Leaving the Princess, I consulted my artisanal map for my last day’s ticking before Lockdown 2.
Four down, with two close by somewhere in Marylebone, which I always spell Marleybone.
I almost fell at the furst hurdle;
but I feared the wurst if I followed a Pride with curry,
so started one of those long, aimless rambles through Soho and Bloomsbury.
A minute later;
Oh, isn’t that you-know-what ?
Oh, go on then.
That’s an aberration I can now remedy.
This was a third visit, first since Fullers took it on, and the first time I’d been able to snaffle a seat downstairs, right in the corner next to the paintings of the landlord and ladies of CAMRA Pubs of the Year.
I was so excited I took this inadvertent museum that in 100 years time will be slowed down, converted to black and white, and shown on a loop in the Wetherspoons Museum of Pubs in Wolverhampton.
It was a wonderful seat, and I felt a bit of a cheat paying a mere two quid for a sensationally fresh pint of Dark Star American Pale (NBSS 4), though frankly all the beers were going so quick I doubt you could go wrong.
I’ll confess, it’s still a bit boxy for me as a pub, I prefer the neighbourhood tied house with mums and pushchairs and lager lads, but if you want to taste cask as its best this and The Hope and the Euston Tap would be top of my list. But I’m not a #Beer man.
For the first time today, I heard some (intelligent) talk about the US Election, which was on a knife-edge, and the Harp seemed a bastion of civility in a world of chaos.
Like the Piccadilly Tap, it’s not a place you want to find yourself stranded on the upstairs floor when all the “pub” is going on downstairs.
Frankly, a sensible #beer man would have stayed put and moved on to exemplar £2 pints of Harvey’s and Pride and Hophead, and oblivion would have called.
But a Pub Man needs to keep moving, moving, out the Exit.
Oh, where am I ?
And why are there all these cans of craft beer behind the Harp ?