But of a confused post this morning, I fear - even if it goes as planned it's going to end up as a rather muddled review of a) The Drapers Arms N1, b) standing up to cancer and c) pipe-smoking.* Don't worry, all will become relatively clear.
Right, pub review. I'd never been to the Drapers before last night, it not being in my tight circle of approved Notting Hill pubs where I'm allowed to do the crossword in the complimentary papers. I was directed there by a chance tweet from the superlatively talented Emma Kennedy (who hasn't appeared for the one and only time in this post, oh dear me no), who was promoting a pub quiz being held there. The Drapers is pretty much exactly what you expect from a certain sort of Islington pub - its interior is absolutely beautiful, with brass rails and bevelled glass (love a good bevel, me) much in evidence, and it sports a very well-stocked and -served bar to complement its tempting but buttock-clenchingly expensive menu, complete with the obligatory dish or two which turns out to be something inventively mental. My companions and I had never heard of Scotch Woodcock before, and the overwhelming mindfuck induced by ordering something which is assumed to be an inventive woodcock / scotch egg crossover and receiving fishy scrambled eggs is reason enough always to check what you're ordering. Still, everyone was very pleasant and it'd be churlish to buck at the prices - one does not, after all, head to an upscale Islington gastropub for £1 lager and wide-screen football. Actually, where does one head for that sort of action? Possibly Portsmouth.
But I digress. The reason for the Drapers' night of festivities was to raise money for a team of lady writers, actors and so on (spearheaded by EK, above, and featuring luminaries such as the irrepressible Caitlin Moran - do check them out here) who are rather bravely attempting the terrifying Playtex Moonwalk in May. I think I may have mentioned this (in brief, it's a walked marathon, at night, for breast cancer charities) in an earlier blog, but you're forgiven for not noticing it. Since only one in every 1.2 billion people worldwide are currently following me, I don't think this is the time to be springing pop quizzes. Anyway, the point of the evening was to edge the Booby Dazzlers a wee bit closer to their breast-cancer-mullering target of £20k, and since I'd consistently failed to have £10 to call my own for long enough to donate it I thought I'd get have a crack. Happily, the quiz was not only unashamedly highbrow and fun, it also raised £250 which the lovely folk at the Drapers have agreed to match. Cracking fun and lots of money raised, in essence.
Right, I've done the heart-warming story of virtuous folk toiling in face of adversity and amassing significant but ultimately drop-in-the-oceanesque amount of money, In an ideal world, this is whe the 'Donate NOW' number would scroll across the bottom of your screens, but even the most be-moneybagged of rich text editors is not, alas, quite that loaded. Do consider donating if you feel like a charitable ego boost and have it spare, though - Christ knows that cancer's going to foul all our lives up at one point or another, so it's definitely worth getting involved with the fiscal equivalent of ganging up with loads of other people and happy-slapping it. Whatever happened to happy-slapping, incidentally? Whe I was a kid, bullying crazes had a lot more longevity. So donate, and if you pass cancer in the street then kick it in the knees. Twat.
On reflection, I feel that reviewing pipe-smoking in any but the sternest tones would now be a tad hypocritical, so I will content myself with instructing you not to do it, however marvellous it may look. Because it does. It also tastes lovely, goes well with a monocle and requires that you visit marvellous specialist pipe tobacco shops, which are always a joy. On the other hand, it's more dangerous than cigarette smoking in almost every respect, so it's essentially a vintage style/numerous diseases swings and roundabouts situation. Make up your own mind.
That turned out to be even less structured than I was expecting. If you made it this far, well done. If you didn't, I shall have to communicate with you via telepathy. I shan't be pleasant.
John
*Please try not to dwell on the apparent contradiction between the latter items, because I don't plan to and if you don't either then hopefully my mouth won't catch on.
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