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Christmas at The Gunmakers
If I said there were too many people writing beer blogs and that the vast majority of them were shit, I'd suffer an online lynching from the usual haters. So I won't. I'll keep that opinion to myself.
This evening Eddie - a mad-eyed lanky barman in my employ - told me that he and his flatmate have started their own online journal to chronicle their beery exploits in London. I noted down the web address and retired upstairs to my study (that's what I'm going to start calling my office) to check it out. I was fearful that the boys' efforts would bring shame upon me, this fine pub and the village of Clerkenwell.
So I was pleasantly surprised: it's excellent. You've done us proud, lads. Here's the site - Hip Hops.
Back in the day my pub was tied to Bass Charrington. Regulars who remember drinking here in the '80s tell me that the landlord only served one ale back then: Draught Bass. It's an historic beer, and no mistake. Bass's red triangle logo was the first registered trademark in the world. Napoleon was said to have loved the stuff so much he asked whether it could be produced under licence in France. Nowadays Draught Bass is produced by Marston's under licence from InBev, who own the brand. To be honest, I don't think I've ever tried it. I think it's one of those beers you only see in old man's pubs, so I very rarely come across it. I'm curious to see what it's like, so I'm going to order a cask. Just the one, mind.  In Édouard Manet's 1882 painting of the bar at the Folies Bergère, you can see a bottle of Bass sitting alongside champagne.
Staff here at the pub are expected to exhibit special skills. Superpowers are preferred, but not essential. This is Eddie, our latest recruit, demonstrating his two-pint party piece. I think he can do that thing with beer mats as well, but that's boring.
I'll level with you: real cider's a tough sell. My latest attempt to bring the delights of flat, cloudy apple juice to the attention of my customers can be seen below. The candles seemed like a good idea at the time, but on reflection there's a hint of Nuremburg about the whole set-up.
There's a mosaic floor in the vestibule of the National Gallery that celebrates the pleasures of life. I had a decko on Saturday as I drifted around the West End. This bit caught my eye: "Rest and Be Thankful" says the pub sign. Wonderful.  The mosaics are the work of Boris Anrep, an Anglo-Russian artist. They date back to the 1930s. The National Gallery's website has more information. His work can also be found at the Bank of England and Westminster Cathedral.
I can remember when Percy the dog was so tiny that he fitted in Scott's satchel. Now he's growing up. Time for a beer. Landlord, naturally. I wouldn't give the little chap Carlsberg. I like him far too much for that.
The Sun seems to have forgotten poor old St George. There's nothing on the front page, and Keeley hasn't got a patriotic message for us on Page 3. The photo is of a bunch of red and white roses left on the shelf outside the pub.
 Saint George is a legendary figure. He's said to have been a Roman soldier in the employ of the Emperor Diocletian. He lived in Anatolia (that's in modern-day Turkey, you dimwit). He's the patron saint of eight different countries. One of them is England. Today is his day. As I said last year, I think St. Bede of Jarrow should be the patron saint of England. I don't read The Sun (despite the fact I pay to have it delivered to the pub), but I do glance at Page 3 each morning. My favourites are currently Amy Green and, of course, Keeley Hazell.
The Maltings in York is a great pub. Unusually for somewhere dedicated to beer, it wasn't full of weirdos (well, there was one, but even though he was pretty fat he didn't quite manage to fill the bar). We visited during the afternoon on New Year's Eve, kicking off a marathon session. There were some great cask beers on offer - including a smoked ale from Dark Star - but I was particularly taken with a bottle conditioned raspberry stout that was specially brewed for the pub. 
The Maltings is on Tanners Moat in York. The pub has a website.
The sun is out and London's all sparkly and sexy again. Leaping into regulation baggy shorts and sunglasses (nice but not expensive), I hotfooted it out of the pub early doors to luncheon in someone else's gaff. Where better than my old local, The JT? Dan the chef whipped me up the best ploughman's I've had in my blimmin' life. I chased it down with a pint of Moravka. The sun streamed in through the windows. Life is good in Clerkenwell.  Yes, I know this is a fairly non-traditional take on the ploughman's lunch. That's what I liked about it.
Jenever is a Dutch liquor that's similar to gin. Its popularity in the Low Countries - where brewing is also prevalent - ensures its association with beery culture. There will be those of you who scoff at such a simplistic description, but let me tell you this: since I started selling it at the pub, not a single person I've forced it upon had heard of it before. Few of them will consent to trying it again. When a shot is taken with beer, it's called a kopstoot - a headbutt.
 Ron Pattinson is our specialist jenever consultant. He brings the stuff over when he visits the pub. That's right, I've got a friend who regulary visits me from the drugs capital of Europe, and all I get is a bottle of spirits.
I've started clicking "Report Spam" when I receive emails from "Axe the Beer Tax", yet still they come. They're all irreedemably crap, and I can't see them winning over the people that count. The latest press release boasts that Adele Silva, a somewhat hard-faced denizen of Emmerdale, is backing their campaign. Is an ITV soap an appropriate cultural reference? No, of course it isn't. We need Anita Dobson, and we need her now.
* Yes, of course I still would. That proves nothing, though. Incidentally I once sat next to young Adele on a long train journey. I didn't speak to her or anything. That would have been weird.
You can buy one here. (I'm talking about the t-shirt, not the receding hairline or the ginga mate).
 The t-shirts (I've got a green one too) were a freebie from Gabrielle Collard of Dolly Creative. So, yes, Chocolate Oranges are available at Rawlinsons. PS. This post does not constitute an endorsement of that wanky XXL Hobgoblin t-shirt you've got stashed away.
If you aren't a member of Stonch's Beer Group on Facebook and you'll be around in London next week, join today. Tomorrow I'll be sending out a message to all group members with details of something special happening at the pub on Monday.
The most disturbing element of Facebook is the "people you might know" suggestions, based on who your contacts are friends with. It's trying to set me up with right-wing Tory MP Andrew Rosindell. Who are these acquaintances of mine that count him among their "friends"?
So much for Chocolate Truffle Stout. It's all gone. Yesterday I cycled down to Porterhouse with Joe, a regular here. He wanted to try the stout. When we went to order our second round, this is all we got. The barman confirmed that this incomplete pint was the very last of the batch. There'll be no more until next year You missed it; I caned it all. Sorry.
 When Tony Lennon started brewing in The Cock and Hen and The Florence two years ago, I was first on the scene. Those were the days: I had oodles of time to run around London looking at pubs (although my former employers and clients might not have been so happy if they'd known). The Cock and Hen was snapped up by Young's and the brewery closed, but The Florence in Herne Hill is going from strength to strength.
Last night I went down there on a rattly train to try Tony's new beer, Beaver. It's a wheat ale. After a couple of dodgy batches that have now been consigned to the plughole, he's confident he's got it spot on. Asked whether it's German or Belgian in style, he responds it's simply authentic Sarf London. Nice one. It's intentionally a little hazy, but doesn't resemble the last pint from the barrel. Orange is dominant on the nose, but the essence of citrus fruit doesn't shout too loudly when you take a swig. The body is lovely and firm, speaking volumes about how much Tony's learned in two years. We were drinking straight from the conditioning tank, but the beer served at the bar will come from a cask.
We also did a taste test on Tony's original beers, Weasel and Bonobo. The latter - a red ale - has been tweaked to include far more roasted malt. It's made a big difference. I think it's an improvement, and I suspect you will too.
The Florence is at 133 Dulwich Road (map, website). It's just round the corner from Herne Hill station, accessible from Thameslink stations and Victoria. Thanks to there being no late trains to Farringdon, I had a mad dash via tube from Victoria to reach the pub before closing up time. Two unamused but relieved barmaids greeted my wobbly return at 11:20pm precisely.
The photo is by Ewan M. His own review of The Florence is on Randomness Guide to London, an excellent website. Ewan also writes Pubology, and that's great too. So it would seem he's a top lad.
I've been drinking something that's reawakened the dormant beer geek in me: Porterhouse's Chocolate Truffle Stout. Yesterday I walked down to Covent Garden especially for a pint. That's dedication. Go and try it, and have a pint of Galway Hooker while you're at it. Both are available at 21 Maiden Lane. Irish beer's getting better, so it is.
My pub sits on a steep bank that leads down to the Fleet, one of London's subterranean rivers. In the early 18th century the section that runs through Clerkenwell to Farringdon was covered over and integrated into the sewer system. It was a job well done, as the Fleet was notoriously pestilent and troublesome for those who lived around it. But rivers don't just disappear, and the Thames needs feeding. Just a few hundreds yards from our front door, outside of another pub, there's a grill in the middle of the road. At about 7am on Monday morning I walked over it, as I made my way through the deserted streets for an early beer delivery. I'd never known the area to be so quiet. And for the first time, I heard the Fleet rushing beneath my feet.  If you want to read more about the River Fleet, go to British History Online.
A pub in Oldham is going to introduce a formal queuing system at the bar. BBC News Online has the story. I'd always believed in survival of the fittest in the battle for booze, but now that I'm a publican I feel differently. When I'm behind the bar (which isn't often, I grant you) I always seek out forlorn faces hovering over the shoulders of the hardcore barflies. It's been suggested to me that I ask those who stand at the bar with their drinks to move on, but in a place as small as mine I'm not sure that would work.
I couldn't comment on this story without pointing out that Oldham is really, really grim. One of my mates from uni is from near there and we all visited once. To be fair, we did have a very good kebab at the end of the night.
Joe wanted to feature on the blog. So here he is, standing outside of The French House on Dean Street, holding a glass of Theakston's Old Peculier. He was all smiles then, but then we were reminded that Sunday licensing hours applied on "Good" Friday, and the pubs were chucking out early. Bah.
London is full of unsung heroes. The drivers of these flatbed vans deliver plastic pissers to the streets of Soho every night, then return to whisk them away for a hose down the next morning.
It's a good job Voice of America TV exists. Otherwise people around the world would remain ignorant about the culture and outlook of the USA. They sent over an absolutely delightful girl called Jessica (marry me) to film a piece here for their Chinese service about British pubs. Phew. This is the best pub in the country, after all.
 The clip was sent to me in anticipation of Cask Ale Week by the lovely Marston's rep who visits us from time to time. She also included a t-shirt bearing the same image, which was immediately passed on to John O'. He's building up quite a wardrobe of dodgy XL t-shirts from breweries.
If they hate it that much, perhaps they shouldn't sell it? I spotted this tap badge last night in The Green Man in Fitzrovia. Yes, Foster's is a really shitty lager, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to denigrate a customer's choice of bevvy quite so aggressively.
 I've written about The Green Man - known for its wide selection of draught ciders - previously. It's a nice place in a great area.
In London, Saturday was the warmest day of the year so far. I walked along the bank of the Thames from Putney Bridge to Barnes with a friend. Pubs along the riverside were packed, their customers spreading out along the banks, all happy to be in the right place at the right time. In this city we're grateful for good weather, and we make the most of it.
When we reached Barnes we traversed the narrow footbridge that clings to the side of the railway line. The White Hart, a Young's house, was there for us on the south bank of the river. The pub's galleried terrace and riverside tables were packed, but we found a picnic table down by the water. As we sat enjoying bottles of Special London Ale from the fridge, we could see the chimney of the Stag Brewery in Mortlake. The aroma of brewing in the air is uncommon in London these days, so much so that when it first reached me I wondered for a moment what I was smelling.
 The Stag Brewery was once the home of Watney's. Currently, they're brew American Budweiser there, but not for much longer. It's going to close for good very soon, at which point Fuller's of Chiswick will be the capital's largest brewery.
I deserve a treat, don't I? Of course I do. We all know what. So here it is. A case of wine I have no intention of sharing with customers, not even for loadsamoney. So don't even ask.
The Chocolate Block is a blend of Syrah, Grenache, Cinsault, Cabernet and Viogner from Boekenhoutskloof in South Africa. It's imported by New Generation Wines, who supply me with wine for the pub (and my personal stash). I've written about it before. PS. I wouldn't make a Harry Enfield reference but for his excellent appearances on Skins.
Cask Ale Week starts on Monday. There's a day or week for everything these days (not just the saints). I'll be doing precisely nothing to mark this non-event - I really can't see how it's relevant to my pub - but ale brewers see it differently. Press releases have been flying.
Fullers are actually offering something pretty decent: Golden Ale and London Porter on draught in a selection of their pubs. Greene King, on the other hand, are laying it on thick for their stupid (they say "revolutionary") beer engine. They tried to launch it last year. It allows you to have your pint in Southern softie style or, if you're a bloody bloke, you can go all Northern and opt for a layer of cream atop your beer.
 Since I liberated myself from the compulsion to feign admiration for places like The Wenlock Arms, I've begun to discover lots of genuinely good pubs. The Westbridge, just south of Battersea Bridge, is one of them. Yes, it's south of the river, but only just.
While pretending to be kids again by "going out on our bikes", myself, Goon and Dryz stopped there for refreshments last weekend. We found a modern, busy pub with a great beer selection (much better than we were expecting). Highlights on draught included Budvar Dark, Duvel Green and Porterhouse Oyster Stout. Three cask ales included a local beer from London's newest micro, Sambrook's. As well as the beer, something else caught my eye: Masters of the Universe wallpaper on the stairs down to the gents. I have the power. The Westbridge is at 74-76 Battersea Bridge Road, SW11 3AG (website). I'll add the pub to the London Beer Map.
I nod enthusiastically in the direction of this sign, spotted in a coffee shop window in Soho. If you visit my pub and you're unlucky enough to see me behind the bar (you just can't get the staff, sometimes), take heed.
As I hoof it around London, I sometimes see former pubs I'd love to revive. They might have become shops, private residences, or else they're just boarded up and empty. Other times, I see buildings that have never housed boozers, but that I think would be perfect for the job. Take this wonderous little pile of bricks and mortar on Gray's Inn Road. I want to put a bar in there. As you can see from the signage, in its former life it was a mattress showroom. If a "to let" sign was hanging, I'd be making enquiries. At the moment its empty, but there's evidence that someone's converting it to another use.
Flowers and candles make rooms look lovely. If a pub's management doesn't bother to beautify their surroundings in this simple way, what else are they neglecting to do? We're using empty bottles from Belgium as vases. The Trappists of Orval send their distinctive and complex beer out into the world in the most elegant of vessels.
Regular readers might recall that I hatched this plan back in November.
I like Smithy's. It's the kind of place I like to drink in when I'm not at my own pub. It's a bar and restaurant on Leeke Street, a lane in St Pancras that brdges railway lines that head east and south from King's Cross station. If you're seven feet tall (or someone gives you a bunk up), you can look down onto the disused platforms of the old Thameslink station. Smithy's occupies old stables that were used by the London Omnibus company. Like the street outside, the floor is cobbled. Harvey's Sussex Best and Pilsner Urquell, two of my favourite beers, are served at the bar.
Smithy's is at 15-17 Leeke Street (WC1X 9HY, website). It's just off King's Cross Road. Nobody seems to have heard of it, but whenever I take people there they always seem to like it. To retain some of the mystique, I've chosen not to publish a photo of the building itself.
I've begun the task of researching my pub's history. Already I've discovered a possible link with Jack the Ripper. Bonus. The source is a newspaper article from 1888. I won't give away all the details, but a "stranger" who fitted the description of the Whitechapel murderer was spotted in the pub chatting up a potential victim. They left together, but she managed to leg it when things got hairy (presumably he'd done his "that's not a knife, this is a knife" routine).
Now, The Ten Bells by Spitalfields Market has dined out for decades on a dubious connection to Victorian London's whore-hacking badboy. Perhaps I should do the same?
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