|
|
 At least I can say I tried it. Sometimes I'm driven to do silly things like that. I thought it was the proper, traditional thing to do. So, forsaking my lovely flat atop a Georgian terraced house I packed up some things and moved into the rooms above The Gunmakers.
It had been years since the pub had been lived in. The last people to do so were Pat and Pat, the old couple who ran the place for Bass Charringtons. They'd filled the bar with yapping Jack Russells, salt beef sandwiches and fat posties. Back then it was a "community local", before Clerkenwell poshed itself up and the gastropub was born in this area. If a quartet of chefs hadn't have taken the place in hand and made it a destination in its own right, there probably wouldn't be a pub here for me to run today.
For about a month, living above the shop seemed to make sense. I was always there for early deliveries. Chef made my morning coffee (and my lunch, and my dinner). I had draught beer in my home. If I'd had a late one the night before, I could open the door in my PJs and set about my ablutions while the first pints were poured. I was always on hand. And that was the problem. This began to feel a bit like a real job. I ate too much, I drank too much - I started to put on weight. All that ball-aching guff I'd heard about a publican's life being a hard one seemed true for a short while.
So now I'm back in my flat, enjoying the life of a normal young professional (the only difference being that I don't actually go to an office). I've rejoined a gym, I spend evenings in front of the telly and I do my own shopping in Waitrose again. Of course, I still run the pub, although regulars have commented I'm not around as much as I used to be. I have supremely capable staff who can handle things when I'm not there. And that's how it should be - despite the grumblings of a few, I don't think a publican should be like the Prisoner of Zenda.
Three years ago, there was only one pub called The Gunmakers in London. That'd be the excellent, characterful little place in Clerkenwell. You know it well. Regrettably, these days there are two: The William Wallace in Marylebone adopted the name when it changed hands in 2006. (Whenever their customers call up or email here by mistake they're invariably enquiring about karaoke and the availability of things like "cheesy beans on toast").
Now, if you were to hop back in time to the early twentieth century, there was yet another pub with the same name as mine. The Gunmakers Arms in Bow was, I'm sure, a very merry place until Sylvia Pankhurst and her crew turned it into a nursery and renamed the building "The Mothers Arms". What a bloody spoilsport.
 The photo was taken from Flickr.
We love the Landlord. It's the beer that sells all year round. I dropped into the pub yesterday afternoon to find the old school Landlord logo chalked up on the blackboard at the front of the pub. The artist says she's willing to do the same for guest beers, but only if I'll pay hard cash.
 According to Cision - "the leading global partner in media intelligence" - this is the UK's leading beer blog, on the basis of visitor levels, searches and "social metrics". Boak and Bailey is second and Pete Brown comes in third. It's nice to see Mark Dredge's Pencil and Spoon in the top ten too, because he's a nice chap. Thanks to reader Steve L for emailing me the link.
I'm toying with the idea of going back to Morocco in the next few weeks. I think I deserve a holiday - I work as much as ten hours a week, which is far too much for a man in his fourth decade. One doesn't want to "burn out". To gee myself up, I've been looking through my photos from the last time I was there. Here's one taken through a beer glass in Ouarzazate, a city to the south of the Atlas Mountains. The lager in the glass would have been Casablanca or Flag Speciale (I'm not sure which, it was five years ago).
As you know, I'm keen on bigging up my London credentials. I like to gloss over the fact I didn't grow up here, and rarely come into contact with anyone who was born within the sound of Bow bells. Well, last night proved that I'm not quite as streetwise as I'd like to think.
Alighting from the Northern Line at Embankment - en route to Gordon's Wine Bar on Villiers Street - I failed to pay any attention to the loud and repeated "please mind the gap" warning, and fell straight down said gap. With one leg wedged between train and platform, and the other splayed out on the train floor, I looked like a proper donkey. Thankfully, I wasn't hurt, allowing me to clamber out while my girlfriend stood guffawing, drawing the attention of passers-by to my plight. Gah.
I only just found out that England won the Ashes yesterday. To be honest, I was only vaguely aware that cricket was being played somewhere. One of the many reasons I'd like to eradicate this pesky Geordie accent is that when they hear it, peeps always assume I'm into football and start talking about Newcastle United players I've never heard of. I really couldn't give a shit. I'm not a very blokey landlord.
Back in the day The Gunmakers was tied to Charrington's, an East London brewery that merged with Bass in 1967. Charrington's produced several beers with the name "Toby", and used Toby jugs extensively in their marketing. I picked one up from a junk shop on Essex Road earlier today. It ain't much of a looker. I expect I'll be prevailed upon to hide it upstairs before long, but for now it's going to live at the end of the bar with the rest of our breweriana.
 Shit the bed! One of my beer engines has broken. Consequently, there'll only be three ales on offer tomorrow - Landlord, Harvey's and Meantime's London Pale Ale.
1. Why don't you open at weekends?
2. Why don't you do sandwiches?
 Meantime London Pale Ale, Harviestoun Schiehallion, Harvey's Sussex Best and Timothy Taylor Landlord. Bish, bash, bosh. Ding, dang, doo.
Sorry for not updating in the last few days. I've had better things to do. It's lovely in London now and life is good, good, good. I'm taking a break from the pub and the blog and enjoying the sunshine.
The Gunmakers is doing well, although it's a little quieter than normal due to the time of year. Today's beers are Timothy Taylor Landlord, Harvey's Sussex Best, Purity Mad Goose and Harviestoun Schiehallion. Sharp's Cornish Coaster just ran out - it proved very popular indeed, outselling everything else. In the cellar we have Meantime London Pale Ale, Hop Back Summer Lightning, Morrissey Fox Aussie Nectar and Fox IPA. The Meantime's coming on tomorrow.
 Crumbs, I'm useless. If there's one thing I should have written about, it's trying Brew Dog Tokyo*. I was sent half a dozen bottles by the brewery (thanks James) after the discussion here two weeks ago. My fellow beer writers have all been beefing about this bad boy - Britain's strongest beer at 18.2% abv - so why didn't I join in?
Well, I tried one bottle with a few people here in the pub. Much to our surprise, we all liked it. Yeah, it's sweet and strong, but it doesn't reek of booze and the whole thing's surprisingly well integrated and recognisably stout-y. Next, I cracked one open for Johnny from Rome's Off License and his mates. They seemed to enjoy the experience. I gave another one to pub regular Jason. He carried it off in his rucksack (he always has a rucksack, it would seem).
So I've got three left. If you come in tomorrow night and ask nicely, I might share one with you. This blog's interactive, you see. It's just that the interaction takes place in the real world, in my pub. You want tasting notes? OK, watch this video from Zak Avery*.
Question - when did Cat Stevens develop that nervous stammer, and aren't Muslims supposed to stay off the sauce?
UPDATE: The photo I've added to this post was taken today, at lunchtime. It shows Peter the Bike, Peter the Pint, Kevin and Julia trying a bottle of Tokyo*. Kevin likes it so much he'd like to order it by the crate. There are only two bottles left now.
 After hearing the same stuck record from James effing Whitbread day after day after day, I've relented and put a dark beer on - despite the fact it's the middle of summer. Recently we've been offering light, summer fare. We've even sold cask lagers. It's what the kids want, I think. But the moaners who stand at the end of the bar keep bitching about it, so against my better judgement I've just hooked up a dark mild to one of the handpumps. Naturally, it's one of the country's finest: Moorhouses Black Cat. (The awful advertising image from the brewery's dreadful website is opposite - don't let it put you off - the beer's a dark, smoky delight).
So if you're one of those annoying beer geeks who lament the absence of dark ales from London's pubs, show your face and neck a few pints. I'm happy to be proven wrong if it helps pay for my future children's school fees (I want to send them to Eton, you see). The title of this post is a Partridge reference. To get it, you need to have watched the DVD extras. That's some pretty obscure shit.
Last week I was drifting through an almost empty gallery in the British Museum when I came across an exhibition of painted shields from Papua New Guinea. I'm not normally interested in tat from the world's shitholes, but one exhibit caught my eye. Decorated with an image advertising South Pacific Lager, it was painted for a tribal scrap in the 1990s. The conflict began when a man - out of his mind with drink - was set upon and killed by chaps from a nearby manor.
I've just seen this photo of a man inexplicably dressed as a city lawyer (that's me) meeting the Hairy Bikers last week. It as taken by Dave of The Woolpack Inn and appears on his blog. The beer in our glasses was Brains Dark.
It's about time I acknowledged just how much business readers of this blog bring to The Gunmakers. Many have become regulars, and bring their pals along for a booze-up. Thanks to them we've had a load of new custom, some private party bookings, and even an invasion of Morris Men.
Last week we were joined by lots of readers from outside of London who were in town for the GBBF. Pictured below are North American beer scribes Stephen Beaumont and Jay Brooks. On Friday night Johnny - owner of the Off License in Rome - was in with some mates. Luke of The Cornubia in Bristol paid us a visit, as did the lads who comment as Barm and Showbizguru. The latter's drunken note of best wishes - scrawled with a thick marker pen and left with one of my staff - was particularly amusing.
I thought I'd kicked my manfluenza, but it wasn't to be. On Monday night I rocked up to the Guild's 21st anniversary bash to find myself sans appetito. I managed to yam down a couple of bottles of Harvey's Imperial Extra Double Stout with gusto, but nothing else was working for me. While in conversation with the Hairy Bikers (Geordie accent upped a notch), I felt obliged to bite into a massive meat pie I was presented with by a grinning waitress. I've never wanted anything less in my life, but in the presence of the great Northern ones I felt I had to.
 Tuesday's trade session at the Great British Beer Festival started well. Four of us cabbed it down from The Gunmakers to find the place busy only an hour from opening time. (Check out our enthusiastic faces as we arrived at the venue). We tucked straight into the German lagers and American cask ales, making but a brief tour of the British regions. By five o'clock I felt a bit jaded and retired to the pub to convalesce. Everything at the GBBF was exactly the same as it was last year and the year before that, and as such I'd seen it all before.
Sorry peeps, but enthusiasm's running low. Perhaps this beery stuff's not for me anymore? Or perhaps I've just been a little bit poorly, and am acting like a big pansy?
I've had swiney for the last couple of days, but feel smart as a dart now. I've recovered just in time for the British Guild of Beer Writers 21st anniversary party tomorrow night, and the trade session of the GBBF on Tuesday (look out for my updates on Twitter). After a couple of beerless days of painful misery, it's all looking up.
If you're about in London for the GBBF, tire of Earl's Court, and fancy visiting a proper pub, come to The Gunmakers. We're here (nearest tubes are Chancery Lane and Farringdon). Alongside Tim Taylor Landlord, our guest beers this week will be Summer Lightning, Bath Golden Hare, Purity Mad Goose, Mordue IPA, Harviestoun Schiehallion, Morrissey Fox Aussie Nectar, Tom Wood Summer Days and Leeds Samba.
Despite suffering from what I sincerely believe to have been the dreaded pig flu, I still managed to accompany girlfriend on a shopping trip to Regent's Street on Saturday. To achieve this, I took loads of codeine. It made me feel much better, but I couldn't really manage steps or kerbs without help and had lots of disconcerting exchanges with randoms.
|
At least I can say I tried it. Sometimes I'm driven to do silly things like that. I thought it was the proper, traditional thing to do. So, forsaking my lovely flat atop a Georgian terraced house I packed up some things and moved into the rooms above The Gunmakers.
