Volume 4, Issue 16
August 8 - August 21, 2002
by Rob Williams
Streets Of London Pub
1501 E. Colfax (Colfax & Park), Denver
303-867-9703
Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride and a mind not clear. We rode half the night to that place of yours, and I promptly fell out of the passenger door. We staggered and clanged, all my nerves were a-jangle, hallucinating Suzanna, once of the Bangles. In my addled mind this temptress did seem, far too good-looking to be making this scene. So I gathered my wits, or those which were left, and lowered my beer goggles back to my chest. I smiled to the hooker walking past your abode, and cursed like a sailor lightening his load. Then over I doubled with nary a lurch, and passed out face down, right on your porch.
"How did we get here?" my reader may ask. Damn simple Charlie, through the bottom of a glass. Friday night started early--and like Paul Revere, I snuck out of the office to get whiskey and beer. One if by land, two if by sea? Buddy come on--pour me all three! Try though I might not a redcoat's in sight--save the bottles of Bud lined up to my right. Mighty soldiers did fall, and their praises we sung. Long into the night my ears gleefully rung. Shot glasses were emptied, volley upon volley, and I slid into a chair next to a girl I'll call Holly.
Who was this bird that caught my attention? Just a lonely fair maiden--whose real name I won't mention. Svelte like an elf and hair like spun honey, she looked like she wanted much more than my money. Her smile like a panther, this Yank was smitten, so I kept buying rounds for this hard-drinking kitten. Not for body or mind was this girl on a troll. Five two-fisters down and I swear she wanted my soul.
"But how can this be? You're hard on the sauce, but this girl's a blonde, she doesn't sound like a goth!" Ah, fair citizen, you see what's the matter, I'd been all-night drinking--and mad as a hatter. I'm not really sure 'twas my soul she was after, but she did steal my heart and for that there's no laughter. My wallet she emptied, my tab she did skip, all for a taste of her well-rouged, wet kiss. No number, no card, no note on a dollar. At the end of the eve, naught but lipstick on collar. This badge of courage, this smear of soft lips--was all I remembered 'fore my head hit the bricks.
I awoke to the dawn smelling Wild Irish Rose, passed out on the porch swing, still wearing my clothes. Though my head was pounding like a Highlander's drum, I smiled like a pirate, full of ill-gotten rum. And to the night's memory, and damages done, I raised my empty hand and toasted the sun.
"Where did you go?" You ask with a fright. "Was you liver afire, did you get in a fight?" And to you dear friends, well, those twenty-one, I'll say it all really happened at the Streets of London. --Anon
Your trip to the Streets my not leave you waxing poetic with a five-alarm hangover, heartbroken and penniless passed out on the veranda, but it doesn't mean you can't still have a good time there.
As far as English pubs go, don't expect wainscoting and quaint conversation overlooking a picturesque garden. This is a pub, but it's also a pub on Colfax. Do you really need brass and glass and 'old world charm?'--not this citizen. What I really need after a hard day re-touching rockstars and writing booze-addled rants is someplace to sit down, with drinks I can afford. Sure, there are the soccer jerseys, the Bobby helmets and other such nods to English culture, but the real charm is the multiple taps of fine beers from the Isles--a dozen taps in all--and two just for the life-giving goodness of Guinness. You can also have your fill of Boddington's, Stella Artois, Bass, Newcastle, Harp, or local faves like PBR, Coors Light, Killian's and Fat Tire. Some micro-brews don't sport that many taps. And the piece de resistance ? FOUR kinds of Bushmills. If your liver isn't doing the backstroke in Ireland's finest at some point, you vote for Earl F. Dodge.
The place is popular with the working man as well as the scenesters. You'll almost always find a motorcycle or two parked by the door, or more often multiple scooters, as Streets is a focal point during Mayhem (see Vol. 4 #15 ) . You don't have to ride a Vespa or have your hair styled like Liam or Noel to get good service at Streets. The staff is fast and friendly, even when you are sitting out on the patio watching the Colfax nightlife pass by.
If you aren't content to just hang on to a barstool there are two pool tables or darts, avail- able for a few pence. And speaking of British currency, Denver's own favorite son DJ Quid spins British invasion favorites all night on Thursdays. Be prepared for Verve vs. Oasis conversations, but keep your tongue firmly in cheek, it's all meant in fun.
If you can't make it on a Thursday, have no fear. A well-stocked jukebox that features Slim Cessna's Auto Club, Parliament, Tom Waits, Adam Ant, The Lunachicks, The Anti-Nowhere League and not one, but two Motorhead disks is sure to provide something for your listening comfort.
Happy hour is exceptionally happy with $2 pints and $2 well drinks, or $2 Long Island Iced Teas to flatline your inner sorority girl.
So there you are, beer securely clenched in fist, legs locked into the barstool and your favorite songs warbling on the jukebox. What possibly make this better?
Food. Not some namby-pamby fluffy salad a calorie-counter nibbles like a rabbit awaiting the snare--nay, citizen, I'm talking about hearty fare like shepherd's pie and bangers and mash, or the always-favorite fish and chips dripping malt vinegar. The only way it could be more authentic is to wrap it in newspaper and eat in in a downpour whilst trainspotting. Each plate runs around $8 and does a darn fine job of soaking up all that imported booze you've been swilling all evening. You want a real taste of that far-off land we rebelled against and bailed out of two World Wars? Three words: Beer Battered Sausages. As if greasy meat sausage links weren't fattening enough, they roll them in batter and 'lightly' fry them. Never met a Brit that lightly fried anything. (Koshka--if that doesn . t make up your rassodock to get your malenky plott into this barra, nothing will.)
So, one if by land, two if by sea, it's crowded in here, so please pour me three. I have a long night to drink in this bar, thank God for the man in the wee yellow car. "The red coats are coming!" You shout with remorse. Friend, they are already here. Let's drink another course.
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