The King Charles I, Kings Cross

Suffering from a rather lengthy bout of the rum fits and having to walk to t'other end of Old Street to visit an ageing architect I decided to waltz into the Charles on a Wednesday evening - the barman was in excellent form, he eyed me straightaway as a fellow sufferer on the Damascene road to enlightenment through self loathing and intoxication, poured me an excellent pint of ale before hopping outside for a word with the weather and a cigarello ... the bar was perfectly lit, something amiss from the general pub trade in these sorry toping times ... to the point I cancelled my apoitment with the draughtsman and spent the remainder of the night locked in a furious dialectic with furthermost beer pump and the Times Cryptic ...

Once again, a gem of a hostelry ...

3 Nov 2008 15:24

The King Charles I, Kings Cross

In my regular perambulations throught the nether world of our nations dismal metropolis I have often found myself musing profoundly upon the dire lack of a decent hostelry in the environs of Kings Cross. One often veers that way after a few hours discoursing on Kant's cant in Marylebone, or after a solo flight, recreating the atmosphere of 1950's Fritzovia through the medium of ales, spirits and speaking in tonges brought on by rapid bursts of amyll nitrate. By god I've propped up the bar in some terrible excuses for public houses around the area, all of them leaving me utterly, utterly dispirited ... one, I was only slightly vexed after a prolonged period of debauchery left me alone in The Dolphin after hours talking arrow's with the slovenly landlord ... I admit to being in the King Charles I in it's previous incarnation, the inconcievably ill monickered 'Craic House', and whilst the interior was rather welcoming, and the raggle taggle conglomerate of aging rakes and fiddler-de-dees somewhat amusing ... the 'proprietor' and staff were simply not up to par. So it was with a mighty sense of relief that I walked into this miniscule microcosm of all that should be right in a pub sevral months ago. I'd taken a furious beating at the hands of Samuel Smith's Alpine Lager whilst undertaking a lone expedition up the north face of Bloomsbury's sadly declining inns and sought refuge amogst the lost and lonely of the Cross. The pub was dark but with that subtle infusion of light that draws immediate and ever lasting sympathy from those often suffering from the rum fits. On entering a gap toothed local was sat at the bar, resembling a Staus Quo roadie falen on hard times. The barman was a tremendous beast of a man whose complexion, general demeanour and pupil capacity informed me of his fondess for 'sporting life'. I was intrigued and gladdened by the array of beer on sale, and already being several stages into a lager bent, sampled the bottle ware. I stayed for two hours, tucked away in a corner drinking Baltika and watching various 'music types'pour cions into the jukebox and then stand around discussing said tunes in impossibly daft voices. I didn't want to leave but I was hard pressed to lay my hands on any more cash after my earlier largesse. I have revisited this great and good pub on several occasions since and it's always been a beacon in an otherwise barren nebula of worthwhile toping spots.

Well done to all involved.

10 Oct 2008 15:06