Stuart Everitt

London Life ~ Part One …

My first proper digs in London were in Willesden Green ~ a toilet-sized room on the ground floor of a house owned by an arsehole of an Irishman who used to take great pleasure in making his poor wife's life a misery. After I'd been there a while he took to asking me into their kitchen when I got back late at night for a drinking session. Just having to speak to this creature while he tugged and pulled his wife around, getting her to fix drinks like a skivvy, was too much to take. He was much bigger than me and obviously used to fighting, so there was little I could do about a situation it wasn't really my position to comment on. 

However, as soon as I could find somewhere else I left, leaving a note and a week's rent and no forwarding address! I moved to a room in a house in Tottenham, just off Black Boy Lane, owned by a very attractive young lass who had a habit of walking round the place half naked. A lovely lass, but I think she was out of it half the time and spent the rest of her time shagging a multitude of suitors. Shortly after I'd moved there, another resident was mugged just round the corner, so I decided to start looking again. 

This time I fell on my feet ~ a very large room with a lovely family in Crouch End. The couple were teacher and lecturer, with two amazing kids ~ the eldest a young girl who was highly intelligent and very world-wise (by which, I mean when she got birthday money, she'd buy something for herself, then send the rest of the money to a children's charity). The younger boy was autistic and very enquiring, but also friendly. I felt I finally had somewhere to stay for a while and become a little more settled.

In none of these places did I feel like drinking locally. Crouch End was an exception, but the local pubs were mostly crap ~ apart from the nearest one, The Bird In Hand ~ which was quite normal during the daytime, but had a strong gay presence in the evenings. I'd still drink there, never having had any issues over that ... in fact, there was at least less chance of any brawl breaking out, apart maybe from a little "handbags at dawn"! In fact, I ended up getting on well with one small group of the locals, even attending some of their parties ... and they knew how to party!

Mostly, though, I'd drink locally to where I was working during the week, including The Crown on Clerkenwell Green and the One Tun off Farringdon Road. At the weekends I'd head down to Oxford Street, the West End and Soho, becoming a regular in many of the pubs there, including the Hog In The Pound at the top of New Bond Street (no longer there), the Shakespeare's Head in Carnaby Street, the Duke of Wellington in Wardour Street, among many others.

I was drinking far too much during this time ~ it was the culture of the press in London. The amount I'd consume in one weekend back then was scary. It was only perhaps because I was more of an ale drinker ~ or bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale when there were no decent ales on offer ~ that kept me from becoming an alcoholic ... despite the late night G+T's.

Saturday, 10.30am, I would be found at the Hog In The Pound. It was the early opener where you could drink outside in good weather and be serenaded by groups of classical music students, with violins, violas, etc., playing their versions of rock classics. A great way to start the day. From there I'd head off to Carnaby Street, to chat with the pseudo-punks, skins, et al, who were there to parade themselves to the tourist hordes with promises of drinks for photos with Japanese holidaymakers.

By mid-afternoon I'd go for a walk, a snack, or sit in a park for a while. But by late afternoon I would be somewhere around Shaftesbury Avenue for a couple more jars before heading for a meal either in Chinatown or at one of the steak houses on the periphery. Following this, it would usually be the Duke of Wellington next, then perhaps the Intrepid Fox, The French House or the Golden Lion. 

Then would come the fun part ~ trying to find your way home. Taxis were a last resort due to the cost, and you took your life in you hands on a night bus, so it was best to try and catch a tube before they shut down for the night. The weekly Travelcard was a boon. You got a ticket for 4 1/2 day's, so all your weekend travel was free. In those days buses and tubes were still frequent runners, so you could head anywhere you fancied to try a different pub or two. 

The beauty of these weekends out was you were generally drinking alongside and with tourists. And, apart from a few 'locals', these were all tourist pubs most of the year round. And with people you're ever likely to meet again, you could be whoever you wanted to be ... or whoever you thought they might want you to be! I avoided ridiculous professions where I couldn't back it up if challenged by someone with more gen on than I had, but music promoter was a favourite, or brewery rep (which got me a few free drinks!), or even designer, and probably many more I no longer remember. It was all just light-hearted fun and a lot of the time it was just a good way to keep a conversation going, as I never was very good at starting a discussion and usually got bored with the usual humdrum topics very quickly. Though it was interesting to speak to people from different countries and cultures, and it certainly broadened my understanding of them.

I'm sure it also helped to enhance those people's holidays as well. London can be a very lonely place, for both visitors and those who live there. What was the old expressions about the loneliness place in the world to be is in a crowd?

One chap I spent an afternoon with in a quiet bar just off Oxford Street ~ a Malaysian camera company rep ~ gave me one of his sample kits, with camera, tripod, zoom lenses, slide viewer, etc., before he left, simply for my having spent some time with him. He'd been in London for a week and said I was the only person who had spoken to him as an equal in all the time he was there. (Only problem with the camera kit was it had no instructions, and I never did figure out how to use it!)

Another time I spent an evening playing pool in a low-ceilinged cellar room in the Duke of York in Dering Street (just off Oxford Street) with half a dozen members of the England rugby union team. I'm six foot two tall and had to lower my head to walk round the table ~ three of them were a good 4-6 inches taller than me, so the games we played were full of hilarity, and I didn't lose many.

That was another bonus of the places I was drinking ~ celebrity spotting. Not the way they do today ~ the trick was to let them know you knew who they were, but without making a fuss about it or telling anyone else, so as not to spoil their evening. The Golden Lion in Soho was touristy downstairs, but had a predominantly gay clientele upstairs. I got to know some of the local gay crowd and for a time spent some weekend evenings in their company there. 

There was a winding staircase up to the first floor ~ almost Hollywood-like ~ and I remember climbing it one night to be greeted by a resonating "Stuart, dahling!" from two famous patrons of the establishment. One would later be best-known for their role in The Lord Of The Rings and the other was a famous theatre actor (who did some tv and films). Others I saw in the French House (allegedly home of the French resistance during WWII) or other nearby establishments which were all on the fringes of theatreland.

For a short while one Summer, a work colleague and myself were asked to help out on the door at the Duke Of Wellington. Their regular bouncer ~ a punch drunk ex-boxer who collected budgerigars ~ couldn't cope on his own with two entrances to the pub. It was fairly uneventful as there were steps up to the main doorway where we stood, giving us a significant height advantage, and making running at us more of a challenge. To keep a good male/female balance, we were to turn away any groups of males. We'd say: "Couples only" to which they'd often link arms and say they were couples, only for me to point them in the direction of Comptons ~ the large gay club just down the way on Old Compton Street. 

After shifts, Comptons was the destination for all the West End bouncers, as it stayed open until 2am. An all gay club with one corner usually housing between ten and thirty of the largest bouncers you're ever likely to see! 

One night I remember, just after midnight, a group of around 20 skinheads turned up outside the club trying to get in to do a bit of gay bashing. The word went round that Whisper (the quiet spoken black doorman) was having trouble, so around fifteen of us went outside and gave those Nazis the kicking of their lives. I don't think they were quite expecting to get such a reception at a gay bar! Budgie, from the Duke, batted two of their heads together with such force I thought their heads would crack like eggs. When the police (finally) and ambulances arrived, they had plenty of customers, none of which were either gay or bouncers! 

It was a good feeling that night ... The police questioned us for about two minutes ~ they weren't really bothered. They knew who had started the trouble and were under no illusions as to who finished it. The skins who could still walk got a nice comfy cell that night.

One evening, at around 9.30pm, I found myself standing over the road from the Golden Lion, trying to decide where to go next, when a couple of paddy wagons pulled up outside the pub and around eight heavyweight coppers went in, to emerge a few minutes later with a small black kid who couldn't have been more than five foot nine and 20 years old. They slammed him into the side of one of the wagons then cuffed him. 

Big mouth here chirped up with a shout of: "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?". In response, a copper standing around six foot six came over and asked if I wanted to join him. I glanced at my watch, put my fag out on the pavement, then said: "Why not? I'm not busy.".

He grabbed my arm and marched me over to the van and pushed me inside. They didn't cuff me, but did get me to lie on the aisle of the van. One of them put his foot on my throat (not too heavily) so at one point I lifted it, coughed, then put it back. They took us to Bow Street nick and I was presented to the desk sergeant. I refused to give my name (I never used to carry any identification back in those days) and he didn't believe my offers of Michael Mouse or Donald Duck. So they lobbed me in a cell with a enormous drunk who had puked and pissed all over the cell. 

I have to admit, for all my cockiness I was nervous. But luckily enough my cellmate didn't rouse while I was there. Just after 3am ~ when my travelcard had run out and tubes etc. had stopped for the night ~ I was back in front of the desk sergeant, collecting my belongings. As I counted out my money, I said it was a few quid short, but they could keep that for the Police Benevolent Fund. He called me the biggest pain in the arse he'd ever met ... I said I thought he was sweet!

When I eventually got home and slept for a while, then I gave a pal some dough to use his credit card and ordered a dozen red roses to be sent to 'the desk sergeant at Bow Street nick' with the card reading they were from 'The biggest pain in the arse he's ever met!'.

A number of years later, I was enjoying a Sunday lunchtime drink in the Shaftesbury Tavern and chatting to some guys who turned out to be off-duty police officers. I told them the story of my visit to Bow Street and they pissed themselves. Alongside a few free drinks that lunchtime from them as a 'reward', they told me that sergeant ~ who was universally disliked ~ was nicknamed 'Rosie' ... and now, at last, they knew why! Who'd have thought I'd become a legend to a station full of coppers!

Don't get me wrong ~ I don't hate the police. But I do hate anyone who takes advantage of their positions to pursue a bigoted agenda, such as those ones did that night.

Sundays used to be my favourite time. I'd be up early and head off to Camden Town ~ out of the tube and straight up to the Locks Market. First stop would be just inside, to a small stall on the right where the vendor would make me the best hot dog in the world ~ soft long bun with a Bratwurst sausage smothered with soft fried onions and ketchup. No better way to start the day.

The stalls back then were much better than their sanitized modern counterparts. I wouldn't be surprised if there isn't a Dunkin' Donuts there now! If the stuff you were checking out wasn't either knocked-off or counterfeit, you still felt good thinking they might be. 

Slowly, I'd head back down towards the tube, taking in Camden Market ~ the covered market area ~ particularly to meet up with the Rastafarian who ran a stall selling an eclectic mix of reggae on vinyl while enthusiastically explaining the pedigree of each artist and album. A quick nip into the Electric Ballroom, which was mostly stalls flogging old and revamped clobber, before heading for a swifty in the World's End then back on the tube to the West End.

Occasionally, I'd pop into The Hawley Arms before going to the market, which was frequented by many of the stallholders and a few dealers of other goods! And, when pubs were still closing at 2pm, The Black Cap was a favourite destination for an afternoon's drinking ~ it was a gay bar with a host of drag acts and excellent entertainment. But that was in the main room ~ the front bar was usually just full of straight drinkers who could manage the company for the sake of an otherwise out-of-hours drink! 

Other Sunday 'non-drinking' afternoons might be spent at the Sir George Robey (now Robeys) in Finsbury Park. If you got there before 2pm, they'd let you buy enough cans or bottles to last you through until the bar opened again. And it was worth staying there for the entertainment ~ one afternoon I hit upon the last day of a little-advertised Psychedelic Weekender, catching such bands as Man, Groundhogs, Pink Fairies and the outrageous John Ottway, who I got to sign a condom packet for me, which never made the journey home.

There were many, many other pubs I visited only infrequently ~ from ones which could only be described as criminal hangouts, to ones where city boys and bankers would dine. I never felt out of place in any of them, at either end of the scale. I've socialised with every caste and class ~ from 'good old boy criminal types' to millionaires ~ in the right pub you're all the same, so long as you stand your round.

The Blues Bar was an occasional destination on a Saturday evening. It stood unobtrusively in a back lane behind Carnaby Street. I remember seeing George Melly there one night, appearing on stage as jazz royalty.

I did a favour one time for a young chap who worked as a sub-editor for the NME (New Musical Express) ~ turns out he was the boss's son, so instead of asking for money, I asked him to get me tickets to see Marc Almond at the Astoria. Well, he told me the tickets were waiting for me at the venue, so I just needed to turn up, give mine and his names, and I'd get in. So, I turned up, and it worked (whether or not he had booked the tickets, or they just let me in because of his name, I'll never know ... but don't really care!). I tucked the ticket into my pocket and went through the side door, away from the waiting crowd, and up to the 'Gods'. I didn't think much to the support band, so went seeking a beer. 

The mezzanine bar was selling tiny cans of lager for £3 a hit, but I thought what the hell, it's only a one-off, so had a few there. I then went back to the upper circle and stood on the stairs, not knowing where to go as the seats all looked taken, and the front row was all tables. A bouncer came up to me and said I had to move, as no-one was allowed to be on the stairs. He asked to see my ticket, and when I showed him it he apologised and showed me to a free table smack bang in the middle of the circle. He said just to attract a waitress' attention and she'd bring me whatever drinks I wanted ... it was all on the house!

My table was next to one occupied by what I took to be a pimp and some of his scantily-clad girls, several of who asked if they could join me, as their table was too crowded. I accepted gracefully. Marc was amazing that night, performing songs from his singles album (which I already had on vinyl and CD), while suitably dispensing with hecklers. I felt like some kind of minor celebrity ... a good feeling every once in a while. It was a magical night.

The family I was staying with in Crouch End, as previously mentioned, gave me some stability with somewhere settled to live. However, the father caught something which was an offshoot of feline AIDS their cat had suffered from, and became really ill. About the same time, a workmate said his brother had a flat to let for a good price in Waddon, just south of Croydon. So, I took it and moved south of the river for the first time. It didn't last long though, as he turned out to be a real tosser, so I looked elsewhere and ended up in a room in one of two storeys above a car sales showroom. There were four or five of us living there at any one time, sharing the kitchen and other facilities, but none of us ever seemed to need to use those facilities at the same time, so it all worked out well. It was handy for shops and only a short walk from Purley Oaks station. 

The room next to me was occupied by a black lass who I got on well with ... she was very motherly and genuinely concerned for my well being most of the time. The black guy downstairs was from a very wealthy family and was in the UK to join the Guards. We had a few good nights out in the local club, as he always ordered champagne by the bottle and was never without a woman on his arm. 

I spent a long time there, until another workmate was having difficulty selling his ground floor flat in a large Victorian house in Crouch End. His missus was expecting and they needed a larger place, but just couldn't sell it because it had recently had subsidence work done to it ~ around 25 cubic metres of concrete added to the foundations in fact. This probably made it the most secure property on the road, but some people were obviously too ignorant to take that into account. I made an arrangement to buy it from him whereby he paid me £5k for doing do, which gave me the opportunity of furnishing it immediately. It also helped me to finally get back onto the housing ladder.

When I moved in there, ST (soon to be SE) moved in with me and the weekend wandering days were over. 

A few years later ~ when travelling from Croydon to Crouch End and back daily became too much for her, I sold the flat and bought an ex-brothel in South Croydon for a knockdown price. We did spend some months convincing the ex-punters it was no longer a brothel, even having to nearly take physical action at one point with a too-insistent punter, but it was still an absolute bargain and was meant to be the security for our future life together. How that turned out, you can read elsewhere ...