The Toy Shop Bar, Putney

As a nipper, I loathed toy shops. They were strictly for sissies. Places where our neighbours' brat  Pamela 'Princess-in-pink' Prentiss could indulge her serious horse habit. Me? I'd have happily made mincemeat of My Little Pony. Why, even today, I'm still partial to the occasional horse burger and frites whenever I'm en Belgique. Christmas? Ritual humiliation. Had I known about Esther Rantzen's Childline; I'd have shopped dandruffy Donald from Dundee, employed at one of Edinburgh's grand department stores throughout December. Back in Jimmy Savile's heyday, it was deemed absolutely fine that a grubby old man, who normally spent his days hanging around the bus station bogs, be given carte blanche to stroke infant flesh right under its blissfully innocent mother's' nose. "If you promise to be a good boy, you'll get a nice a surprise from Santa's sack" - the 'surprise', under his grubby red frock coat,  the now rock hard tumescence protruding from said sack. Had he been hot, like Billy Bob Thornton, the Bad Santa experience might have been acceptable.  A Spacehopper? Subutteo? A Hornby Inter City train set in my Christmas stocking? Not interested. I wanted to be boarding the real thing, King's Cross-bound, for a King's Road boutique adventure where I'd surely bump into George Best and supercool Sandie Shaw. So, the prospect of schlepping to a bar called The Toy Shop, over the bridge at the arse end of King's Road, doesn't exactly have me bouncing off the walls like wee Harry high on Haribo. Fortunately, any Hamley's hamminess is reined in at the new Putney kidult's playpen, decked out in acid drop brights like a psychedelic soda fountain. "Fun and Thrills" shouts a lurid neon above a back bar jammed with retro robots...at least, I think they were robots; I was too busy laughing at the staff uniform. Cool dudes in navy Oompa-Loompa-style aprons? More toy shop humiliation. Despite their daft names and Willie Wonka garnishes, cocktails such as clubland à la Polly Pocket, one typically jokey Jackanory wheeze that counts ‘sweets-infused sherry’, chocolate cigarettes and lemon sherbet amongst its ingredients, are pretty good. After a quick briefing,  Action Man behind the bar has got my number. His suggestions - professor’s negroni using artichoke aperitif Cynar rather than Campari (it's a trend), and a bee pollen margarita. Potent fig-infused whisky old fashioned (£9) is the sort of plaything I'd have had in mind, aged 5, if only I'd known that Compass Box is not in fact, a totally pointless compass in a boring box. 

32 Putney High Street SW15 1SQ 8704 1188  www.thetoyshopbar.com

BrewDog, UK-wide

Scotland’s Top Dog Gets Its Teeth Into England

Londoners are used to successful launches in the capital being rolled-out nationwide; but for BrewDog, the phenomenon has worked in reverse. Founded in 2006 and now the largest independent brewery north of the border, BrewDog has established a London foothold - and a growing band of admirers - at its bars in Camden Town and Shoreditch. December 12th saw Scotland’s top dog get its teeth into Birmingham. The city’s John Bright Street hosts BrewDog’s tenth venue, part of a burgeoning chain that includes quirky premises in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Aberdeen, Manchester, Nottingham, Newcastle and Bristol. 

Responding to the growing demand for great British microbrews from drinkers ‘fed up having the wool pulled over their eyes, told by conglomerates their beer is from Australia when it’s really from Burton-on-Trent’, co-founder James Watt, along with some second hand brewing equipment and Bracken his dog as supervisor, has increased turnover to £12 million in just five years. So successful did Watt’s ‘punk’ brews - currently sold in 27 countries -  become, he was unable to satisfy demand. The solution: a second brewery near the Aberdeenshire origina financed by an ‘Equity For Punks’ scheme whereby 6,000 ‘fanvestors’ snapped up shares, enabling BrewDog to become a great Scottish export story - beery pun intended! 

Three braw brews to try

5A.M.SAINT - accurately described as an ‘iconoclastic, über-hoppy red ale.’

HARDCORE IPA -  this distinguished pale ale ‘gets the adrenalin pumping like a 400 volt shot in a copper bathtub.’

SINK THE BISMARCK - handle with care! At a ridiculous 41% abv (the same strength as whisky) three swigs can torpedo your night! 

The Parcel Yard, King's Cross

The architects of King’s Cross station have made a great job of retaining its old character while updating it for today’s travellers' needs. This is particularly evident at The Parcel Yard, a former goods depot whose listed atrium and glass ceiling have been incorporated into a space handsomely done out in salvaged woods, brick, glazed tiles, battered furniture and railway memorabilia. The place would still look familiar to the guard on the Flying Scotsman to Edinburgh Waverley circa the young Winston Churchill. Well-kept draught ales such as Discovery are by owners Fuller’s (and guests). The Chiswick brewer also does decent vino from under £4 a glass (for South African merlot) plus Picpoul de Pinet, reasonable at £17.50 a bottle.  Said to be Britain’s biggest railway station pub, I’d rather breakfast here on bacon butties (£3.95), duck eggs and soldiers or kedgeree and dine on potted shrimp, roast artichoke tart, grilled plaice samphire and cockle and mussel dressing followed by Cambridge burnt cream or fruit crumble with golden syrup than entrust myself to East Coast Mainline’s caterers - even if brown Windsor soup is a Brief Encounter buffet staple too far.    

King’s Cross Station N1C 4AH  7713 7258 www.ParcelYard.co.uk

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