The St Albans All Comers Challenge 13/3/10.
It’s the hottest day of the year with temperatures soaring to a sweltering 10�C, almost perfect conditions for the task at hand. Ahead lies a trail of the finest (not my words) pubs and beers that St Albans can throw at us with a view to being in a vertical position at closing time. My three companions / opponents are James, a lager man in need of drink education and someone who I have shared many a pint with before but not under such testing conditions. His biggest skill lies in chatting up barmaids and he could use this ploy to slow down the pace of the action and grinding out a draw come closing time. Teemu is from Finland and we have only met briefly once before at a Foo Fighters gig. He also just happens to live in the town so he knows the shortcuts and I am happy to follow his recommendations when it comes to choice of pub. Finally, Mrs B will stick to halves and act as adjudicator, ensuring that all things are kept strictly above board. Seconds away, Round 1
The Goat
We have arranged to meet James & Teemu in the Goat and our cab pulls up outside the rambling 15th century former coaching Inn at around 4.45pm. They are already inside and in the final throes of a bar billiards match that being is temporarily halted by a toddler crawling under the table and refusing to budge. His apologetic mother eventually coaxes him out and the game reconvenes with James emerging as victorious. The pub is quite busy thanks not only to a kiddy’s birthday party but also a spurious sports channel showing live Chelsea v West Ham. Others are gathering for the upcoming 6 Nations Calcutta Cup clash and with this being Mother’s Day weekend, I am of the opinion the pubs could be busy en route. James is sadly clutching the remnants of an undetermined pint of lager whilst Teemu is showing a bit more promise with a pint of Everards Tiger. This is a Young’s pub but they do at least have a good programme of rotating guest beers so myself and Mrs B also opt for the Tiger (pint and half respectively). The aperitif over, we sort out a whip and move into Round 2.
The White Lion
It’s a stroll of at least 30 yards to the White Lion. This is Teemu’s favourite local watering hole so very much home territory for him. The rugby is now fully underway and it’s a squeeze to reach the bar. James turns on the charm and parts the crowds like Moses facing the Red Sea before ordering up a Leeds Best for myself and a little known Greene King offering called Little Bob for Teemu which at 3% ABV deserves to come with a penalty or forfeit. James opts for his Carlsberg. As a Liverpool fan he feels a strange attraction to the products of their sponsors. Personally I would rather drink Crown Paint but at least he didn’t ask for anything out of the old Watney’s Red Barrel pump perched on the bar. The pub has a good selection of ales but these are sneakily hidden between 2 bars so unless the barmaid points them out, you can easily miss some goodies. Mrs B opted for half the Leeds Best and missed out on her preferred Black Sheep causing the first show of discontent of the evening. The pub is divided into 4 sections but is quite plain. Despite the rugby fans congregated in the main bar, we find a quiet corner where my sick mind wonders whether it would be a good idea to play “paws” with the 3 legged pub dog. I decide against it. We’re now into our stride and it’s barely 100 yards to Round 3.
The White Hart Tap
On Teemu’s recommendation we skip past the nearby Hare & Hounds and Garibaldi before reaching the White Hart Tap. The pub itself is a disappointment, quite plain and featureless with newish furnishings and not much in the way of character. The landlord is welcoming enough and steers us through the 6 hand pumps. I opt for the Daleside Old Leg Over whilst Teemu gets in a Rev James. Mrs B takes on half a Landlord and James is as adventurous as ever and goes for his Carlsberg hat trick. With no TV’s and everyone else in town seemingly glued to the rugby, the pub is virtually deserted apart from the docile pub cat occupying the prime bar stool. We are just 3 pubs in and we have already reached the stage of our first nonsensical pub discussions as we debate the use of umlauts in the Finnish language and how many K’s are present in a game of Finnish Scrabble. It is barely 6pm. Best we move on quickly to Round 4. Do not pass Go. Do not collect �200.
The Farmers Boy.
Ah, now this is one of my specific choices as I was particularly interested sampling something from the pub’s own Verulam micro brewery. We arrive as the rugby is reaching its climax and the score locked at 15-15. The scrums on the pitch were nothing compared to the scrum to get to the bar but we emerge with relatively full pints of Clipper IPA and Farmers Joy for Teemu and myself, half of something for Mrs B and er, another Carlsberg. The pub is quite plain and like the White Hart beforehand, nothing particularly stands out apart from its own brews but the rugby crowd, including fully kilted Scotsmen, and the closeness of the score ensure a rousing finale with both sets of supporters willing on a final last kick to settle proceedings. It doesn’t come and everyone shares honours. In the battle of the beers, James is now struggling. The fizz is obviously taking its toll and the pub is also notable for being the first urination station to all concerned. Next up is the longest trek as we head into Round 5.
Ye Olde Fighting Cocks.
Britain’s oldest pub is the Fighting Cocks spurious claim. There has apparently been a pub here since the 8th century but reading between the lines on the various snippets and newspaper cuttings, there is little here that can be traced before the 14th century. It’s like saying the slate on the roof of my house is millions of years old and I therefore live in Britain’s oldest habitable dwelling. Nevertheless it is a hugely attractive building with many fine features. The centerpiece is a 14th century octagonal pigeon house that has been amalgamated into the basic central framework of the pub. A sunken section in one corner is the original cockpit from which the pub name is taken and there are handsome fireplaces, old settles, stuffed animals and plenty of wonky pillars and low beams that have claimed many a 6 footer such as myself. The beer selection was OK without being remarkable with Mrs B and Teemu settling for the now all too common Doom Bar and myself opting for Harveys. I didn’t actually note James preference so we’ll call it Carlsberg. By now the camera is out and several poses are undertaken for those embarrassing shots of blood red eyes that will be entertaining Facebook friends over the coming weeks.
Six Bells.
The journey from the Fighting Cocks to the Six Bells involves a dark stroll down a pathway with water on both sides. After 5 rounds it is just about negotiable, not sure I will want to come back this way though. The Six Bells is the first pub of the evening that I have visited before. The 16th century building comes with all the pre-requisite beams, brasses and sagging ceilings but not a big selection of ales but enough to warrant the walk. We all go for the Tring Royal Poacher except you know who we can still not entice away from the fizzy stuff. Apart from the 3%’er in the White Lion, everyone is still on course although James is by now having to neck back the last 3rd of his pints to keep up. The cracks are showing. No time to recover as Round 7 is virtually next door.
Rose & Crown
You could virtually piss out of the toilet of the Six Bells and hit the drains of the Rose & Crown. Teemu didn’t seem to keen on going in but we were at the furthest point of our crawl and it seemed a waste not to check it out as we had come this far. Much larger than it appears from the outside, we manage to grab a seat where we are promptly welcomed by a large dog in search of attention. The beers on offer are the least interesting we will find all night with just Adnams, Spitfire & Greene King IPA to choose from. Even James Carlsberg looks a bit more of an inspiring choice. Mrs B takes on half a Spitfire whilst Teemu & I head for the Adnams tap. Teemu is now showing the strain and just has a half, bloody lightweight. We are now getting a bit peckish so it can only be Pork Scratching time. Our subsequent debate and in depth analysis on the merits of Pork Scratchings somehow permeates beyond our group and seems to keep a few regulars amused. I think by now we are all beginning to get to the “talking bollocks” stage, especially James for whom it is an art form. Teemu is now half a pint down over James and myself but worst of all, Mrs B has yet to move on to her traditional fallback of Soda & Limes, an action that would have at least diluted the cost of subsequent rounds. That said, I am unable to quantify which pubs have been the best value for money and our initial �70 whip has lasted us so far but is now becoming a little drained.
Lower Red Lion.
It’s up hill to the Lower Red Lion, bypassing the Blue Anchor and the Black Lion on the way (apparently a good move). I have waited years to get to the LRL, one of the most widely acclaimed of St Albans pubs but suffering from a few poor reviews in recent times. We first try out the Ver bar with its exposed brick walls and handsome fireplace. We stock up on 2� pints of Sharps new seasonal ale, 6 Hop IPA and a lager for…oh, you get the drift, before moving on to the Alban bar with its skeletal remnants of old walls that appear to have had the wattle and daub systematically removed leaving the exposed pillars and cross beams. It is quiet for prime time on a Saturday night and this is one place I would have expected to be heaving. The 6 Ales would easily keep me entertained for the night and it comfrtably sits among my favourite of St Albans pubs even if it doesn’t appear to be at the peak of its popularity. Even Teemu has resumed on full pints although James is becoming increasingly erratic in the speech department.
The Portland Arms
Having been here before and knowing it was a Fullers pub and therefore not going to offer anything I can’t get easily elsewhere, I would have opted against the Portland but this is another of Teemu’s favourites and would at least give me the opportunity to force feed James with a pint of Discovery. Sod's law – they didn’t have any and I was actually quite disappointed with the selection with just Pride, ESB and Gales Seafarers. The pub was buzzing and the live music seemed to be pretty popular although the pub wasn’t the best laid out to accommodate such entertainment. Grabbing any seats or tables was impossible and since this was Pub No 9, it was probably becoming more of a necessity. Nevertheless, we remained upright for the duration of our chosen ales (and lager) and plotted Pub No 10. We are now in the hands of Old Father Time and could probably sneak in another two.
The Verulam.
It’s 3 minutes past 11 and we turn up at the Farriers, the birthplace of CAMRA. They aren’t interested in our company, the three or four people lined up at the bar peer at us with disdainful looks. Luckily the Verulam Arms opposite is a little more accommodating. My previous experience of the pub is limited to a nose through the door and dismissing it as being far too gastro to bother with. At gone 11 on a Saturday night it feels like a normal but quite dull boozer with greyscale d�cor and not a particularly great ale selection however Buntingford’s Highwayman IPA was a new one on me so it wasn’t a hard choice, Pride & Black Sheep being the other options. Teemu has given up and orders nothing. I’ve definitely won my battle with him. James finally diversifies from lager to lager shandy and he is only capable of getting through half of his pint. 2-0 to me! Mrs B goes for half a Black Sheep from which little more than a sip is taken before being passed to me for instant diposal on top of the Highwayman IPA. Bingo! A full house! Outdone the lot of them! 3-0. I punch the air with celebration. That’ll teach them to mess with the master. Hope they all have stonking hangovers in the morning.
11� Hours Later….
We have been seated in the Waterend Barn for an hour. This magnificent 16th century barn was moved and rebuilt in the city centre in the 1930’s and is certainly one of the more striking Wetherspoons. I have finished my large breakfast and am about to start my 3rd pint as Teemu and James stroll in. 2 bacon baps, 2 teas and an orange juice apiece. Ha Ha! I remind them of my fabulous victory over their inferior drinking capabilities and even marvel at being able to read my apparently coherent notes on what we all had and where. The scoreboard reads 10� pints to me, 4 � pints to Mrs B, 8� pints to Teemu and 9� pints to James, one of which was a half finished shandy. Who’s the daddy? Teemu looks at me bewilderingly. “But you haven’t taken into consideration the 4 pints we had before you got to the first pub”. BASTARDS!!!!
All the events depicted above may or may not have actually happened. Any resemblance to people or pubs, real or fictitious are purely deliberate. No animals were harmed in the making of this blog. Oh, except for the cute little piggy that ended up in the Pork Scratchings at the Rose & Crown.
