There won’t be any new posts at this address.  I have, for a 2nd time, run out of allotted storage for the Endless British Pub Crawl Project.  If you go to the start page of the original Endless British Pub Crawl, you’ll find an apt explanation of what happened to this one (the Endless British Pub Crawl Continues), as well.  Don’t worry… the drunkenbunny version of the blog has gone upstate to chase rabbits on the farm we sent 1pumplane to stay.

The Original Endless British Pub Crawl covered the first 1292 pubs and other things between 14 January 2009 and 5 January 2015.

This continuation, which ends with this post, covered 5 January 2015 until today, 07 October 2018.  In addition to the other nonsense, you can find write-ups for pubs #1293 – 2175.

Another blog with another name is next and will cover all the same nonsense as the first two and still will be there to entertain me more than my audience; most of you lot are not even a consideration.

If you came for the pub write-ups (you sad bastard), it is probably easier to find one you are interested in on the map (linked here).  It covers all three iterations (so far) of the blog.

Pub #2175:

Meeting Jackie at West Hampstead Station on our way to Borehamwood for the HIGNFY taping, I had 20 minutes to burn and wandered down to The Gallery, a local watering hole.  Watering hole?  Does that sound like something a hipster would say?  I should have asked one while I enjoyed my stout but I didn’t want to hear anyone else speak since one of the bartenders, the two lesbians on an afternoon date, and the drunk at the bar all sported the most grating American accents I’ve ever heard…not charming, like mine.

 

 

Most of the beardsters and the other bartender were British — or spake as though they were — but ALL appeared to be Trust Fund Cockneys.  The beer is good but pricy.  The upper windows are probably the best thing about this place:

 

…becasuse they are over the door back out to the street.

Pub #2174:

We first went to the Seabank Hotel for a drink at the Smuggler’s Bar before a concert a couple of years ago and really liked the building so we booked a room there for a brief getaway.  The last night of our stay there was supposed to be a comedian in the bar at 8:30 so we headed down for cocktails only to find the Smuggler’s closed.  “The Ogmore is open,” an employee helpfully noted and we headed over to the other bar.

I’ve been joking about the advanced age of the citizenry of Porthcawl (funny because it’s true); but, we were the youngest hotel guests by at least a couple of decades (a fact that drew attention and, I believe, more generous portions).

So there we were, no shit, in the Ogmore (which I suspect is Welsh for “God’s Waiting Room”) waiting with the ghosts for a comedian who would not arrive (so, maybe “Godot’s Waiting Room”).  They were having Bingo in there, instead, and we finished up the last round to the mellifluous accent of the caller.

We were each fighting a cold when we travelled but it got steadily worse during our stay.  I came to be convinced that we were being milked of our vitality by the building for this hive of ancients.  One case in point came the first evening when an old man drunkenly emerged in front of me and creakily bent to pick up some debris on the carpet.  I cleared my throat, hoping to pass, but he slowly stood not-quite-upright, considered his treasure, then discarded it in a plant pot.  He then turned to me and I realised he was no more than 45 years old…crikey, is this a pensioner’s version of Get Out, or what?

The next morning, I was surveying the coast from our room and realised there were coach trip people milling around a couple of buses.  Oh, I thought, this is a holiday destination for people who have been coming here since the War.  Down at breakfast, they were everywhere.  Our table was near the one set aside for their drivers and some of the old women (identifying themselves as “The Golden Girls,” even though the youngest could have been Bea Arthur’s granny) came over to try to seduce the gents.

We left with full-blown cases of flu, weakened in direct proportion to these women’s increase in libido and vitality.  While possibly unrelated, I’m feeling much better and younger now a few days after leaving.

Oh, the drinks in the Ogmore are dirt cheap and not at all bad.

 

 

Pub #2173:

An old man (in Porthcawl? you must be mistaken!) staggered toward me and asked if this was Mary Street.  “I don’t know, sir, I’m not from here.  But, if I were to guess I would say it is probably Lonely Street.”  He looked puzzled and I pointed to the sign on the Brentwood declaring it “Heartbreak Hotel” (the annual Porthcawl Elvis Festival just ended over the weekend).

 

 

A couple of days later, I decided to drop in for a cry there in the gloom or a cider.  A group of what I suspected to be local hoodlums (or, perhaps the cutest jailbirds you ever did see) eyed me suspiciously.  Each of them came out to the garden where I wound up and assessed me while finishing a quick ciggy.

 

 

I spotted a dozen copies of the above sign scattered about the pub and its gents room.  Thinking this to be an example of protesting too much, I decided to finish up and go back to the hotel because…y’know…we can’t go on together with suspicious minds.

 

 

Pub #2172:

There were three of them at the Rock Inn bar eating massive platters of baked beans and toast.  The bartender rose from his trough and poured me a cider and I joined them watching one of the teles that was showing a true crime show about the murders done by a Swindon taxi driver (one of which occurred about the time we moved there).

 

 

The picture of the guy standing there, above, was taken about ten minutes after he took up that position.  I am sure he didn’t so much as blink between commercial breaks and I’m not entirely sure he was breathing.  I’d heard the conclusion of this story years earlier, so I bid everyone adieu and moved on with my day.

 

 

Porthcawl is very odd but this first bit is something I noticed elsewhere (all over England, Wales, and Scotland).  Why are the “sanitary’ disposal bags decorated with a southern belle drag queen?  Cue the earworm…

 

 

I may have been high, but I was amused to find myself on Schindler’s Lifts:

 

 

Best thrift store book section in town has everything alphabetised save for a M through N demilitarised zone:

 

 

The Grade 2 listed public loos are under threat of closure.

 

 

This would be criminal for this piece of grand architecture but also an assault on the residents and visitors whose average age is about 117 years old.  They’ve got to go somewhere, and they probably have to go NOW.

 

 

The local history museum is housed in a Victorian jail house (so, part of the exhibit):

 

 

I was taken with the iron gutters and drain pipes still in good nick (in this good nick).

 

 

We had a grand view from our room.  Low tide:

 

 

And, high tide:

 

 

The Citizenship application, here, includes a lot of potentially disqualifying acts, the specific language being

3.9 In times of peace or war have you ever been involved in, or suspected of involvement in, war crimes, crimes against humanity or genocide?

I think the great British public could get behind adding,

Or, have you ever made a decent — or even strong — cup of coffee or given succor to someone who has done so?

That would be the test for belonging here.  Hopefully, that test will not be made retroactive (it’s part of my culture).

{note: this was at the Seabank Hotel…I don’t have data on other Porthcawl locations that will appear, here, in due course}

 

Pub #2171:

It is a long trip to Porthcawl and we were sorely peckish.  We also had an hour until we could claim our room, so we tried to find a place with an open kitchen at 3pm.  Unsurprisingly, there were slim pickings: it’s October, fer gawd’s sake, and we are the only tourists under 80 who they’ll see for the next 6 months.  We lucked out, eventually, and had some decent plates of better than average seafood and pub grub in the Saltwater Inn.  The wine was good, too.

 

 

If you can’t picture it, it might be because the name changes fairly regularly.  Here’s a Google Streetview of the building (from today as of this edit) in one of its recent incarnations:

 

 

With our choice of seats (the bar was busy but we seemed the only diners) we watched the receding tide — a metaphor for the rest of the trip.

 

 

Pub #2170:

Sunday afternoon, the walk from Brixton Market to Clapham Common revealed the Coach & Horses, shrouded with vapers’ vapours and infested with hipsters.  Depressing, but I like beer.

 

 

Waiting outside the tailor’s for some last minute alterations to finish, the sign for Traditional Barber of Ruislip hove into focus.  Outstanding.