LANDLORD PROFILE: SENOR TOM

Edinburgh

Dave Hynes



Now i know Tom through a rather mysterious beautiful Indian friend, known only as 'V', and, like me, Tom has an enthusiam for the pub trade. Charismatic, charming, efficient, and friendly, he has been a bar man for long enough to give the Scottish Pub Guide an informed low-down on the ins and outs of pub life down at the busy and oh-so-trendy Shore. Tom and V own the lease for the magnificent roadrunner Bar Diesel; or at least they did.

Unfortunately, and the news resonates with all the happiness of Chernobyl's radioactive diffusion, Bar Diesel closed down last month. I should know, I was at the closing weekend party, where Tom kindly allowed those loyal punters to have a few freebies or ten- like i say he's a lovely guy. Despite the valedictory revelry, it was a sad occasion for all and sundry.

So why has Bar Diesel closed down, a pub which offered so much, tried so hard and, from many-a-punter's perspective, delivered the goods with consummmate ease? It was a fantastic bar after all?

Custom; slightly, oh-so-slightly in fact, just off the beaten track most punters seemed to have by-passed the boozer. Set just around the corner from Sofi's and the Waterline, and far superior to both, people simply seem to be unaware of its existence. How this is possible i don't know, but it is to everybody's loss.


Bar Diesel had everything; great food, great beers, motorbikes on display, leather sofa's, trendy artwork, clean, airy, tile-floored- it was a delight for the senses. How come Leithers did not know it was here!!!!!! Certainly Tom and V tried hard enough to promote it, but the basic fact that about ten metres of mis-location has proved perilous to this esteemed establishment. Heart-breaking, truly heart-breaking, the Marksman and Anderson's and Wilkie's thrive whilst this beauty wilts. This tragedy will, i'm sure, be lost on most of you!

HALL OF SHAME: THE RULE

St Andrews

Dave Hynes

Formally The Gin House it has now changed name, but i'm afraid it is just as bad as i remembered, possibly worse- which speaks volumes for the I.Q levels of the so-called renovators. Its new orientation sees it marketed as, quell supris, a trendy wine bar/ funky discotheque paying too much for four fat bast*rds to guard the entrance and having a strict policy of only letting c*nts in.

Beautiful barmaids, food by day, and a large extension area downstairs are the new features but most impressive is the novel grandiose upstairs area, making it possible to perv on cleavage and drip semen into the pints of the last vestiges of King George VII’s gene pool. In many ways the piece de resistance of the St Andrews pub ethos, which in concise summation, is to have a potentially really good joint considering the affluent demographic, the stupendously fit birds, the student vibe and the execution of a Gattuso slide tackle that would even make the Italian stallion cringe. Could be/should be/why the f*ck isn’t it any good?

Who knows. Anyway, it’s a massive dollop of slimey poo which perpetuates itself through the wallets of some of the biggest fanny-faced Aryan/Oxbridge/Devil’s rejects who like to frequent here, I think they call it ‘Old Sarum’ or something to discuss whether there is anybody on earth who, as a collective, might steal their crown as really massive tw*ts. Achieves the ‘bad pub award’ with consummate ease.

If it rules anything, i would hate to think what the roost was like.

PUB REVIEW: AIKMAN'S

St Andrews

by Dave Hynes

This legendary pub is like a basement ghetto for those students and locals trying to avoid a particular brand of homo arsus, the St Andrews posh student, kitted out it titillating polo jodhpurs and wellington boots, finishe dwith splendid Elizabethan haircuts, inbred for maximum titness and with huge mammary glands hanging off the testicles of the males.

Yes, Aikmans is a different kettle of fish entirely from the usual St Andrews outfit. It's not neccessarily great because sometimes it really brings you down with its morose offerings of normality and it's fairly old-manish outlook. Nevertheless, it is for its incongruity which sets Aikman's apart from the rest; welcoming, friendly, warm and cosy it puts two fingers up to the latest phenomenon in St Andrews, that ghastly neurosis affecting the town, I am referring, of course, to the stupidity of the gastro-pub craze. What nonsense.

It’s a strange old place is old Aikman's.; dotted with a few strange individuals, lots of hippies, music afficionados, and sweaty locals who seem to come to check out the talent. It is unique in St Andrews as a pub unlike any other, virtually unchanged for the last thirty years.

The manageress, known authoritively, affectionately and with justifiable aplomb as ‘Barbara’ is a genuinely wonderful human being who deserves every success in life. In truth, she does an excellent job, working tirelessly to ensure smooth runnings. Aikman’s is filled with an excellent array of beers from around Europe and especially different areas of German. The bottle selection is brilliant with a variety of fruity and spicey classics. The whisky collection is equally impressive, and comes with local expertise. It is the venue for the St Andrews University society, one of the few decent ones left.

Aikman’s is pretty good for its gigs as well, although if your unlucky you’ll go when its just one tw*t with his guitar worshipped by loads of posh and/or working class tw*ts, probably strangely enjoying the vibe’s class cross sectional tw*t appeal , drinking Erdinger and genuinely not knowing how not to be a tw*t. Sometimes though, it’s absolutely brilliant, great blues riffs, folk songs, rock and roll and its hard not to just completely forget yourself and get down with it all.

One major problem; it’s excruciatingly hot, especially downstairs where if you drink enough premium lager you can pretty much trip. I did and i saw the whisky bottles sliding off their holsters, down the walls and into the fanny of the grand daughter of the earl of Derbyshire. As I dived into her precious parts, I saw methodine-flavoured alka-seltzers, I saw tomato-kissed red lumps of stout beauty, I saw ochre-shaded pints of the good stuff and blond tuffs of luscious lager, I saw the beautiful tones of a connoisseur brandy, I saw the ruff pools of buckfast swimming inside her womb….i saw so much it broke my mind on a jagged sky of hallucinogenic dogshit

So this is what Aikman’s is, a riddle inside a mystery inside an enigma inside a really strange Scottish fishing town, recession- proof, tourist-friendly, golf-orinented, hedonistic place filled with a few absolute diamond geezers, like the magnificent Barbara, but mostly filled with wankers. Truly encapsulates the self-perpetuating dichotomy of dilemma the St Andrews boozing scene promotes; exorbitant, cheerless and yet strangely charming. Aikman’s is at least a real pub, a pub’s pub, and a good one at that. As soon as you walk in you feel pissed, it has that I’ve-been-drinking-whisky-even-though i-can’t-remember-touching-a-drop-syndrome, so you sit down, already pissed yet sober, and…drink a whisky. Now that’s a decent boozer- great food too.

BEER OF THE WEEK: THE LIDL BEER SELECTION

by Dave Hynes

For this week's installment of an overview of the beer industry, we've decided to look at the market for cheap off-license bargains. More accurately, low-cost supermarket offerings. more accurate still, the bease we know as Lidl- that blitzkrieg German export helping the impoverished get pissed at a price of about £0.001 per 200 litres of booze. So, what do they offer?

• FINKBRAU; Price; at a whopping 39pence a can, even the hobo's are laughing all the way to the....... dole office. Five cans for a measly £2,... ney bad pal. ABV; 4.0%, so-so. Taste; actually it's seriously drinkable, genuinely as tasty as the over-priced up-market counterparts. Star Rating; we like it!
• GRAFEN WALDER; Price; modestly placed at 75 pence, this is one of Lidl fancier versions of cheap lager. ABV; 4.8%, wahoo! Taste; Again, seriously provides value for money, i prefer it to Stella, Carling, Foster's, Tennants, in fact, i rate it better than most beers. Star Rating; excellent, but is it worth two Finkbrau's?
• EXCELSIOR; Price; 83 pence, steady there Lidl, don't bust my balls, ABV; 4.1%, fairly average, Taste; pretty dire i'm afraid Star Rating; seriously crap beer
• KLASSIEK Holland Lager; Price; 77p (per bottle), not bad but not quite a bargain; ABV; 5.0%, yeeees!, Taste; very nice actually, crisp clean and quite contagious; Star Rating; worth getting if you buy a multipack
• Hatherwood Bitter, Price; £2.29 4-pack, ABV; 4.0%, bit weak, Taste; dark brown flavoursome mixture of malt and hops which goes down the old pipe with consummate ease.

Lidl provides value for money. Even if you buy the more well-known brands, they are still considerably cheaper. If there is a problem, it's the fact that generally only two check-out aisle's are ever open, the fact no one seems to speak English and the fact it's......well it's Lidl isn't it.

BEER OF THE WEEK: KRUSOVICE

by Dave Hynes

The Královský Pivovar Krušovice (the Royal Brewery of Krušovice) is one of the oldest breweries in the Czech Republic. The brewery was established in 1517 when the Svatováclavská Contract enabled the aristocracy to brew beer on their own farms. Its most famous export is a beautifully crisp, clean and refreshing beer which has witnessed something of a rise to fame in the UK market over the last five years.

See, here at the ScottishPubGuide we strive to bring you in-depth, historically accurate information ( entirely plagiarised of course), relentlessly searching and scanning the myriad archives of brewing history to bring you, the alcoholic punters, a much needed low-down on what's hot and what's not.

My trumpet blows loud but this time justifiably so, because Krusovice is a king of beers. Brisque and terse on the throat, it is staggeringly quenching as smooth mouthful after mouthful satiates the drinker with a golden treacle. It's easy to sink about six in a row without realising it.

Crisp, textured and weaven through an intricate web of wonderful wheat, heaped together through a happy hedonistic helping of hops, and made with mellow, magic, melting malts, Krusovice simply provides a delight for the senses. Priced, generally, over the £3 barrier you pay for the quality it delivers but it's certainly provides value for money.

Krusovice has recently been taken over by Heineken breweries which sounds a precarious merger, let's hope the Dutch don't mess this Czech delight around too much

It's older brother, Krusovice Dark, is a brooding black panther of a beer which, staggeringly, manages to beat its milder blonder cousin. Expect another feature on Krusovice Dark soon, part of the ScottishPubGuide's Czech Beer season.

Picture Attribution; *TOM

INTERVIEW: MICHAEL JACKSON

Michael Jackson was perhaps the finest beer writer the world has seen. Sadly he passed away in August 2007. Here is a clip of what would appear to be his last interview.



We'd encourage anyone with an interest in beer to take a look at some of his books and enjoy his website The Beer Hunter

BEER OF THE WEEK: PILSNER URQUELL

by Chris Hammond

This week The Scottish Pub Guide is plumping for my personal favourite, Pilsner Urquell. As bitter as Arsene Wenger but as tasty as Kiera Knightly, this colossal Czech beverage is an absolutely wonderful if complex creature.

It’s so damn fine in fact I’d use it for an enema given half the chance. Just think of those gloriously cloying bubbles of beery delight fondling your colon, bathing the little blighter in pure natural Eastern European goodness . . .

Do it quickly enough and you could also use the discarded fluid to top up your mates pint. That’d give the recycling Nazis something to think about.

Photo by burge5000

PUB REVIEW: SLAINS CASTLE

by Chris Hammond


ABERDEEN

Slains Castle Cruden Bay, “the castle of the dead” was one of the key inspirations for Bram Stokers immortal classic Dracula. Slains Castle Aberdeen, “the bar of the braindead” is about as inspirational as a piss stain on a bathroom mat.

Being the most atheist of Britain’s major cities Aberdeen has rather brilliantly thrown up a never ending supply of derelict churches to the pub industry; Soul (an eerily vapid drinking experience somehow more sinister than even the most deviant Dracula incarnation) and The Priory (just shite really) join Slains in being the most prominent of these watering holes of worship.

And on the face of it Slains is great! It’s a gorgeous silver church with a huge cavernous interior filled to the brim with suitably morbid décor. Suits of armour, bookcases for doors, chandeliers, torture implements and horror paraphernalia are liberally strewn across the bars two floors of gothic glory. It’s a real feast for the eyes . . . just not the other senses. Aurally it’s about as scary as it can get for an intelligent human being, with a hideous barrage of commercial R&B and pop destroying any atmosphere that the undoubtedly top notch surroundings might have induced. Likewise the edible wares on offer are equally unpalatable, cheap gassy lager and lurid, weak, sugary cocktails are the drinks of choice at a bar so unimpressive it almost seems as if alcoholics anonymous are in charge of the purchasing.

Clientele wise it drips with nervy first year university students finally unleashed after an eternity suckling their mothers teat – here they wander round sheepishly trying to avoid the more seasoned yet equally sozzled assortment of ruffians.

Scary stuff indeed. So much so in fact I’ll let a Bram Stoker quote summarise a Saturday night in Salins . . .

“A horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what I would, I could not conceal."

Couldn’t have put it better myself.

Photo by cvander

PUB REVIEW: DOCKERS

by Dave Hynes

EDINBURGH

This is a real shit tip. The first thing you notice about Dockers is that even dockers don’t go there. Such a migration of customer loyalty away from a pub principally advertising its clientele so ostentatiously is usually the sign that it’s not a terrific outfit- and it isn't. In truth, Dockers needs to be knocked down and started again, maybe being rebranded as Porker’s and having a little titty bar on the side.

Apparently, there is a new phenomenon which has hit, most pertinently, those mobile juvenile delinquent pests who give Leith it’s self-perpetuating stock of fresh meat by, quite wrongly, having the capacity to disseminate population paste. I am of course referring to the Young Leith Troops (YLT.) who have begun a craze called ‘docking’. They ‘dock’ each other by rubbing their forskins together in the street like a kind of penishead-style thumb war. I didn’t, unfortunately, see much of this during my brief flirt with the Dockers but I did see someone who needed to be shot by a nobel prize winning assassin. The owner, a corpuscular middle aged lady who looks like an arm wrestling champion, was a whorish landlady who seems to prefer that her beloved cradle of a bar be a commercial disaster and a backhole for Calvinist torture chambers. She has a very obvious fear that outside lies people who may not be local and should therefore be kept at bay.

Apart from myself and the lovely landlady the pub was empty leaving me to assess the Dockers in all its vacuous glory. This is a shit pub of premiership quality and would certainly gain Champions League football next year, runs the Marksman into areas its never been taken before, just pipped by the fact I’ve been told the Marksman has two more fatalities per week than the Dockers- though I think most crime in the Dockers goes unreported or/and recycled into the stout pumps.

Think of a place you hate, open your eyes and voila, la Dockers

PUB REVIEW: THE WATERLOO

by Chris Hammond

EDINBURGH

War is hell so they say. But nobody ever tells you about the real curse of the battlefield, the deep wounds that never heal, the true scars left on the landscape . . . the military theme pub.

No I’m not writing about somewhere teaming with boozed up bare arsed squaddies, flaccid RAF layabouts and sexually deprived sailors; you can’t grudge them a pint and a night off making a royal twat of themselves, they’ve earned it more than any of us. I’m writing about the kind of place staffed by men who wouldn’t know a beer barrel from a gun barrel, the kind of place with tenuous links to great battalions or battles of the past, the sort of pub that looks like it’s innards have seen more action than Cromwell. I’m writing about places like The Waterloo just off Princes Street, Edinburgh.

Nestled just round from Leith Street (which happens to house the much more agreeable Black Bull), The Waterloo is an archaic tourist rammed skid mark on the underwear of the city. It’s rancid selection of beers (anyone for Tennants Ember? No?!), sterile soulless atmosphere, decaying wallpaper and crammed tinderstick like furniture makes a stay here about as comfortable, inviting and desirable as a hand job from Freddy Krueger. Here you can sit and listen to obese Americans pontificate on the merits of Burger King over Pizza Hut, enjoy children screaming and crying in the background whilst being unable to avoid eerily paper thin walls which leave every bowel movement in the infinitesimal pensioner crammed toilets completely audible.

Plastic soldiers from long since forgotten conflicts watch on as you ponder whether life slips away faster in here than it would have done on the eastern front circa 1945. It’s hard to tell really. Another pint of cyanide you say? Why the bloody hell not old boy!