WEEKEND - THE ONE THAT i VAGUELY REMEMBER
Friday night. Ah, dirty old Friday night..
If I was a working man, I'd love you like you were a dirty, working woman.
Yes I would.
Anyway, Friday night saw me, James T. and 'Dazza' head out for some fun. The night started off with a few quiets at a couple of local Clapham establishments, where Darren succeeded in destroying any chance me or James may have had with the ladies, by consistently leering to any member of the opposite sex in the vicinity, fantastic lines such as: "Oi, oi, saveloy!!" or, "Hey - a shy girl get's nothin', y'know!" and my fav': "Shine on, you crazy diamond!" Mmm, quite..
With such great company, we decided to make a night of it and up the ante a bit. So, we tubed it like sons-of-bitches to dirty old King's Cross. It was almost 23:00 by the time we emerged from the Underground and into the 'underworld' - late in London terms. Unfortunately, by that time, most of where we were was closing up for the night, (or at least, moving further underground..) Bah. However, Darren was still cogniscent enough to direct us to the nearest place that he knew - the innocuously-named Flying Scotsman . Rather than have me describe in intimate, gaudy detail the goings on in aforementioned establishment, here is a bona-fide review of the premises that I happened upon just before....
The Flying Scotsman
Getting There
From KING'S CROSS (Piccadilly, Victoria, Hammersmith & City, District, Metropolitan, Circle, Northern and mainline trains). Coming out of the main station entrance, turn left and walk to the traffic lights. Go straight across; the next left is Caledonian Road (almost opposite the late, much lamented Scala cinema). The Scotsman is almost on the far corner. Don't wander off; this is NOT a safe area.
The Venue
The Flying Scotsman is set in a fairly run down area of Kings Cross, close to the main line railway station. There are a couple of sex shops on the road up from the station, and prostitutes and drug dealers work the area, so wandering around by yourself, particularly late at night, is not recommended. On the other hand there is extensive redevelopment taking place, so possibly the character of the area will change in the coming months and years.
The pub itself is of long frontage, but relatively restricted depth. The entrance door is on the left, with the bar in the form of a central island set slightly to your right as you walk in and the toilets virtually straight ahead. A word of warning about the toilet facilities: they were constructed during the Roman occupation of London, during which time they were probably in their best state of repair. Each successive centenary sees them given a celebrationary clean, with little or nothing done in between.
The Flying Scotsman is a relatively old pub, and in its heyday must have been a fairly plush establishment. The remains of ornate oak panelling can be seen all around the pub, now marred by fading paint, bodged modifications, and gouges. A series of surprisingly good quality prints showing pub clientele in horse drawn stagecoach days are fastened to the panelling in different places about the pub: catch them before they totally fade.
Another cheerful innovation of late, which says volumes about the happy, relaxed atmosphere inside: the drinks are not served in glasses, at least on Saturday. The beer comes in a plastic pint mug, while my gin and tonic appeared in a white plastic cup of the sort generally found in coffee machines. Nuff said…
The stage is diagonally opposite the entrance door and can be reached by going round either side of the bar. The stage itself is against the back wall and has been fairly recently built, replacing a smaller one on the opposite wall. It is about three feet high and roughly triangular in shape. About 10 feet long, it varies in depth from about three feet to six feet. The girls reach it via a small set of steps at the left hand end. A CD player and seats are at the foot of these steps, both being used by the girls.
The stage itself is best seen from the smallish floor in front of it. About twenty feet by fifteen feet, it can get distinctly crowded during the pub’s busier moments. (Historical note: this used to be one of the last sawdust covered pub floors in London – a practice only discontinued in the last two or three years.) Normally the pub's customers watch from the few seats along the part of the bar adjacent to the stage,(*-that's where I sat!) or lean against the walls. In this case the view is not too bad. If the Flying Scotsman is crowded, (wait for the football crowds going back north), then you are more likely to see the back of someone’s head rather than the strippers.
The Acts
The jury is out on the acts at present. In the past the Flying Scotsman used to be known for the variable but generally rough quality of the strippers. Some, in the words of the previous version of this review, looked “like the rear end of a diarrhoea-stricken bulldog.” At present the quality has improved slightly, although this is being affected by an on-going battle between the pub, and the Rainbow booking agency (which has stopped its girls working there unless it is paid a booking fee).
At busy times the dances tend to come fast and furious, the girls trying to prise money out of the ever-changing clientele before they rush off to catch their train. 50p appears to be a typical donation here during the rush hour, with £1 being seen as generous.
Additional Services
None available in the pub, but all sorts of strange services available outside, particularly after dark. [See the comments above on safety.]
Summary
This pub is definitely at the rough end of the strip pub spectrum, relying mainly on rapidly passing trade whiling away a few minutes before catching a train. There are some attempts being made to improve the facilities, (i.e. the new stage), and the quality of the girls. It will take considerable effort before much impact is made on the pub’s shabby interior and reputation. Not particularly recommended for a visit as present, except as a one off by way of an education in sleaze.
[Phil, December 2001]
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, there you have it. An education in sleaze indeed. heh-heh!
We managed to catch the last 3 and-a-half of the 'acts' on stage - all of varying quality, I might add - before the ageing managaress of the place asked us to "Put down your glasses and shift yer asses"- or something similar. Reminded me of one of my favourite Hudson lines: "Stop your grinnin' and drop your linen!" - which is actually quite apt for this place. (Jimmy T. was particularly impressed by this old woman's colourful turn-of-phrase, so I think he would remember what she said better than me - she really was a classic cockney, bordello, caricature of a woman.)
Anyway, I was too busy inspecting the fascinating Roman toilet facilities. Ancient history was always my bag.
May I just say that this wasn't as dodgy as it sounds - well maybe it was..but, really. No, really!
The real dodgy was, literally, just waiting around the corner....
Somehow, as soon as there was mention made of weed, pot, reefer, grass, cheeba, bone, leaf, nugs, fuzzies, midis, buds, hash, ganja, shrooms, mushies, coke, charlie, snow, blow, smack, junk, H, jack, horse, dope, or, heaven forbid:STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE, a gentleman who bore an uncanny resemblance to scruffy English solo singer and guitarist Badly Drawn Boy - (remember his lovely soundtrack to About A Boy?) - emerged from the shadows.
"Allo, lads!" he says. ....Yikes!!!
..Um, {story moves on a bit from there, y'know...all good, like. We find a late-open niteclub..er, we go inside...have a drink, etc..}
After about 10 minutes in the club, Darren zips off to the loos.
About 20 minutes later, he comes out again - followed hotly by a large bouncer with a very concerned and angry look on his face. From memory, I think the scene went something like this:
Setting: int. anonymous niteclub toilet (mens). Enter st.rght DARREN. DARREN goes directly in to nearest toilet cubicle and closes door.
close-up shot of DARREN shovelling all the coke into his nose.
Ext. cubicle: large BOUNCER enters and suspects something is amiss immediately.
BOUNCER knocks repeadedly on toilet door.
BOUNCER: "Oi! You in there - are you doing drugs??!!"
Int.Cubicle: DARREN: "Fuck off - I'm havin' a shit man, leave me alone!"
Ten minutes elapse, and the BOUNCER returns and bangs on cubicle door.
BOUNCER: "You're doin' drugs in there - get out now!"
DARREN: "NO!"
BOUNCER: "Get out now, motherfucker - I'm calling the cops, you damn fuck."
DARREN:"Sniff." "Okay, okay - take it easy, man!..Sniff."
BOUNCER: "Move it, or I'm breaking the door down myself!!"
Cubicle door bursts open.
BOUNCER grabs a stumbling DARREN and pushes him to the EXIT. They both emerge back into BAR PROPER.
DARREN gives a sort of glazed/startled/confused/'it-wasn't-me'-look to JAMISH and HAMES. On seeing the current situation, the latter two make an heroic b-line for the MAIN EXIT.
Well, we somehow made it back safely enough to the realtive normalcy of Clapham High St. soon after. From here, we found another little swinging hidey-hole called The Beaufoy Bar, or something. Seemed pretty cool. Have a look-see. No harm in that...
We each paid the Gorillas £4 at the door and entered...There was one thing that immediately struck me about the place. And that was me. (And for that matter James and Darren.) That's because we stood out like three extremely white little honkies...
We got some looks, I can tell you. Quite exciting, really.
After securing drinks, James went for a quick reckie around the place to see what was happening. James was not very difficult to keep track of in the throng...
After a while he returned and we/I decided it was time for some Strawberry Shortcake. So, off I went to have a wee look for myself.
It was near the back of the club when I saw him. Gold chains, Bob Marley beard and ringed fingers. He puffed on a spliff of gigantic proportions. "Hello," I said. "Nice weather we're having." "Meet me in the toilet, man" he breathed. "Okey-dokey, skipper!" I said. (No, I didn't really..) So I slowly picked my way through the crowd to the loo entrance. I found it almost totally blocked by a phalanx of impressively-muscled mean-ass muthafuckers. Hmmm, I thought. Amazingly enough, I somehow (got) pushed by them and entered the inner sanctum. Just as I entered, a group of lads finished whatever they had started - gave me the un-glad eye and exited. I turned around to consult with Darren. Darren was not there. It was just me. Me and a dozen or so gentlemen milling around - just chillin'.
GULP.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Friday night. Ah, dirty old Friday night..
If I was a working man, I'd love you like you were a dirty, working woman.
Yes I would.
Anyway, Friday night saw me, James T. and 'Dazza' head out for some fun. The night started off with a few quiets at a couple of local Clapham establishments, where Darren succeeded in destroying any chance me or James may have had with the ladies, by consistently leering to any member of the opposite sex in the vicinity, fantastic lines such as: "Oi, oi, saveloy!!" or, "Hey - a shy girl get's nothin', y'know!" and my fav': "Shine on, you crazy diamond!" Mmm, quite..
With such great company, we decided to make a night of it and up the ante a bit. So, we tubed it like sons-of-bitches to dirty old King's Cross. It was almost 23:00 by the time we emerged from the Underground and into the 'underworld' - late in London terms. Unfortunately, by that time, most of where we were was closing up for the night, (or at least, moving further underground..) Bah. However, Darren was still cogniscent enough to direct us to the nearest place that he knew - the innocuously-named Flying Scotsman . Rather than have me describe in intimate, gaudy detail the goings on in aforementioned establishment, here is a bona-fide review of the premises that I happened upon just before....
The Flying Scotsman
Getting There
From KING'S CROSS (Piccadilly, Victoria, Hammersmith & City, District, Metropolitan, Circle, Northern and mainline trains). Coming out of the main station entrance, turn left and walk to the traffic lights. Go straight across; the next left is Caledonian Road (almost opposite the late, much lamented Scala cinema). The Scotsman is almost on the far corner. Don't wander off; this is NOT a safe area.
The Venue
The Flying Scotsman is set in a fairly run down area of Kings Cross, close to the main line railway station. There are a couple of sex shops on the road up from the station, and prostitutes and drug dealers work the area, so wandering around by yourself, particularly late at night, is not recommended. On the other hand there is extensive redevelopment taking place, so possibly the character of the area will change in the coming months and years.
The pub itself is of long frontage, but relatively restricted depth. The entrance door is on the left, with the bar in the form of a central island set slightly to your right as you walk in and the toilets virtually straight ahead. A word of warning about the toilet facilities: they were constructed during the Roman occupation of London, during which time they were probably in their best state of repair. Each successive centenary sees them given a celebrationary clean, with little or nothing done in between.
The Flying Scotsman is a relatively old pub, and in its heyday must have been a fairly plush establishment. The remains of ornate oak panelling can be seen all around the pub, now marred by fading paint, bodged modifications, and gouges. A series of surprisingly good quality prints showing pub clientele in horse drawn stagecoach days are fastened to the panelling in different places about the pub: catch them before they totally fade.
Another cheerful innovation of late, which says volumes about the happy, relaxed atmosphere inside: the drinks are not served in glasses, at least on Saturday. The beer comes in a plastic pint mug, while my gin and tonic appeared in a white plastic cup of the sort generally found in coffee machines. Nuff said…
The stage is diagonally opposite the entrance door and can be reached by going round either side of the bar. The stage itself is against the back wall and has been fairly recently built, replacing a smaller one on the opposite wall. It is about three feet high and roughly triangular in shape. About 10 feet long, it varies in depth from about three feet to six feet. The girls reach it via a small set of steps at the left hand end. A CD player and seats are at the foot of these steps, both being used by the girls.
The stage itself is best seen from the smallish floor in front of it. About twenty feet by fifteen feet, it can get distinctly crowded during the pub’s busier moments. (Historical note: this used to be one of the last sawdust covered pub floors in London – a practice only discontinued in the last two or three years.) Normally the pub's customers watch from the few seats along the part of the bar adjacent to the stage,(*-that's where I sat!) or lean against the walls. In this case the view is not too bad. If the Flying Scotsman is crowded, (wait for the football crowds going back north), then you are more likely to see the back of someone’s head rather than the strippers.
The Acts
The jury is out on the acts at present. In the past the Flying Scotsman used to be known for the variable but generally rough quality of the strippers. Some, in the words of the previous version of this review, looked “like the rear end of a diarrhoea-stricken bulldog.” At present the quality has improved slightly, although this is being affected by an on-going battle between the pub, and the Rainbow booking agency (which has stopped its girls working there unless it is paid a booking fee).
At busy times the dances tend to come fast and furious, the girls trying to prise money out of the ever-changing clientele before they rush off to catch their train. 50p appears to be a typical donation here during the rush hour, with £1 being seen as generous.
Additional Services
None available in the pub, but all sorts of strange services available outside, particularly after dark. [See the comments above on safety.]
Summary
This pub is definitely at the rough end of the strip pub spectrum, relying mainly on rapidly passing trade whiling away a few minutes before catching a train. There are some attempts being made to improve the facilities, (i.e. the new stage), and the quality of the girls. It will take considerable effort before much impact is made on the pub’s shabby interior and reputation. Not particularly recommended for a visit as present, except as a one off by way of an education in sleaze.
[Phil, December 2001]
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, there you have it. An education in sleaze indeed. heh-heh!
We managed to catch the last 3 and-a-half of the 'acts' on stage - all of varying quality, I might add - before the ageing managaress of the place asked us to "Put down your glasses and shift yer asses"- or something similar. Reminded me of one of my favourite Hudson lines: "Stop your grinnin' and drop your linen!" - which is actually quite apt for this place. (Jimmy T. was particularly impressed by this old woman's colourful turn-of-phrase, so I think he would remember what she said better than me - she really was a classic cockney, bordello, caricature of a woman.)
Anyway, I was too busy inspecting the fascinating Roman toilet facilities. Ancient history was always my bag.
May I just say that this wasn't as dodgy as it sounds - well maybe it was..but, really. No, really!
The real dodgy was, literally, just waiting around the corner....
Somehow, as soon as there was mention made of weed, pot, reefer, grass, cheeba, bone, leaf, nugs, fuzzies, midis, buds, hash, ganja, shrooms, mushies, coke, charlie, snow, blow, smack, junk, H, jack, horse, dope, or, heaven forbid:STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE, a gentleman who bore an uncanny resemblance to scruffy English solo singer and guitarist Badly Drawn Boy - (remember his lovely soundtrack to About A Boy?) - emerged from the shadows.
"Allo, lads!" he says. ....Yikes!!!
..Um, {story moves on a bit from there, y'know...all good, like. We find a late-open niteclub..er, we go inside...have a drink, etc..}
After about 10 minutes in the club, Darren zips off to the loos.
About 20 minutes later, he comes out again - followed hotly by a large bouncer with a very concerned and angry look on his face. From memory, I think the scene went something like this:
Setting: int. anonymous niteclub toilet (mens). Enter st.rght DARREN. DARREN goes directly in to nearest toilet cubicle and closes door.
close-up shot of DARREN shovelling all the coke into his nose.
Ext. cubicle: large BOUNCER enters and suspects something is amiss immediately.
BOUNCER knocks repeadedly on toilet door.
BOUNCER: "Oi! You in there - are you doing drugs??!!"
Int.Cubicle: DARREN: "Fuck off - I'm havin' a shit man, leave me alone!"
Ten minutes elapse, and the BOUNCER returns and bangs on cubicle door.
BOUNCER: "You're doin' drugs in there - get out now!"
DARREN: "NO!"
BOUNCER: "Get out now, motherfucker - I'm calling the cops, you damn fuck."
DARREN:"Sniff." "Okay, okay - take it easy, man!..Sniff."
BOUNCER: "Move it, or I'm breaking the door down myself!!"
Cubicle door bursts open.
BOUNCER grabs a stumbling DARREN and pushes him to the EXIT. They both emerge back into BAR PROPER.
DARREN gives a sort of glazed/startled/confused/'it-wasn't-me'-look to JAMISH and HAMES. On seeing the current situation, the latter two make an heroic b-line for the MAIN EXIT.
Well, we somehow made it back safely enough to the realtive normalcy of Clapham High St. soon after. From here, we found another little swinging hidey-hole called The Beaufoy Bar, or something. Seemed pretty cool. Have a look-see. No harm in that...
We each paid the Gorillas £4 at the door and entered...There was one thing that immediately struck me about the place. And that was me. (And for that matter James and Darren.) That's because we stood out like three extremely white little honkies...
We got some looks, I can tell you. Quite exciting, really.
After securing drinks, James went for a quick reckie around the place to see what was happening. James was not very difficult to keep track of in the throng...
After a while he returned and we/I decided it was time for some Strawberry Shortcake. So, off I went to have a wee look for myself.
It was near the back of the club when I saw him. Gold chains, Bob Marley beard and ringed fingers. He puffed on a spliff of gigantic proportions. "Hello," I said. "Nice weather we're having." "Meet me in the toilet, man" he breathed. "Okey-dokey, skipper!" I said. (No, I didn't really..) So I slowly picked my way through the crowd to the loo entrance. I found it almost totally blocked by a phalanx of impressively-muscled mean-ass muthafuckers. Hmmm, I thought. Amazingly enough, I somehow (got) pushed by them and entered the inner sanctum. Just as I entered, a group of lads finished whatever they had started - gave me the un-glad eye and exited. I turned around to consult with Darren. Darren was not there. It was just me. Me and a dozen or so gentlemen milling around - just chillin'.
GULP.
TO BE CONTINUED...
posted by Hamish | 12/02/2002 05:53:00 PM
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