I finished the former in Southfields, basically a long suburban road north of Wimbledon, full of large dining pubs, convenience stores and a vintage car showroom that assumes relevance later.
This is Southfields at night.
And this is the Earl Spencer, named after the Earl Spencer, bizarrely.
It had been a fairly convoluted journey from Norbiton, with train cancellations and walks through scary unlit parks, but I was expecting the Christmas drinkers to be the worst part of the visit.
It was virtually empty, bar a couple lingering at the bar.
“Sorry mate, private function tonight”
Has Mrs RM told you about my quivering bottom lip ?
Well, it quivered.
“Just a half I’ve travelled 3 hours (true) I’ll be ever so quick I’ll be gone in a minute please please PLEASE”
He gave in. Thank you, spirit of Christmas. I would hate to have had to make another trip out here.
I normally finish every section of the Guide on a pint. Not here.
A half of Wimbledon (£2.20) downed in 60 seconds, as the film goes.
I’d love to tell you the beer was nectar, but, hey, this is South West London. No-one drinks cask in South West London. It was meh (NBSS 2). I wished I’d had the Otter, but of course I would have broken the rules.
I saw the sign on the way out.
If I’d a) noticed the sign, b) drunk more, I’d have said I was Pamela Bird, who I guess was one of the party admiring classic cars across the road. I’ve got a Toyota Aygo. Is that classic yet ?
And anyway, what say you about closing a PUBLIC house on a Saturday night ?
And by the by, nothing about a private party on their Twitter.
NB Nice Merton Parkas/Ultravox mashup.