However, there is a good chance that by going into too much detail about Friday's activities I could end up 'outting' myself. Ah well, best apply the NewlySingle First Rule Of Journal Writing and carry on.
The day began at 0930 at the Boot And Flogger, where champagne was waiting along with the itenary. Taking my life in my hands, I had cunningly consumed a bacon sandwich (prepared by a sullen Greek chap) at the station and so was sufficiently prepared.
One bottle later, I rolled out and into a waiting taxi and said, between hiccups: "The George And Vulture". This is normally a christmas pilgramage, where the 12 eldest of the family get together and report on the year's events. Pity the youngest, who comes at the end of the reporting after a good 15 or more bottles of port have made their way around the table.
London cabbies are usually great, but this chap had evidentally cheated on The Knowledge, and required directions to Lombard Street. Proffering a 5 pound note (the first of many over the course of the day) we staggered in.
The G&V is another very elderly public house, now sadly converted into a resteraunt. However, the stairs up to 'our' room remain the same Health And Safety nightmare. Particularly when you climb them (relatively) sober and then try to navigate back down while roaring drunk. Luckily, there is a hospital nearby. Something we've apparently had to use on more than one occasion. I can't remember; I was generally there (and no, for once that wasn't a typo.)
Following a regaling of past antics from The Great Uncle, it was time to negotiate the stairs and move on to our next location. First, however, there was another tradition to attend to. The race up the monument (a tower located near the old Bank Of England, with its very own tube station.)
For a nominal sum, you can climb up the 311 steps inside and, from the top, attempt to urinate over London. Ok, maybe not the last bit, but after a drink or two its amazing the sorts of suggestions that start making perfect sense.
The stairs in The Monument make the trek up down the stairs in the G&V a breeze, and more than once the individuals who suggested the race were cursed unto the third and fourth generation as we gingerly made our way down.
Those who had the sense to opt out of climbing the monument had headed on to the next pub (correctly assuming that had they remained at the foot of the tower we would have started throwing things at them) so a chase over London Bridge was required with mobile clutched to ear, the radiation from which was doing battle with the alcohol to see which could kill the most brain cells.
After tearing past Nancy's steps, pausing to say "Oh look, The Clink" and disgracing ourselves outside Southwark Cathedral, we caught up with The Great Uncle at the site of the old Globe Theatre (not the new one that has built on the south bank.) Little more than a plaque remains. We attempted to take some pictures of the Hop Exchange, but were thrown out (odd that) before heading on to the Old Kings Head.
Lovely place. But not as nice as The George, which is hidden in alley off the street. We climbed up onto the old balconies and persuaded the sound man to take photos before the landlord yelled at us.
They serve a good pint of Adnans there. Unlike the next place, where the beer tasted faintly of vinegar which resulted in a switch to Guinness (lager is not permitted. Or rather it is, but the drinker of it has to buy the next round.)
Next was the Kings Arms, a pub made more interesting by the huge sign above the door featuring a Lion and Unicorn, both sporting impressive genitalia. The barmaid told us a long and convoluted story about the sign - apparently there are royal connections - but at this point I was more interested in the beer she was pouring, and her cleavage. Such is the curse of beer.
And then back to the Boot And Flogger. For lunch.
(To be continued...)
