner four monstrous women with breasts the size of melons were
sitting drinking porter and talking with bitter intensity about
someone called Mrs Croop. The landlady, a tall grim woman with a
black fringe, looking like the madame of a brothel, stood behind
the bar, her powerful forearms folded, watching a game of darts
which was going on between four labourers and a postman. You had
to duck under the darts as you crossed the room, there was a
moment's hush and people glanced inquisitively at Ravelston. He
was so obviously a gentleman. They didn't see his type very often
in the public bar.
Ravelston pretended not to notice that they were staring at him.
He lounged towards the bar, pulling off a glove to feel for the
money in his pocket. 'What's yours?' he said casually.
But Gordon had already shoved his way ahead and was tapping a
shilling on the bar. Always pay for the first round of drinks! It
was his point of honour. Ravelston made for the only vacant table.
A navvy leaning on the bar turned on his elbow and gave him a long,
insolent stare 'A ---- toff!' he was thinking. Gordon came back
balancing two pint glasses of the dark common ale. They were thick
cheap glasses, thick as jam jars almost, and dim and greasy. A
thin yellow froth was subsiding on the beer. The air was thick
with gunpowdery tobacco-smoke. Ravelston caught sight of a well-
filled spittoon near the bar and averted his eyes. It crossed his
mind that this beer had been sucked up from some beetle-ridden
cellar through yards of slimy tube, and that the glasses had never
been washed in their lives, only rinsed in beery water. Gordon was
very hungry. He could have done with some bread and cheese, but to
order any would have been to betray the fact that he had had no
dinner. He took a deep pull at his beer and lighted a cigarette,
which made him forget his hunger a little. Ravelston also
swallowed a mouthful or so and set his glass gingerly down. It was
typical London beer, sickly and yet leaving a chemical after-taste.
Ravelston thought of the wines of Burgundy.
I'll try to dig a few more out that have stuck in my memory over recent years.