Following an initial residency at Angela Hartnett’s Merchants Tavern, Paul Noble, Patrick Clayton-Malone and Dominic Lake take their musi...
Saturday, 13 April 2013
The Lord Palmerston, Dartmouth Park
(all a little bit Linda?)
Dartmouth Park, I'm told, is popular with wannabe Prime Ministers. it's home, apparently, to the wrong brother installed by the Labour Party as their leader after godawful Gordon was sent packing. Tonight, I've agreed to attend the launch of Geronimo Inns' latest pub conversion, The Lord Palmerston, deep in DedMilibland-land. It's not, I'll level with you, that I'm desperate to see what they've done to the old place: I've visited so many of their pubs, I've got the measure of their signature look by now - think Nu-Victoriana/ Cool Britannia as interpreted by a Linda Barker type off Mumsnet. No, I'm killing two birds and meeting friends who swear that Norway, as I refer to anywhere NW, is nirvana. 'What do you reckon to the place?' I ask my local love bird chums. The newlyweds - fashion/ advertising hot shots - aren't convinced. 'Sunday red top design supplement' sighs she. 'It looked better before,' says he, witheringly. Before I can venture an opinion, we're back out the same door we entered by, mere minutes before. Freaked out, fashion friend has fainted and hubby is comforting her, clammy and cold on the cold pavement as she comes to. The cause of her distress? What bright spark lays on a filthy-big, tongue-flickin'. fookin' ferocious-looking, 15-feet-long, man-eating, scaly serpent from hell as entertainment - especially at an oversubscribed launch party in a confined space? Ophidiophobia: 37% of the adult population suffer from it, dontcha' know, you donut? So I'm afraid I'm unable to comment on the pub's ales and victuals beyond the slug of tomato juice I managed to down before our hasty retreat. (Kinda tomato-ish). Feeling somehow personally responsible (I must sort out this Catholic guilt thing: I mean, I'm not even a Christian, let alone a follower of some old Argentinian fart in a frock and a fancy Philip Treacy hat), I bundle swooning Mrs and concerned Mr into my car and deliver them to their preferred local where I buy brandy and dinner by way of an apology. Presently, fainty Fanny feels better, happy in familiar surroundings; and as said local is lovely The Bull and Last, I'm not exactly complaining. So, will I be reviewing Geronimo's latest in full any time soon? Another expedition to Norway? No way!