9th August 2008
absolutely cacked myself
I will admit that this pub is often full of lawyers and bankers, braying mindlessly at each other in mockney as they whomp down large amounts of the blandest lager they can find. However, this is one of the few places where they can effortlessly be ignored, through one or more of the following ways:
1 - admire the beautiful, original Victorian furnishings, mirrors, glass, etc, etc.
2 - get drunk in the old-fashioned way, on either numerous types of gin, or the delectable London Porter, invented for the specific benefit of the Smithfield Market meat carriers.
3 - take in the view, the Old Bailey, the 16th century church of St Sepulchre, the engineering wonder of Holborn Viaduct, etc.
4 - scare yourself absolutely and completely shitless.
Now, the more astute of you may have noticed that, of the four options, one tends to stick out somewhat. And it's the one that leads most people to think "no, let's not go there, if i want to be scared i can go to romford". and that is true up to a point, but what you're missing my darlings is the source of that fear. Will it help if i say i was rendered numb and terrified by the lime cordial in the cellar? No?
The Viaduct is built on the cellars/foundations/cells of the Giltspur Street Compter, an old remand prison in the Old City of London, which took the overflow from Newgate across the road. The misery of prison existence was almost unthinkable, what with the total corruption of the warders who weren't obliged to feed the prisoners. Some inevitably died in these cold dank places. Now I'm a rational human being, even after a couple of beers, so when I say that I felt something, you can be forgiven for assuming it was the barmaid's bottom.
But I did. I went down into the cellars, and it was all very interesting, and they took me round, and showed me the cells, and the cell numbers, and we got to cell where they stored lime cordial and somesuch other liquids, she opened the door, I went to enter...
and i couldn't. it was as if something was holding me there, pushing me. that's the only way i can describe it. like a forcefield. and, try as i might, my legs wouldn't obey, and i stood there in perfect terror as the lady showing me around told me someone had died in that cell, and the staff didn't like to be down in the cellar in the night time on their own because sometimes the lights went off and the doors locked themselves and noises were heard, terrible noises of pain and loneliness, echoing through the old bricks, cracked walls, and rusted iron bars in the awful, total blackness.
so you see, the lawyers and the bankers don't bother me at all. i don't even see them. i sit there and nurse my pint, and wonder how one experience can overturn a lifetime of reason. it's a good place, the Viaduct. But I wouldn't bloody work there.
Loading...
View & Add comments (1)
Post to facebook
Share with friends
(2/2 found this review helpful)
