Well, two views of my 2017 North Woolwich special today, probably from American Samoa and China.
North Woolwich is the weird detached bit of South East London by the Royal Docks that was swapped for a barrel of Truman’s Best in the 1800s. Sure I read that on Deserter.
Deserter can’t tell this, but I’ve nearly finished their marvellous book, after reading whole chapters (4 pages) each day in the sun this week. If I finish it by 8pm you can stand outside and clap me.
Look on their site for the definitive guide to the N.Wool, as kidz call it, but the aerial view is the best.
Bit of greenery overlooking the Thames, a ferry and foot tunnel to the (Dirty) South,
and hardly any pubs.
Best known for the dead Royal Oak, whose Truman’s tiling causes beer twitter to go “phwoar” at regular intervals.
The other highlight, possibly also responsible for a “phwoar” and the regular blog views, is the Gentleman’s Club (not to be confused with the Gents, Si) at the Royal Standard.
The only known review includes the immortal line,
I wrote “It sounds fantastic (it doesn’t really), and I urged Mrs RM to become the first lady to go in and ask for a pint of Smooth. But she resisted. Something about net curtains.”
It’s worth checking WhatPub to see what takeout services might be available, I guess.
Dick and Dave are men of the world, but I’ve no doubt they’d press on to the East End authenticity of the Henley Arms, marked by the tallest pub sign in London.
In 2016 I found average Bass and ‘appy’ ‘ammers.
“The pub though, was fantastic. Old boys talking about calamities in Benidorm, extraordinary coincidences at the 1980 FA Cup Semi-Final Replay, and a lot of that word that sounds like “fracking”. The 1980 Final programme is just visible behind the bar.”
Bass had been abandoned before the lockdown, perhaps wisely, but hopefully the pub will survive.
NB Mrs RM flew from London City Airport last year and did the Trumans craft bar. I believe she’s still paying back the loan.