The cricket is on down The Cricketers, it’s not on at The Chequers. So, I’m suffering Sharp’s Doom Bar, rather than enjoying Sharp’s Atlantic over the green.
Ashes first Test, third day, England are 371-9 and doing well… (it doesn’t end well).
There’s a dozen or so people in here – youthful local lads – reasonably excited about the cricket. Their noisy conversation echoes around the back bar, the content of which suggests they know even less about the game than I do.
Post football. Results have been ok recently, although performances not great. We’ve been spoiled, however, for great displays this season, with today’s 4-0 win against Doncaster Rovers a real treat and masterclass. Pelly Ruddock, Jack Steacy, James Justin and Kazenga Lua Lua all pretty much untouchable – though the whole team on song and just superb.
Uncle A’s off to look after DGK. Before he leaves, he drops a few bombshells. First off, that he was in the same class at school as Dave Pacey, who scored Luton Town’s goal in the 1959 FA Cup Final. Second, and in response to my telling him I was off to see some jazz, was that in his day, he’d seen both Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington.
Both of which I find hugely impressive. As did some chap, some time ago, when Unc A was waiting for a plane at Chicago O’Hare Airport. Said chap was so impressed, he asked if he could ‘touch’ Unc A, and so touch someone who’d been in such exulted company. Slightly odd behaviour, if you ask me.
Beer: Pope’s Yard Quartermaster 4.4%, St Austell Proper Job 5.5%
Paul Jolly band gig. Bear quite busy. Today was set for Britain’s leaving the EU. It didn’t happen, Parliament f**ked it up again. I don’t want to leave, but bullshit Britain has voted. It’s a complete ‘effin ongoing dogs’ dinner. Anyway, Mr Jolly’s spiel is liberally littered with pithy Brexit comments.
Steve has gotten us (AJK and I) stools on the raised area at the back of the room. It’s an area also populated by a group of lady friends who are apparently not here for the jazz, and are happy to chat through the first few numbers, and to raise their voices in order to be heard. I’m not the only one darting accusational glances their way – and they do eventually pipe down. Bless ‘em.
Pete’s in. On a table just in front of us. He’s loving the jazz… absolutely digging it. Hep Cat. He’s getting far more from his £8 pcm membership than I. Good for him. Pete’s with his mate Owen. Owen is a formidable, extremely affable, fellow. Can’t hear him a lot of the time. Can’t understand him at others, but he’s a charming bloke.
Elsewhere in the audience, right at the other end of the room, by the bar, sits a bloke in a fantastically stylish black and white patterned shirt. He looks like Adam West circa 1993 (in the guise of Bruce Wayne, circa 1966, in Gotham, at a swinging society soiree).
Bear Club chap
Usual jazz night out. Applauding solos. Even the electric bass solos. Bit of a poor relation, isn’t it, the electric bass? A bit second rate… unless you’re a Foxton or a Bish’.
Anyway, yes, another good night down the Bear. I feel a little more comfortable in this region of the Lutonian Middle Class Arts enclave than I do at the poetry nights… and back to the Brickies.
Post Gillingham game and a quick visit, as it turns out. A 2-2 draw, which I won’t dwell on too much. Several folk coming from the match do, however. Conversations have been festering since the match, many concerning how much better one of our usual substitute players is than one of our usual starters. Everyone is, of course, entitled to their opinion, but to listen to the tone, despair and the hint of anger in people’s voices, you’d never guess we’re in our highest league position for well over a decade and could be heading up.
That said, I’d’ve started with the guy who came on as sub.
Someone’s talking about match fixing. No idea on the context, though there does seem to be some disparagement from ‘bigger’ clubs’ fans about our success this season.
I’ve sort of settled in and have sort of decided DGK will probably be coming out after his knee op. EGK calls and advises he’s being kept over. She suggests I make good on my promise of a post football visit. Dutifully, I neck what’s been an enjoyable pint of Magpie and head out into the drizzle.
TPK appears to have had a problem ‘keeping his shit’ together dealing with the bag check on the way into The Brewery Tap.
We’re being security checked for the second time on what’s turning into a less than memorable night. The doorman sees little wrong in TPK’s bag. A shame we weren’t turned round. Surely we’re too old for this damned place? The music suggests yes, the ragged clientele, otherwise.
We shout our orders across the bar. The GK selection is unpromising. It spectacularly fails to deliver. The IPA has little rugger posts around it. The Scrum Down – chosen because it’s neither IPA or Abbot – is even more obviously a tie in for the Six Nations. Judging from the taste, it seems likely it was made in a shed for the 2018 tournament.
It’s around 10. The Tap’s too depressing; the beer too shite. We leave, having spent around ten bewildering, sulky minutes in the place, and have barely touched our pints.
Plum for The Cricketers over The Chequers this pre-haircut pub trip, largely because they tend to have the Jeff Show (Jeff Stelling, anchor of the Sky football results show) on. They don’t have it on. The big screen is full of bloody Formula One qualifying.
A handful of people are in, apparently enjoying it. At least one has a phone logged into football results which he announces to his mate, who only seems interested in the Premier League.
I’ll be off to The Chequers after this. The beer alternative is what I ordered or GKIPA or Doom Bar. This is very small beer but, credit where credits due, it’s not bad at all.
Anyway, I sit back by the pool tables and smokers garden.
As I ready to leave my phone reports Town have gone 1-0 at Bristol Rovers. Collins. I clench teeth, make a fist and shout “COME ON TOWN”, quietly.
Straight out of work, as per last week, working on this blog, and down the pub. Not the Briqs this Friday as Utter: Luton’s Premier Performance Poetry evening is on at the Library Theatre. I don’t support Utter like I feel I should. God bless Lee Nelson et al… I just can’t find a “hook”…
Still, Steve and me brother will be there – and I need to give Steve cartoons for the next Clod – and, again, I really should support this Lutonian cultural bastion. The beer won’t be all that though, so I’ll have a couple down the Wetherspoons beforehand.
The JDWWH is doing a brisk trade this Friday evening. Again, empathetically, it’s interesting how ones’ feelings towards this place shift. Unlike last week (episode #653), I’m positively disposed to the ‘spoons. S’alright. The Exmoor Gold, off last week, is fine.
The clientele are as eclectic as ever – although there is a sizeable contingent of beautiful young things in attendance. One presumes, one hopes, they’ve somewhere better to go on to. Probably Utter.
The Snecklifter whelms. I have very vague memories of this beer from maybe thirty odd years ago – when a good dark beer was something of a rarity. Snecklifter, back then, seems a fantastic treat. For years since I’ve been slightly disappointed by it… it’s probably just as good as it ever was.
I have a book to read, but no reading glasses. It’s standing room only anyway… I wonder how best to snap off a photo or two. I sup up and hop along toward my creative brethren across Bridge Street.
It’s a beautiful early spring day – the sunlight pours into the erstwhile pool room at The Chequers where I’m sat. The beer is good, great considering it’s Sharps, the Town are 1-0 up at Bristol Rovers and I’m haircut bound.
In the meantime, along with this somewhat rushed pint, I’m watching the BBC sports pages and texting my football pals. Luke has managed to live screen the match into his home…
Apologise for this low content report… what else was there? The beer was a bit lively at the point of dispense: meaning I was stood at the bar, somewhat lemonlike, for longer than I’d have wished. A bloke at the bar is watching Man U v Watford on his device. All this less than legal live screening of football is very widespread these days. The bar lady is young and tattooed, she serves someone else to give my pint time to settle. The pub is reasonably well populated: no one at the tables where I sit, but the old regulars are stood round the bar and there’s a few families outside in the beer garden.
Town end up winning 2-1. Barnsley can only draw at home, and Watford lose 2-1 to Man U. I get my hair cut shorter still.
Who was the best NYC band? Velvet Underground or the Ramones?
Steve: VU. AJK: VU. Me: Ramones
I had an argument to back up this point of view. I’d had a few pints… I still prefer the Ramones, sober, I think.
LT: will we win tomorrow (away to Bristol Rovers)? Hope so. Hylton and/or Collins?
Pictured in my picture, by way of a prop, is one of my flouncy moddy paisley scarves. It’s just about warm enough to wear that kind of thing now – and I thought it would be just the thing to wear down the jazz club (see episode #674).
Utter! night up in The Crush Bar. On a Friday. Yes; a Friday.
My natural inclination is anti for this sort of a thing on a Friday. Still, truth be told, the boy Nels may have fallen onto a good thing; attendance is very much up on the last two events up here.
I’m excited to see that tonight’s headliner is someone I went to college with. I said ‘hello’ and introduced myself. Paul looked a little blankly back. He asked if I was the Andy who emailed him. ‘No.’ I reminded him that he’d performed a poem about Eric Cantona on my doorstep in London, about 20 years ago. Paul didn’t remember. Fair enough.
He, and other acts, were perfectly good. SW sets his analogue revolving disco up on a pantomime plinth. He’s playing a load of Fall, which is odd, a little out of the blue, but entirely welcome. Writing, after all, doesn’t get much better.
The book stall does brisk business as well. I’m heavily patronised by a German lady, unexpectedly held over in Luton, who sets me up, time and again, to reflect on what a f*ck up situation Brexit is. She’s shooting fish.
All the pubs we've ever been to ever 