For the love of not so dodgy boozers by a dodgy boozer

Earlier this week I found myself writing in appreciation for the pubs of my past which the uncharitable could describe as less than salubrious. Actually, anyone who would call them that would deserve a slap because it suggests a level of pretentiousness better suited to a hospitality edifice of wank that would usually do a roaring trade in Veuve and Export 33. This post celebrates a pub that I have a great affection for that now sits forlornly in a terrible state of disrepair, the last building standing in Poplar Lane.

It was at a set of afternoon drinks on a warm summer evening in late 2005 that I first heard of the Twisted Hop. We were discussing the gassiness of New Zealand tap beer when my learned friend Phil, who is a retired semprini dealer in Christchurch, announced "I have discovered the Twisted Hop." We resolved at once to meet there so he could show me the beer. True to his word, we met at the Hop a couple of days later. Poplar Lane was not the thriving hub that it later became at that stage. The Twisted Hop was just one level and the lane was shared by a number of empty buildings, RedJacks and several brothels (I'm not joking). Vespa was on the verge of opening. Phil and I sat outside in the sun to enjoy my first pint of Challenger at a leaner that was bolted to the wall underneath a flowering hop bine. It was a revelation. I had enjoyed watching the cascade effect of the pint being and the intense grassy hoppiness of the scent of the beer. To taste, it was a riot of bitterness on a level I had never tasted before but would frequently exceed in the future. My first thought was 'bleurgh!" and similar to the experience of my first pint of Guinness, I persevered. Half way down the pint and also probably because of Phil's excellent company, I warmed to the pint and developed the conclusion that the stereotypical perception of British beer being warm and flat was a bit of a nonsense. I found that it was served just below room temperature and with a fine tingle of carbonation. I was also incredibly surprised that the flavour could be heightened by the slightly higher serving temperature. All I needed was to learn to enjoy more flavour in my beer. There were a few visits to the Hop after that, if only to get away from my usual haunts. Then something changed.

Happier times.

What changed was my employment. In March 2006 I wrote a comment in the duty manager's book where I worked at the Excelsior that got me sacked. It was a lengthy discourse as to my disappointment in the handling of the bar and the lack of follow through on promises of refurbishment and pay rises by the then-owner. I also said that he was a fat rich prick who cared more for the stitching on the seats of his new Ferrari than he did for the public face of his company. Since then I have learned that grand gestures, while satisfying at the time, are not as preferential as a quiet, dignified, diplomatic exit. I needed a job and so I went around the corner and applied at the Hop, who were losing Sally, one of their stars. Sally is gorgeous and so with me being only vaguely presentable it was only the additional string to my bow in presenting pub quizzes that got me the job, and what a job. As a bar job, it expanded my horizons and appreciation of beer from being a commodity that got people plastered to one that was an enjoyable flavour and a sociable conduit for conversation. People came to the pub to chat, play cards and eat. I cannot begin to tell you how much easier it is running a bar without these distractions. A point of pride for The Twisted Hop was that there were no pool tables, no poker machines and no television. The Hop was about beer and people. 

Not an actual little sister, but she might as
well be.

Side by side with my best man, Denny Crane.
22 Feb 2007.

The people at the Hop were special. Among them, some became my drinking cronies, my business partners, my best man and one of them my wife. I worked with a good crew behind that bar that like many crews went through all the Coronation St drama that hospitality attracts when people who work together fight and fornicate together. We worked well together and I recall fondly a procession of talented people, beautiful people and funny people. Twisted Hop former bar alumnus include lawyers, a former lawyer who played golf every day for a year around the world, an architect, journalists, a radiation therapist, and a bevvy of hardened hospitality professionals. There were also musicians, chefs and brewers that I now count among my friends. It was the company of these people that made for two of my fondest memories of being at The Twisted Hop: the first was having an afternoon off to lean against the bar with a couple of pints, some cheese and the cryptic crossword. Some of the regulars and I would attempt to conquer it daily with mental acrobatics and then after we were done we would talk about the pressing issues of the day and engage in friendly disagreement peppered with jokes; the other situation was when we would finish a busy shift on a Friday or Saturday night and sit down knackered for a staffie (a pint shouted for us by the pub), maybe another pint (paid for by us) before buying a few interesting beers from the fridge and heading away to a session of pontificating, smoking cigars and sampling beer. These became known as the Denny Crane Sessions and rank as being one of the happiest convivial experiences of my life.

I am not tempted to write witty caption because I actually
find this saddening.

For some reason I couldn't see the wood for the trees and I left my employment at The Twisted Hop. I went to manage another bar which for one reason or another was a fiasco. I still remained a loyal Hop regular and carried on presenting the pub quiz and then there was an earthquake. If it wasn't for the earthquake strengthening performed on the building to create the upstairs bar that the boys paid an arm and a leg for, the end of the Hop could have been tragically different. As it was the Hop was able to resume trading a few months later and then there was another earthquake and everything came skidding to a halt. The Hop was buggered. The Hop became the Twisted Hop, Poplar Lane as the business picked itself up and has re-opened as the excellent Twisted Hop, Woolston, the Twisted Hop Brewery in Sockburn and soon to be something else in Lincoln. I am happy that the business is operating again and is attracting a new set of people, new stories and new experiences. But what of the old Hop? Well it is the last remaining upright building in Poplar Lane as you can see from the photos following. I was there today taking them. The doors are all opened and some shitkicker has tagged the outside of the building. God alone only knows what it is like on the inside... a building where I met my wife; where one night I hosed down three blokes who were pissing on the wall of the back office when my little sister was trying to get in; where I solved hundreds of cryptic crossword clues with John and the two Peters; where the staff formed a chain of back massaging during service; where people enjoyed the beer, the food and each other's company, often meeting for the first time and sometimes, the last time; where those staff who smoked would end up frequently having a cigarette with the girls who worked at the neighbouring dominatrix dungeon when they had a moment between clients; where I had my last cigarette before quitting. This was a building with memories and seeing it in its current state is heartbreaking and confronting that those times are not coming back. You have to be pragmatic and face that reality, but The Twisted Hop in Poplar Lane shows that a pub is more than just bricks and mortar; it is more than a bar top, taps and tables; it is more than a licence and a business. You can have all of the preceding and have a bar, not a pub because a pub is an organic community. The crucial ingredients are people and soul. TTH had both.
Goodbye Poplar Lane.

Immediately following February's earthquake (photo taken by Martin Bennett)

And up the lane looking toward Lichfield St immediately after the February quake (photo by Martin Bennett)

In its current state, 5 July 2013

On the right was the storeroom and offices that I hosed down the hosers from. The doorway with 148 was the entry to our neighbour, the dominatrix dungeon.

For the love of dodgy boozers by a dodgy boozer

When I was serving in purgatory (also known as Linton Military Camp) I somehow found my way on to the committee of the Linton Soldier's Club, ending up as president of the mess committee for about two years. Each military camp has one and they are almost all uniformly identical. There will be linoleum because it is easy to hose down, there are bar leaners, a couple of well-cared for and well-used pool tables and a bar with a grill so that it can close peacefully at the end of the night when the Orderly Officer and Orderly Sergeant come to throw everyone out. Being so far from home, I spent a lot of time in that bar. I saw a lot of it at opening time and a lot of it at closing time. I played thousands of games of pool, consumed more beer and cigarettes* than is good for a person and when I look back, it is with a thing called nostalgie a la boue. 

Marty, Shaun and Tim demonstrate another
use for duct tape: customer control.

Nostalgie a la boue literally means nostalgia of mud and is the French term for the fond recollection of a misspent past of seedy bars and bad behaviour. There's something about a dodgy bar that I quite like from tacky memorabilia on the walls to the beer stained carpet on the floor. If a dodgy pub could talk, it would have more stories to tell than the bible. I'm looking back a little fondly because I was walking through the centre of Christchurch the other day. Most of my old haunts are now Wilson's Carparks and I cannot help but be saddened when I think of the happy hours spent idly leaning on the bar at The Bog Irish Bar in the pleasant and most excellent company of the bar staff and regulars. There would be the occasional shenanigans where there might be a scrap or someone would fall drunkenly face-first into the fire, but mostly it was a place of great humour, such as the attached photo of one of the bar staff's flatmates who was getting a bit lippy so we duct taped him to the banister on the stage and left him there to stew all night. I look at that stage and remember on occasion where I set a World, Commonwealth and Olympic record for consumption of Guinness while presenting a pub quiz. I won't say how much it was, but it ironically rhymes with 'plenty'. My rendition of the second half of the quiz was in Swedish and it finished about two hours after its scheduled conclusion. I was also fired and then rehired a year later when I had done some penitence, to be fair, Orla was very nice about it.

Here's to The Bog and everyone in it.
And to the Linton Baggies, the Cheviot Trust
and the Excelsior Sports Bar

Most men have some story of pub-based buffonery that they ought to be ashamed of: some experience that seemed funny at the time but in the sober light of day gets filed under 'the accumulation of wisdom' cross-referenced with 'I'm never doing that again'. Any verbal recollection of those sorts of stories gets a reprimand from Atilla the Wife but I get a strange feeling of warmth from them. I think it is a part of having a life lived and while Atilla considers the time and money spent 'pissing against a wall', I think it has some value. To quote Vivian Stanshall "I spent all of my money on drink, carousing and women and the rest I wasted."

*I no longer smoke of course. Disreputable habit, a bit like getting plastered and singing "You're just too good to be true" to passing policemen. Yeah, I don't do that anymore either.

Blue Sky Thinking #2

This post could easily be construed as some sort of far-right rant and to a degree it is but believe me the ramifications are entirely practical. I don't believe in democracy mainly because it gives the capability of any fool or cretin into power. Democracies have been frequently let down by the qualities of the elected representatives, who once they have got into power have either feather-bedded and embezzled billions from their treasury, become totally deranged or pursued a course of invading their neighbours and murdering half of Europe. As long as a candidate can convince a broad enough section of the electorate that they deserve to be in power, they're in and often it isn't until another election before they can be removed unless they do something so heinously awful that they can get the boot from the boss. My theory, rightly or wrongly, is that the best form of government is a benevolent dictatorship where a panel run the country for the benefit of the people. In my own banana republic there would be a convened panel of governors who are experts in their field and in the top chair would be someone of merit appointed by an election. The twist being that the election takes place under a special set of circumstances.

Democracy: Same voting rights as you.

Democracy: Same voting rights as you.

Democracy: Same voting rights as you.

Before I elaborate on the election of the titular president, I want to advance another theory: suffrage has gone too far. The vote has been extended beyond the original qualifications of land ownership and now encompasses everyone over the age of 18. I think this is wrong. I think that age should not be the sole qualifying factor to determine suffrage, that it should be intelligence and political engagement. In my perfect world, in order to gain a licence to vote, electors would need to pass a test. This would be a fairly rigorous assessment designed to screen out people who are incapable of voting properly. By my rationale, only people who want to be engaged with the political process will bother to sit the test thus combating political apathy. Only people who are intelligent enough to pass the test will be given their voting licence, combating the obvious misuse of votes. I can't think of any reason why we shouldn't extend voting rights to people under the age of 18, provided they are capable of passing the test, and we continue to allow stupid people to have a say in running the country when they can't. Reasoning that people of diminished mental capacity deserve some form of representation is a null argument when it is the duty of the intelligentsia to act as carers and protectors of the rest of society including all forms of vulnerability, including that of mental disability. In the last election I pottered along to the polling station and saw a man I knew to be of sub-normal intelligence being led to a booth and his candidate being chosen and his vote being marked for him by his caregiver. This is electoral fraud and highlights a flaw in our system. Under  my system, there is no possibility that this would happen.

The other qualification is that voting rights should not be extended to those who, while otherwise qualified to vote, are serving time in prison. Are these the people we want having a say in who runs the country? At present Ewan MacDonald, Clayton Weatherstone, Stewart Murray Wilson, Graeme Burton and Graham Capill can all choose who runs the country. I would suggest that this errs on the side of morally questionable, that society is demonstrating its approbation of these people and yet they are playing a continuing role in shaping that society.

My preference is that a voting licence should be difficult to obtain to ensure a high quality of electors. Choosing the candidates is a little more difficult, but I would prefer a system similar to that is similar used in the current honours system but a little more rigorous. Candidates are nominated by a dozen qualified electors and considered by a nomination committee. A short list of exceptional candidates will be published and the election will take place with a couple of run offs and finally a first past the post round with three candidates. The successfully elected president will then choose their various ministers from a provided short list of qualified experts and government will take place by their administration. All minsters will be accountable to the president who will govern with the best interests of the people at heart. The judiciary will remain separated from the executive and administration as it currently is.

Can I get you a whisky Mr President?

I have considered who I would pick as president of the new intellectual republic of New Zealand and my first choice was Stephen Fry. Sadly, he fails on the residency requirement as it needs to be a New Zealander. The preferred President should be someone capable with a highly functioning bullshit radar; a person who is loved by the people who has the common touch; and is a master communicator. I nominate Mr John Clarke.
Viva el Presidente!