The Watch House, Lewisham

My wife and I are renowned for our love of Indian food, and we have been dining at the Curry Garden in Lee since we began courting in the early 80’s. Neither of us has ever been tempted to indulge in other cuisines, as we feel that the bold flavours, impeccable service and tacit approval of heavy drinking found in Indian restaurants suits us perfectly.

It was watching my dear wife Susan luxuriate in the delights of a prawn puri (an esoteric menu item at the time) that convinced me that she was the woman I would spend the rest of my life with.

Saturday evening became synonymous with Korma, Madras, Sag aloo and Ghee. We even invested in traditional Indian costume so we could look the part when enjoying our meals. My wife managed to pick up a beautifully made sari and powder blue silk suit from a Sue Ryder on the outskirts of Southall.

Come rain or shine we would head towards the infamous Curry Garden after enjoying ITV’s peerless range of prime-time delights (I’m talking Strike it Rich, Gladiators, My Kind of People etc., not the tripe pumped out by Bolton’s Kaye/Considine axis of c***s).

Whilst our Saturday curry had never been easy on the wallet, we felt it was a luxury we could indulge due to the savings we made elsewhere in our day-to-day lives. Susan was a well-known ‘face’ on the jumble sale circuit, and our only son Graham was home-schooled in the loft conversion.

Unfortunately, we were not immune to the economic downturn, and I was made redundant from my job at a well-known telecommunications company. A not unreasonable pay out, supplemented by the state pension, meant that we should have been OK. Unfortunately, Susan embarked on a disastrous business venture that left us (and several other families) destitute.

I am currently working in a ‘snack hut’ based on the A14, selling burgers and Adderall to long-haul lorry drivers. Whilst I am still pulling in enough to feed and clothe my family, me and Susan have had to explore less costly ways of obtaining our weekly curry fix.

After briefly dabbling in the frozen dinner game, we discovered the Thursday Curry Club at the Watch House, a branch of Wetherspoons based on Lewisham High Street. Thank god we did.

I felt at home as soon as entered the Watch House. The walls are adorned with old photos of seemingly random branches of the Wetherspoons chain based elsewhere in the country. I would happily cover my own walls with such pictures, if Susan didn’t rule the décor of our home with such an iron fist.

Now, let’s talk about the grub. It is worth noting that the curry club menu does not contain prawn puri. When making our order my wife refused to acknowledge this shortfall and boldly ordered her puri anyway. At this point I could have intervened, however if 30 years of marriage has taught me anything, it is not to underestimate my wife’s temper. The chap behind the bar initially seemed nonplussed, and responded that they did not have the item on the menu. “Oh boy” I muttered to myself, this guy was in for it.

What happened next surprised me, rather than usual fireworks (my wife once poured a pot of boiling potatoes down my back because I taped over an episode of Kid’s Say the Funniest Things) Susan began to softly weep. Obviously the lack of prawn puri on the menu represented the numerous disappointments surrounding her life: enormous overdrafts, the simpleton son and a husband who simply can’t cut it in the sack.

Wetherspoons’ shift manager that evening could not have been a day over 22, yet he handled the situation with the calm authority of a man twice his age. “What’s the matter love?” he asked “I have nothing!” she responded, “not even a f**king prawn puri!” The shift manager looked at me and said “I’m sure we can sort something out, why don’t you take your seats and your food will be over shortly”.

The manager hand-delivered our order within 10 minutes, and low and behold the kitchen had managed to muster up a prawn puri for my dear Susan. Remarkably, she did not seem to realise that her meal was no more than a small portion of the prawn curry with a couple of breakfast pancakes thrown into the mix.

Before long, a breathless Susan was reclining with a familiar smile stretched across her face. Her plate had been cleared. I leant across the table, took her hands into mine and asked “Did you enjoy your meal love?” Susan remained silent for a moment, and then replied “Thank God for J.D. Wetherspoon”.

15 Aug 2013 17:58

The Ravensbourne Arms, Lewisham

Lewisham has long been a black hole in the pubs department, which is why I was so happy to discover another drinking establishment had set up shop in SE13. When the Ravensbourne first opened I was eager to pay the place a visit. However due to both professional and health-related issues, I only got round to checking this venue out recently.

The first visit was a revelation. A fantastic range of lagers AND ales, friendly staff and a spacious yet atmospheric interior. “Pinch me now!” I cried to my companion, who was similarly enamoured with the place. Finally a local I could frequent without out the fear of being bothered by crack and/or heroin addicts.

A few days later I decided to dip my toes in the water again. It was Tuesday evening, Holby City was doing my head in and I fancied a drink. Why not? I’m a working man and deserve to let my hair down once in a while.

What I encountered on this particular evening was a world away from the wholesome, family-friendly environment I’d enjoyed just days earlier.

I am aware that since the closure of Stonewalls, the Lewisham gay scene has been crying out for somewhere to flaunt their ‘wares’ (a fact the increasingly crowded Ladywell Park is testimony to). And who can blame them? Let’s remember, these guys contribute a lot to the economy through their hedonistic lifestyles and high levels of disposable income.

Well, from the scene that greeted me that evening, it’s clear that Tuesday at the Ravensbourne is the new spiritual home of the Lewisham-based gay male. It was only 20.45 when I arrived, but I was greeted by pumping house, pierced bar-staff and the unmistakable whiff of amyl nitrate.

This in itself did not bother me. I am probably the least homophobic straight guy on earth. I have numerous gay friends and colleagues all of whom regard me as a trusted friend and ally.

However, gay or straight, there is one thing I can not abide, and that is sexual bullying. Unfortunately, that night at the Ravensbourne it was rife.

After I arrived it was not long before I noticed a chap who seemed rather uncomfortable in his surroundings. Blonde and diminutive in size, this guy clearly wasn’t used to the rough and tumble of the gay scene. A pack of older, bigger men had gathered around him, and to be honest they were taking the piss.

I saw him tearfully purchase round after round for older, bigger gay men, and a stab of pity pricked my conscience. This guy was not having fun. His inescapable physical urges had brought him here, and now he was being shamefully mistreated by his peers in the gay community. There were cat calls, derogatory remarks about his physique, someone even managed to pull his trousers down!

I was keen to intervene, but my companion advised me to “keep my nose out of it.” Maybe she was right, who am I to interfere with the practices and rituals of the gay community? He was probably enjoying it. After one drink we left, but I could not help but turn around one last time to check in on our blonde friend. This time he caught my eye. I am sure that I saw him mouth the words “help me” as I exited the bar.

26 Jun 2013 16:34

The Goose On The Green, Catford

This place basically saved my life. After having gone through some tough personal issues, I had begun to hit the bottle pretty hard (stupid I know) and was drinking myself through Lewisham borough like a thoroughly sozzled bat out of hell.

Time after time I found myself barred from local pubs. The Ram? Barred. The London & Rye? Barred? The Catford Tavern? Majorly barred (with good reason). I was a bloody mess.

Throughout this period one pub kept the faith and stuck with me through the hard times. However many locals I insulted however many pieces of furniture I soiled, these guys refused to kick me to the kerb. They even continued sustained me with lager tops and complementary nachos!

As the months passed I began to mellow, and even re-opened my heart to the beauty in the world. It wasn't long before I found love again, and surprise surprise, it was during happy hour at the Goose! I won't go into the gruesome details, but our hands met over a communal plate of nachos on a Wednesday afternoon. I looked up from my plate to find a plump but not unattractive chap in tight-fitting jeans. Blonde and rosy-cheeked, he looked like a adolescent cherub who had fallen on tough times. Just my type!

We've been together for 3 months now, and continue to make an appearance at the Goose at least once a night. So when your next in Catford be sure to swing by and say hi, you'll get a hell of a welcome!

10 May 2013 16:36