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15-12-2023, 07:47
Visit the Shut up about Barclay Perkins site (http://barclayperkins.blogspot.com/2023/12/youre-welcome.html)
We’re not up that early. It’s half nine before we get down to the breakfast room.
I let Dolores do her thing first. She gives me a pot of tea to entertain me while she loads up a plate. Then it’s my turn. Fried egg, bacon and fried tomato. About the minimum to constitute a cooked breakfast.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4zVdZu4rh6HLLJyC5bs3k3inuRzFSU8ME48xTEbpvo gzVGHc2N6v5ITCKuQhOvDs6_bRR5bE7AQAzY18duSgiqPue6xE nwzba3FJ8pCEcpmXksYRQ_MxFAS0n1Ig0SjPwgzO8M6zZ4NnGK 3el4vNY9tsZCa-_IE3jMFeEJt-ZlVGfb8YBPanM0WDbZM/w640-h480/breakfast_1.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4zVdZu4rh6HLLJyC5bs3k3inuRzFSU8ME48xTEbpvo gzVGHc2N6v5ITCKuQhOvDs6_bRR5bE7AQAzY18duSgiqPue6xE nwzba3FJ8pCEcpmXksYRQ_MxFAS0n1Ig0SjPwgzO8M6zZ4NnGK 3el4vNY9tsZCa-_IE3jMFeEJt-ZlVGfb8YBPanM0WDbZM/s4000/breakfast_1.jpg)
I don’t bother with the offal tubes. They aren’t nice. Nor with the hash browns. I’m in Britain. They have no place in a breakfast here. Sorry. Especially ones that look like a triangle of deep-freeze battered fish, as those here. Beans I’ve always considered optional.
It’s pretty crowded. Lots of tourists. Many over, I’m guessing, for a bit of shopping. And not the light kind.
Breakfasted, we’re ready for the morning’s activity. Which is a short walk away. On Euston Road. Where the puddles are even larger than yesterday. Seas of filth washing black tides onto the pavement with each passing bus. Lovely.
The Wellcome Centre is our destination. Where there’s an exhibition Dolores wants to see. On beauty.
Other than security guards, I’m about the only bloke. Even though the exhibition is about both male and female (and other genders) beauty. Not sure what that is telling us about society. And I’m only here accompanying Dolores. As it’s free. I wouldn’t have paid.
Dolores is slightly disappointed. “It sounded more interesting in the internet description.”
“Isn’t that true of everything?”
Escaping out onto the dreck-laden pavement, we’re directly opposite Euston station. Which is cleverly hidden by a bland office block. But in front of that are the only remaining old bits of the station. One of which houses the Euston Tap (https://www.eustontap.com/).
“Fancy a pint over there?” I ask.
“Can do.” I’m pleased to hear her reply.
It’s not very full downstairs. But there are fuck all seats. Luckily, two are unoccupied. Which is where we plop our arses.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3tmOom40OsNp4A5ryE7ivMmH6UEaV4Psxm1zPZ7wc-_Xj8ZDHmpBc777Q7XTHOk6UkrBI_C9dnMzMNI4keDiM6aAwVW8 EDQDELjd3UI8oSvO7wLkTA485CB2ZZIVXIwJ45TJ7h_fUuynDO jDQzah5mw4qKb73Jj-E3UBaXmc2cDH6_DoijzbtgOjrSg/w640-h480/Mild.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3tmOom40OsNp4A5ryE7ivMmH6UEaV4Psxm1zPZ7wc-_Xj8ZDHmpBc777Q7XTHOk6UkrBI_C9dnMzMNI4keDiM6aAwVW8 EDQDELjd3UI8oSvO7wLkTA485CB2ZZIVXIwJ45TJ7h_fUuynDO jDQzah5mw4qKb73Jj-E3UBaXmc2cDH6_DoijzbtgOjrSg/s4000/Mild.jpg)
“Look. They’ve got a Mild. And it’s only 4.40 a pint.” What the fuck? It’s been over six quid in the other pubs.
“I’m having a pint. Do you want one as well?”
“Yes.” Dolores does like a pint of Mild. One of the many reasons I love her.
It’s Marble Mild. At 4.1% ABV, quite strong for the style.
“At this strength, it’s like a pre-WW II sixpenny Mild. And …”
“Not interested, Ronald.”
Um.
I switch rapidly to: “Rather nice, isn’t it?” Which it is. Malty and not too sweet.
The taps aren’t very ergonomic, placed weirdly high. Especially the keg ones. The poor lass serving can only just about reach them. And that’s wearing deep platform shoes.
Dolores polishes off her beer pretty quickly.
“I can see you didn’t enjoy that.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, she replies: “I’ll have another pint, please.”
Which I get her. I understand what’s best for me.
The short walk back to the hotel involves some more puddle-avoiding on Euston Road. How can the street get so filthy?
“Do you think they ever clean the streets?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
Sandwiches and whisky back in our room. None of the latter for Dolores. She has a four quid fifty, 2-litre bottle of cider.
After snacking, Dolores is off again. To the Foundlings Hospital. I’m staying behind to rest. And to save the ten quid it costs to get in. There’s whisky that needs drinking, too. Did I mention that?
When Dolores gest back from the depressing baby place, I ask:
“What’s the plan is for this evening?”
“Wetherspoons.” She replies, succinctly. Fair enough. At least it won’t leave us destitute.
We walk past the old tram tunnel to Shakespeare’s Head (https://api.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/london/shakespeares-head-holborn). The closest Wetherspoons. The only one in walking distance. *
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBlhSGxgucFM3zOKnibLGIheSvhrqlu34SlMnxsvlyk 5C6Vk9pz78Dj70kqCNVE7ho-XpSqK7rkGHb5pJlVXiKnEVKTJl3A5xjmdN1K0DML3WrR7WqiPz OYuvLfDDV7q-AN-NOZSfyHs3ltMJlx5LYWc7V85iHN-GBqZanTRsZpjCJpcTXTxl2dMl1j8/w640-h490/Shakespeares_Head.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBlhSGxgucFM3zOKnibLGIheSvhrqlu34SlMnxsvlyk 5C6Vk9pz78Dj70kqCNVE7ho-XpSqK7rkGHb5pJlVXiKnEVKTJl3A5xjmdN1K0DML3WrR7WqiPz OYuvLfDDV7q-AN-NOZSfyHs3ltMJlx5LYWc7V85iHN-GBqZanTRsZpjCJpcTXTxl2dMl1j8/s4408/Shakespeares_Head.jpg)
It’s pretty full. Not with Christmas parties. Just a jolly Saturday evening crowd. We eventually find spots on a large round table. Where a very mixed group of people are chatting merrily away.
Three female pensioners from Essex are seated next to us. A very cheerful bunch. Being a few drinks in probably helps. Opposite is a flutter of youngie people, happily joining in. It’s all very social.
“Everyone is younger than me now.” I mention, unwisely, to one of the pensioners.
“I am.” She replies proudly. That’s me told.
London Pride for Dolores, Abbot for me. Which costs not that far short of a fiver. More than the Marble Mild. London prices are weird.
As we’re having so much fun, we stay for seconds.
It’s not too late when we get back to the hotel. Dolores slips off to sleep while I watch Match of the Day. With my friend the very cheap whisky.
Euston Tap (https://www.eustontap.com/)
190 Euston Rd.,
London NW1 2EF.
https://www.eustontap.com/
Shakespeare’s Head (https://api.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/london/shakespeares-head-holborn)
Africa House,
64-68 Kingsway,
London WC2B 6BG.
https://api.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/london/shakespeares-head-holborn
* Or so I thought.
More... (http://barclayperkins.blogspot.com/2023/12/youre-welcome.html)
We’re not up that early. It’s half nine before we get down to the breakfast room.
I let Dolores do her thing first. She gives me a pot of tea to entertain me while she loads up a plate. Then it’s my turn. Fried egg, bacon and fried tomato. About the minimum to constitute a cooked breakfast.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4zVdZu4rh6HLLJyC5bs3k3inuRzFSU8ME48xTEbpvo gzVGHc2N6v5ITCKuQhOvDs6_bRR5bE7AQAzY18duSgiqPue6xE nwzba3FJ8pCEcpmXksYRQ_MxFAS0n1Ig0SjPwgzO8M6zZ4NnGK 3el4vNY9tsZCa-_IE3jMFeEJt-ZlVGfb8YBPanM0WDbZM/w640-h480/breakfast_1.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4zVdZu4rh6HLLJyC5bs3k3inuRzFSU8ME48xTEbpvo gzVGHc2N6v5ITCKuQhOvDs6_bRR5bE7AQAzY18duSgiqPue6xE nwzba3FJ8pCEcpmXksYRQ_MxFAS0n1Ig0SjPwgzO8M6zZ4NnGK 3el4vNY9tsZCa-_IE3jMFeEJt-ZlVGfb8YBPanM0WDbZM/s4000/breakfast_1.jpg)
I don’t bother with the offal tubes. They aren’t nice. Nor with the hash browns. I’m in Britain. They have no place in a breakfast here. Sorry. Especially ones that look like a triangle of deep-freeze battered fish, as those here. Beans I’ve always considered optional.
It’s pretty crowded. Lots of tourists. Many over, I’m guessing, for a bit of shopping. And not the light kind.
Breakfasted, we’re ready for the morning’s activity. Which is a short walk away. On Euston Road. Where the puddles are even larger than yesterday. Seas of filth washing black tides onto the pavement with each passing bus. Lovely.
The Wellcome Centre is our destination. Where there’s an exhibition Dolores wants to see. On beauty.
Other than security guards, I’m about the only bloke. Even though the exhibition is about both male and female (and other genders) beauty. Not sure what that is telling us about society. And I’m only here accompanying Dolores. As it’s free. I wouldn’t have paid.
Dolores is slightly disappointed. “It sounded more interesting in the internet description.”
“Isn’t that true of everything?”
Escaping out onto the dreck-laden pavement, we’re directly opposite Euston station. Which is cleverly hidden by a bland office block. But in front of that are the only remaining old bits of the station. One of which houses the Euston Tap (https://www.eustontap.com/).
“Fancy a pint over there?” I ask.
“Can do.” I’m pleased to hear her reply.
It’s not very full downstairs. But there are fuck all seats. Luckily, two are unoccupied. Which is where we plop our arses.
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3tmOom40OsNp4A5ryE7ivMmH6UEaV4Psxm1zPZ7wc-_Xj8ZDHmpBc777Q7XTHOk6UkrBI_C9dnMzMNI4keDiM6aAwVW8 EDQDELjd3UI8oSvO7wLkTA485CB2ZZIVXIwJ45TJ7h_fUuynDO jDQzah5mw4qKb73Jj-E3UBaXmc2cDH6_DoijzbtgOjrSg/w640-h480/Mild.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3tmOom40OsNp4A5ryE7ivMmH6UEaV4Psxm1zPZ7wc-_Xj8ZDHmpBc777Q7XTHOk6UkrBI_C9dnMzMNI4keDiM6aAwVW8 EDQDELjd3UI8oSvO7wLkTA485CB2ZZIVXIwJ45TJ7h_fUuynDO jDQzah5mw4qKb73Jj-E3UBaXmc2cDH6_DoijzbtgOjrSg/s4000/Mild.jpg)
“Look. They’ve got a Mild. And it’s only 4.40 a pint.” What the fuck? It’s been over six quid in the other pubs.
“I’m having a pint. Do you want one as well?”
“Yes.” Dolores does like a pint of Mild. One of the many reasons I love her.
It’s Marble Mild. At 4.1% ABV, quite strong for the style.
“At this strength, it’s like a pre-WW II sixpenny Mild. And …”
“Not interested, Ronald.”
Um.
I switch rapidly to: “Rather nice, isn’t it?” Which it is. Malty and not too sweet.
The taps aren’t very ergonomic, placed weirdly high. Especially the keg ones. The poor lass serving can only just about reach them. And that’s wearing deep platform shoes.
Dolores polishes off her beer pretty quickly.
“I can see you didn’t enjoy that.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, she replies: “I’ll have another pint, please.”
Which I get her. I understand what’s best for me.
The short walk back to the hotel involves some more puddle-avoiding on Euston Road. How can the street get so filthy?
“Do you think they ever clean the streets?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
Sandwiches and whisky back in our room. None of the latter for Dolores. She has a four quid fifty, 2-litre bottle of cider.
After snacking, Dolores is off again. To the Foundlings Hospital. I’m staying behind to rest. And to save the ten quid it costs to get in. There’s whisky that needs drinking, too. Did I mention that?
When Dolores gest back from the depressing baby place, I ask:
“What’s the plan is for this evening?”
“Wetherspoons.” She replies, succinctly. Fair enough. At least it won’t leave us destitute.
We walk past the old tram tunnel to Shakespeare’s Head (https://api.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/london/shakespeares-head-holborn). The closest Wetherspoons. The only one in walking distance. *
https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBlhSGxgucFM3zOKnibLGIheSvhrqlu34SlMnxsvlyk 5C6Vk9pz78Dj70kqCNVE7ho-XpSqK7rkGHb5pJlVXiKnEVKTJl3A5xjmdN1K0DML3WrR7WqiPz OYuvLfDDV7q-AN-NOZSfyHs3ltMJlx5LYWc7V85iHN-GBqZanTRsZpjCJpcTXTxl2dMl1j8/w640-h490/Shakespeares_Head.jpg (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBlhSGxgucFM3zOKnibLGIheSvhrqlu34SlMnxsvlyk 5C6Vk9pz78Dj70kqCNVE7ho-XpSqK7rkGHb5pJlVXiKnEVKTJl3A5xjmdN1K0DML3WrR7WqiPz OYuvLfDDV7q-AN-NOZSfyHs3ltMJlx5LYWc7V85iHN-GBqZanTRsZpjCJpcTXTxl2dMl1j8/s4408/Shakespeares_Head.jpg)
It’s pretty full. Not with Christmas parties. Just a jolly Saturday evening crowd. We eventually find spots on a large round table. Where a very mixed group of people are chatting merrily away.
Three female pensioners from Essex are seated next to us. A very cheerful bunch. Being a few drinks in probably helps. Opposite is a flutter of youngie people, happily joining in. It’s all very social.
“Everyone is younger than me now.” I mention, unwisely, to one of the pensioners.
“I am.” She replies proudly. That’s me told.
London Pride for Dolores, Abbot for me. Which costs not that far short of a fiver. More than the Marble Mild. London prices are weird.
As we’re having so much fun, we stay for seconds.
It’s not too late when we get back to the hotel. Dolores slips off to sleep while I watch Match of the Day. With my friend the very cheap whisky.
Euston Tap (https://www.eustontap.com/)
190 Euston Rd.,
London NW1 2EF.
https://www.eustontap.com/
Shakespeare’s Head (https://api.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/london/shakespeares-head-holborn)
Africa House,
64-68 Kingsway,
London WC2B 6BG.
https://api.jdwetherspoon.com/pubs/all-pubs/england/london/shakespeares-head-holborn
* Or so I thought.
More... (http://barclayperkins.blogspot.com/2023/12/youre-welcome.html)