Archive for the ‘Past’ Category

Raising the Bars

Posted on: January 5th, 2011 by riddaway No Comments

Caroline Roddis explores the boozy history of Covent Garden’s drinking culture

Tales of drunkards rampaging through London after marathon drinking sessions may be presented as marks of modern society’s degeneration but have, in fact, been told since Covent Garden began to develop into what we know and love today. Wild, faddish and occasionally surprising, the area’s evolving drinking culture has kept it on the map – and occasionally in the gutter – for over 500 years.

Granted to the Dukes of Bedford following the Reformation, Covent Garden was already well lubricated by the time of the 1552 Alehouse Act (the first licensing law). One of the area’s oldest recorded pubs was the Swan near Charing Cross, established in the 15th century. This pub, incidentally, was favoured by poet Ben Johnson as its barman Ralph always served him good ‘Canary’ – a sweet wine from the Canary Islands.

The abundance of alehouses, which have been a feature of English life since Roman times, was to be expected given that in 1584 there were 26 breweries in London, producing a whopping 648,900 barrels between them. Beer was, in fact, a much safer drink than the untreated water available and had experienced a surge in popularity thanks to the hopping technique introduced from Holland. Not only were half London’s brewers foreign but, as Pepys informs us, there was also a French tavern, Chatelaine’s, in Covent Garden.

One surviving pub from this era is the Lamb & Flag on Rose Street, which has records dating back to 1623 and whose back room gained notoriety as ‘the Bucket of Blood’ during the 17th century due to the bare knuckle boxing matches held there. Indeed, entertainment has always been an important accompaniment to drinking in Covent Garden and sports like boxing, bowling and even shooting have all taken place in pubs across the area. Moreover, it was not unusual for former sportsmen to become publicans in later life: boxer Ben Caunt, after whom Big Ben was supposedly named, ran the Coach & Horses on St Martin’s lane for a few years until 1851, when a fire tragically destroyed both the pub and the lives of his two children.

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Hello Boys

Posted on: August 23rd, 2010 by riddaway No Comments

Editor of the Observer Magazine Polly Vernon looks back at her heady days and intoxicating nights as a Wonderbra flaunting barmaid in 90s Covent Garden

I spent my first year in London working in a cocktail bar on the corner of Wellington Street, bang in the middle of Covent Garden. It was neon-lit and screamingly trashy, a formerly-fashionable barn of a joint called Rumours, and I loved it. I arrived equipped with nothing more than a mediocre degree in French, a Wonderbra and a regulation catsuit, and managed to land a few shifts on the basis that someone I knew had once slept with the manager. Within a fortnight or two, I was totally ensconced on the regulars’ rota.

I fell in love with the whole scene within milliseconds. There was no way you could have dragged me away from the place. I sloshed out endless pre-mixed long island ice teas for the delectation of the Eastenders stars, Premiership footballers and City boys who became my clientele. I spent my free time doing shots after hours with Croatian bus boys and my catsuit-clad colleagues, to whom I was completely devoted. We’d troop off to Stringfellows (where I had been granted something called Model Membership) or The Roadhouse in the Piazza or The Limelight on Charing Cross Road or The Spot on Maiden Lane – our sister bar with a late license. I never got out of bed before midday, and never returned to it before 3am. I toyed with the affections of doormen and the Miss Saigon musicians who would pop in for a G&T before the evening performance. I took minicabs home to Hammersmith every night from the Ali Cabs outfit situated opposite Leicester Square tube. And generally, I thought I had ARRIVED. You could keep Studio 54 in the 70s and The Blitz Club in the early 80s—as far as I was concerned, it did not get more decadent, more intensely glamorous, more heady and intoxicating, than Rumours of Covent Garden in 1994.

I was wrong, of course. Covent Garden 16 years ago was a fading shadow of former glories, and a million miles from the slick, shiny, brilliantly refurbished operation it is now. It was smelly and not especially hip. It was filled with dismal tourists, bad street artists and overpriced coffee shops. But I was oblivious. Having grown up in Devon and studied in Brighton, Covent Garden was my introduction to London and to a life outside full time education. It seemed to me to be the very epicentre of glamour, and I embraced it as hard as my cantilevered, Lycra-encased bosom would allow.

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