You may remember a while ago I went through I brief period of visiting dirty pubs and writing about them. That venture was scuppered when my friend got punched in the face and I re-evaluated the smarts of entering such fight ridden joints armed with only a middle class face and a strong pool game.
Last week I went to the opposite end of the spectrum. Have you ever hung around Belgravia? It's an area of London so posh that Monopoly couldn't afford to feature it on its board. Enormous mansions, 4x4 Rolexes and the lingering question 'What do all you fuckers DO?'
The answer for some of them is go to the pub. I started with The Grenadier. I became aware of this pub when looking through the Sunday Times Rich List and seeing a picture of Britain's richest man stood outside it. Worth a look, I thought. Walking down the mews in which it's situated and seeing the blazer-ed crowd outside I pondered on what I'd discover within. Chateaux Neuf on tap? A quail shitting eggs in the corner? The bloke from Razorlight?
What I did find (as arranged) was my Old Etonion friend. By pure coincidence I had invited my poshest associate. If the place suddenly descended into an Eyes Wide Shut style ritual I trusted he'd show me what to do.
It was different to your average pub but not radically so. Plummy voices filled the air and the card machine took American Express but I wanted to see something spectacular - two land owners demanding that their servants fight for betting purposes - something like that. I suspect I might have learned more if I'd listened in to their conversations.
That wasn't a problem in the next pub we visited - The Nags Head. This was next to a corner shop in another mews and when my friend and I entered we increased its patron population from three to five. 'Take a seat!' said the drunkest of the original three. We sat at the bar and he proceeded to give us a twenty minute long monologue on why the 'Nags' was London's last remaining proper boozer and would always be there for us. 'You'll always have the Nags. If your lady is giving you shit, you know that you can come down the Nags, have a beer and chat to your mates'. This was performed with theatrical cockney masculinity. I don't think this man was faking his cock-er-ny twang but I wanted to know how come his local was surrounded on all sides by £40 million properties owned by Qatari arms dealers.
Before long his alcoholic actor friend arrived, a man so rosy cheeked he had to be a Baron. This dude looked like every minor Richard Curtis character drinking a stupidly large whiskey. Then an elderly gentleman sat at the bar and ordered a sparkling water, then a well dressed Indian man came in and joined in the fun, buying everyone a Guinness. Now it is possible that this Indian gentleman simply works in a shop in Mayfair and stops off at the Nags on the way home to his modest flat in Tooting. But I refuse to believe that. There was something about the way he carried himself and my preconceptions about anyone who buys a round of drinks in Belgravia that made me certain he is the CEO of one of the world's top three chemicals companies.
Although I wouldn't call the Nags 'London's last remaining proper boozer' it was impressively pubby. No leather sofas or restaurant vibes here - just beer, bar stools and some eye rolling Irish bar staff. But how does such a place survive in an area with what I can't be bothered to look up but have decided are the highest rents in Europe? The same goes for the corner shop next door. There's no way selling milk and Twix's brings in enough revenue to compete with whatever the Crown Prince of Richdickistan pays to rent the place across the street.
My assumption is that there's some kind of arrangement between the local residents that they'll allow these places to continue. 'It may well be that I am the man behind turning every other corner shop in Britain into a Tesco Express but on a personal level I actually find them a little gauche'.
And so while the 99.9% have to find shelter from global warming in soulless retail parks the architects of its destruction will be maintaining their own little enclaves of the British idyl. I fully intend on joining them. My goal is to become a Nags regular, ingratiate myself with the clientele, persuade a Duke to fall in love with me and live in an outhouse on his land in exchange for one buggering a week.
Last week I went to the opposite end of the spectrum. Have you ever hung around Belgravia? It's an area of London so posh that Monopoly couldn't afford to feature it on its board. Enormous mansions, 4x4 Rolexes and the lingering question 'What do all you fuckers DO?'
The answer for some of them is go to the pub. I started with The Grenadier. I became aware of this pub when looking through the Sunday Times Rich List and seeing a picture of Britain's richest man stood outside it. Worth a look, I thought. Walking down the mews in which it's situated and seeing the blazer-ed crowd outside I pondered on what I'd discover within. Chateaux Neuf on tap? A quail shitting eggs in the corner? The bloke from Razorlight?
What I did find (as arranged) was my Old Etonion friend. By pure coincidence I had invited my poshest associate. If the place suddenly descended into an Eyes Wide Shut style ritual I trusted he'd show me what to do.
It was different to your average pub but not radically so. Plummy voices filled the air and the card machine took American Express but I wanted to see something spectacular - two land owners demanding that their servants fight for betting purposes - something like that. I suspect I might have learned more if I'd listened in to their conversations.
That wasn't a problem in the next pub we visited - The Nags Head. This was next to a corner shop in another mews and when my friend and I entered we increased its patron population from three to five. 'Take a seat!' said the drunkest of the original three. We sat at the bar and he proceeded to give us a twenty minute long monologue on why the 'Nags' was London's last remaining proper boozer and would always be there for us. 'You'll always have the Nags. If your lady is giving you shit, you know that you can come down the Nags, have a beer and chat to your mates'. This was performed with theatrical cockney masculinity. I don't think this man was faking his cock-er-ny twang but I wanted to know how come his local was surrounded on all sides by £40 million properties owned by Qatari arms dealers.
Before long his alcoholic actor friend arrived, a man so rosy cheeked he had to be a Baron. This dude looked like every minor Richard Curtis character drinking a stupidly large whiskey. Then an elderly gentleman sat at the bar and ordered a sparkling water, then a well dressed Indian man came in and joined in the fun, buying everyone a Guinness. Now it is possible that this Indian gentleman simply works in a shop in Mayfair and stops off at the Nags on the way home to his modest flat in Tooting. But I refuse to believe that. There was something about the way he carried himself and my preconceptions about anyone who buys a round of drinks in Belgravia that made me certain he is the CEO of one of the world's top three chemicals companies.
Although I wouldn't call the Nags 'London's last remaining proper boozer' it was impressively pubby. No leather sofas or restaurant vibes here - just beer, bar stools and some eye rolling Irish bar staff. But how does such a place survive in an area with what I can't be bothered to look up but have decided are the highest rents in Europe? The same goes for the corner shop next door. There's no way selling milk and Twix's brings in enough revenue to compete with whatever the Crown Prince of Richdickistan pays to rent the place across the street.
My assumption is that there's some kind of arrangement between the local residents that they'll allow these places to continue. 'It may well be that I am the man behind turning every other corner shop in Britain into a Tesco Express but on a personal level I actually find them a little gauche'.
And so while the 99.9% have to find shelter from global warming in soulless retail parks the architects of its destruction will be maintaining their own little enclaves of the British idyl. I fully intend on joining them. My goal is to become a Nags regular, ingratiate myself with the clientele, persuade a Duke to fall in love with me and live in an outhouse on his land in exchange for one buggering a week.
