July 1960 Vol XIV No.7
Number 149
Page 1
July 1960 – No 149
_______________________________________________________________________________________ The Silly Season. As the last stencil for the June B.B. has come off the typewriter, this one has followed it. We try, as a rule, to keep a certain balance, wherever possible, between serious and humorous articles in the B.B. If this issue – like the, last one – finishes rather too much on the humorous side, we apologise to the more serious minded of our readers. “Alfie” _______________________________________________________________________________________
Old Inns of Bristol Some time ago a select committee of B.E.C. members decided to conduct an investigation onto the hostelries of the city. So much has happened during the last year or so around the central parts of Bristol that it was thought visiting members might waste valuable drinking time trying to visit some taverns which may no longer interest them. For example, that ancient haunt of fiarios “The Rummer” is now a frightfully jolly establishment absolutely oozing with period pieces and historic bric-a-brac. However, to the beginning of the tour. The party met at the appointed hour in the upper bar of the Hatchet – that classical black and white timbered ale house in Denmark Street. The lower bars appear to be somewhat proletariat in character and would not appeal to members except perhaps to those studying the more bizarre side of social anthropology. The iron studded doors hide pimply faced adolescents with long hair, accompanied by a selection of bottle blondes for whom the prototype would probably be found in the Monroe-Mansfield group. Upstairs, in the oak panelled lounge, the atmosphere was altogether different filled with gentlemen who – to judge from the walls – were so hard up that they would permit the ends of their old school ties to be removed for the price of a pint. It drips of the mess, chaps, after a jolly game of rugger – or was it hockey? Leaving this delightful establishment, the party aimed itself in the general direction of the Rummer but one of the members became so stricken with the pangs of thirst on the way that the Drawbridge had to be visited. Here was witnessed and interesting encounter between a ragged and unshaven gentleman and a barman. The R. & U.G. was unsuccessfully trying to get a pale ale and a double rum with a pitiful collections of copper coins totalling 1/10½d which appeared to be poor old mans total assets – except for the large roll of crinkly greenbacks held in his grubby left paw out of sight of the barman. Before venturing forth again, some thoroughly recommended cheese and salad mixture rolls were stuffed into the beer-holes of your select committee. The Rummer – first licensed in 1241 – has recently set the vogue in steak bars, and amongst the many “smart” bars has an underground vault known as the Smuggler’s Bar. The bar itself is a lifeboat and draught sherry barrels pour out their golden liquid ‘Shipped from Portugal to the port of Bristol by Bristol ships’. How nice. Next to the Rummer is another steak and stilton eatery and a large vault known simply as the Cellar. This has for some inexplicable reason a more genuine atmosphere than the snug ‘Smugglers’. It is a large vaulted cellar, with a huge fireplace ornamented with muskets and cutlasses – one almost can expect to see Pepys or Sir Francis Dashwood descend the stone stair. The only discordant note is the surfeit of pseudo-Spanish posters advertising jolly little sessions at some Plaza de Torros. Viva el Bull! Perhaps these should be tolerated for apart from draught Sherries they sell a very palatable draught Sauterne at 1/2 & 1/9 per glass which must be Spanish. The Toby Bar on a higher floor supplies draught Chianti at 2/6 per carafe – about 8d per glass. The evening ended on a discordant note in the Guildhall Tavern, where having complained about a greasy unwashed knife to the lady in charge, we were greeted with “What! Five minutes to ten and you want a clean knife!” (Signed) G.Host, Inn Spectre.