Posted on 06/04/2003 5:59:26 AM PDT by ijcr
With the news that the pub chain JD Wetherspoon is thinking of banning swearing on its 600 premises [report, 3 June], it seems a good moment to update this column's Bloody Good Pub Guide. Here are some of the notable hostelries:
The Flaming Norah. A decent-ish traditional no-frills curser where you can enjoy a pint of Frobisher's Old Foul Mouth and join in some old-fashioned profanity with the locals. The place has recently been rather taken up by the young blaspheming set and on a Saturday night you can hardly hear yourself think a rude thought.
Our verdict on the lunchtime home-made Thai-style moussaka and chunky chips was pleasingly unrepeatable.
The Tinker's Cuss. Lovely off-the-beaten-track country pub. And when one of the blazered regulars says "My shout" you can count on a ripe stream of inventive expletives. There is a fine display of antique swear boxes in the saloon bar and the graffiti in the Gents are more extensive than you might expect for this kind of establishment.
Excellent local brewery. If you are there on a delivery day (Tuesday) you might get lucky and catch what the landlord says when the drayman rolls a barrel over his foot.
The Marquis of Billingsgate. If strong Belgian oaths are your thing then this cavern of a place is for you. It has recently undergone a major refurbishment and now offers a choice of 27 Belgian curses. We saw a man at the pool table miss an easy pot in the top left corner and give an anguished cry of "Oh Bruges!" His opponent called him a bit of an Antwerp.
Frankly, we found the Marquis of Billingsgate lacking in character, although the malfunctioning cigarette machine was the cause of some lively expressions of frustration. Service is surly.
The Ferret and F Word. The sort of place that is anathema to all those earnest bearded chaps at the Campaign for Real Oaths. It's a straightforward sports-swearing bar where people say "Arsenal" every other word - which you may think betrays a poverty of vocabulary.
A giant television screen on one wall shows continuous Sky football with the sound turned down, so, as you sink your vodka and apricot, you can lip-read the international soccer stars when they miss an open goal or respond to an opponent's late tackle.
Gadzooks. Ghastly 17th-century theme pub. All pish and tush and fie, whoreson this and that and Ods bodikins. Ribald wenches on Thursdays. Four-letter hour 6pm to 8pm every night. Musical swearing on Wednesdays with "Zounds of the 1660s".
Pardon My French. This used to be called The Daft Bugger, a lovely little spit-and-cuss establishment where you could get a decent pint and some genuine vulgar abuse. In the snug, the air was always blue as the old boys playing crib called each other names and the landlord had an extraordinarily wide variety of words for every part of the anatomy. He also had some special adjectives for favoured customers.
Alas, that has all gone now. It has been taken over by an ambitious young couple (the Bastards) and has gone upmarket. The carpets have been taken out and there is stripped pine everywhere. The blackboard offers the inevitable fare of merde, the ubiquitous sacre bleu and that old staple Mon Dieu.
Blimey O Riley's. Yet another of those so-called typical "Oirish" swear houses. Still, you can enjoy a pint of porter and witness the sort of eloquence which is supposed to be acquired when a man stubs his toe on the Blarney Stone.
The Three Jolly Asterisks. A joy. In this high-pressure age when people have to gabble their obscenities it is a treat to find a pub where they still do it the old-fashioned way. The landlady, Doris Effing, has been berating customers for 22 years and when she gives you a Bloody Mary she actually spells out the b-l-o-o-d-y.
You also get a genuine Ploughman's Curse - not the bland euphemistic thing you usually find. It's based on what a local ploughman said to his horse in 1871 when it stampeded into his tied cottage and ploughed up the front room. One nice feature of the Three Jolly Asterisks is the back garden, where children can fall down the steep concrete steps and swear to their hearts' content.
Effing? What an appropriate name for this story!
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