THE BUILDER'S ARMS 1975

It's 1975, I am 27. 'The Builder's Arms' was a small unspoilt Victorian pub directly opposite my rented furnished shared basement flat, named after the builder of the row of pretty bijou terraced houses which it adjoined. It had a central projecting 'U' shaped bar; banquet seating round the walls, and three doors which had originally served three partitioned snugs – the partitions had been removed. On the right, under the staircase to the living quarters was an alcove containing a reproduction of Constable's 'The Hay Wain' pasted to the curved wall. Obscured glass leaded windows; lots of mahogany and brass bar fittings; and a ceiling dark brown from cigarette smoke.

The area was extremely wealthy, all luxury mansion flats and owner occupied houses, but there was a row of shops nearby and some offices and workshops. The area still supported two working men's cafes; so the clientele of the pub fell into two groups - basically posh and scummy.

On the opposite corner was a launderette, where I did my weekly wash. It was natural, while waiting, to pop into the pub for three quarters of an hour, it was also a good way of getting out of the rather unpleasant flat for a hour before closing; so I probably went in two or three times a week having half of cider each time. I discovered that you really can't go into a pub on your own and stare at the wall, and I was too shy to accost strangers, so I would take a book to read. There were other regulars of course, who really were regulars and spent each night of the week in there as a second home. I remember the man with a large Fedora hat; the man with the two red setters; the enormously fat lady and the little clique at the corner of the bar by the Hay Wain.

Some vignettes:

Usually the clientele were all the people from the immediate neighbourhood. But twice a year there would be an invasion of strange groups; groups that immediately stood out as indefinably similar people, and different from us - I couldn't put my finger on what distinguished them, and individually they would not have stood out, but together they were anomalous.

The first invasion lasted several days, perhaps two weeks, every evening about 10 pm; mainly 20 - 30 year olds, straight from the 1950's -  shorthair, sports jackets, anoraks, ties, girls with pearls (but not real ones), slightly 'Famous Five'ish, the occasional evening suit and long dress, with a tendency to faux boisterousness and over loud talk. Eventually, after three years, I worked it out, they were 'Prommers', the Royal Albert Hall was just within walking distance and they would come in after the Promenade Concerts finished. This went on for years until the whole clientele changed.

The second group was more homogenous and identifiable; middle aged men in sombre suits; old-boy ties; small metal lapel symbols, with short hair and subdued talk, but with somehow a disciplined air. These foxed me. So after three years I actually said to one “You know, once year you come into this pub, and you are all evidently the same sort of person, and your group stands out as different, can I ask who you are?”. “We are high ranking army officers who have just finished a 3 day course nearby” he said. They never appeared again.

The group by the Hay Wain would eye me occasionally, and eventually the weaselly looking one came over, tapped my book, and said “This isn't a fucking library you know!”. Thirty years later, after I had long left the area, I went back for a nostalgic drink. There he was, his mates gone, in the same corner of the bar (but the Hay Wain had gone) looking completely out of place. He was reading a book. I resisted the temptation.

My neighbour in the next adjoining basement flat was also a regular regular. He was a high power merchant banker of about my age. Our post was delivered together and we extracted our own from the pile, so he saw my post. One day he stopped work, and the porter told me he was on 'Gardening Leave', so I commiserated with him. He explained he was on full pay and it was only temporary, and he made some sarky comment along the lines of “It's not like the London Subterranean Survey Association you know”. He subsequently bought a house one street away and so still haunted the pub, where he had a large group of  'friends' all jolly together. On another occasion 30 years later when I went back, there he was sitting at an upturned barrel - and so we chatted. “Look at this” he said with great pride, and indicated a small brass plaque let into the barrel top which said “Reserved for Michael Xxxx”. I was astonished, it meant he had been sitting there, every night, for the last 30 years - he had no life outside the pub. So I got my own back, “Do you think that is admirable?” I said with surprise. He never spoke to me again. I went back in 2020 and the barrel was still there, but shuffled into a dark corner with no stools round it, and the plate hadn't been polished.

One night I went in and sat own with my half of cider. Ten minutes later one of my flat mates came in with a man, and they sat over the other side of the  room but within view. She was perhaps 25, and he was 50. What to do? I was unsocialised, and had no idea what was the usual form in such situations, it seemed ridiculous to ignore her when we lived together, and we could see each other across the pub. After about half an hour I wandered over to their table and said hello.

“This is George Gale” she said and he grudgingly recognised my presence. Gale (1927 - 1990) was a long time career Fleet Street journalist with the Daily Express,  he had a morning show on LBC, the London (Radio) Broadcasting Company, and was known for his gruff intolerant manner. Auberon Waugh called him “Lunchtime O'Gale” and Private Eye “George G Ale” - he was the archetypal drunken journalist. He clearly thought I knew who he was and was trying to ingratiate myself with the great man - after about 10 minutes they left. It appeared I had got it wrong. Never interrupt a 50 year old man plying a 25 year old girl with alcohol!

One weekend a strange sight appeared on the corner outside the pub - a stall with revolting looking  small spheres covered in brine tended by a figure in a white coat. An enterprising east-end regular had thought the trendies up-west would go for an authentic whelk stall. How wrong could you be, a complete mis-reading of the demographics. It lasted about a month. On one of my visits 30 years later I chatted with him (he was still there too) but didn't recognise him as the seller. “Do you remember the whelk stall?” I asked “Yes, we had to give it up, no customers” he said, thank goodness I hadn't said anything derogatory!

In about 1978 the American Richmond University opened a branch nearby, and the pub began to be full of 18 year old Americans, banned from drinking in their own country. They gradually replaced the regulars, and then in about 1980 the brewery decided to completely re-vamp the pub to a modern gastro-pub. Out went all the Victorian fittings, the bar was moved back against the wall, and a trendy scheme in shades of grey instituted. The Hay Wain was painted over. The launderette became an estate agent. It was never the same again.

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