Last week’s Gunsmoke File about my new favorite pub, “The British Bulldog” took me back to my childhood. No smartypants, I don’t mean because I was hanging out in pubs as a child...I couldn’t afford it back then. No, it got me thinking about a game we played at primary school, the greatest game ever played. Which coinkidinkally, also happened to be called “British Bulldogs”.
“Huh?” I hear you ask (my hearing’s still good), “what kind of game is that?” No, I didn’t expect you to know. You see the funny thing is; I’ve never met anyone who played British Bulldogs, or has even heard of it. And by that, I don’t just mean Americans, even other Brits, even other Brits who grew up in the same town as me, and who were at school at the same time as me, never played it. I can’t believe it was unique to my primary school, but unless someone can set me straight, it certainly seems that way.
“So tell us Andrew,” you ask “how does one play British Bulldogs?”
Well, I’m glad you asked. First off you need a reasonable sized playing area. No indoor game this; you want a big field, yard or playground. 50 yards or so long, 25 or so wide should about do it. Next, you’re going to need a bucket load of kids. I’m not kidding; I’m talking about a lot of kids. At least 40, more is even better. If you can rustle up 60 plus, you’ve got the makings of a classic. You have all that? Alright, we’re ready to get started.
Pick a kid, any kid. His (Note: British Bulldogs was a boys game. The girls were in the other playground skipping and doing handstands and all those other weird things that girls do) his job is to stand in the middle of the playing area. Every other kid stands at one end. Now, at the given signal (a roar of “BRITISH BUUUUULLLLLDOGGGGS!!!!”) all the kids except the one in the middle run like the clappers from one end of the yard to the other. The one in the middle has to catch as many as he can. By ‘catch’ I do of course mean tackle, trip, block, drop-kick, head-butt, or otherwise arrest the progress of. If he’s good, he might catch one; if he’s really good, he might catch more. Any kids he does manage to catch now remain with him in the middle, while the others reassemble at the opposite end of the yard to which they started.
On to round 2. The remaining 98 or so repeat the battle cry and once more, charge from one end to the other, back to where they originally started. Except now there’s 2, or maybe 3 kids attempting to catch them. Between them, they might snag another 5 or 6. Which means that for round 3, there are 8 or 9 kids in the middle. By round 4, there could be 15 to 20. It’s getting much easier to catch the runners now. A couple more rounds and you’ve got more kids doing the catching than you have doing the running. This is where it gets really fun.
Before too long, you’ve only got 2 or 3 kids still running, and they have to jink their way through several dozen other kids, all with the sole intent of making sure they don’t make it. Eventually, there can be only one. By definition, one kid is the last to be caught.
So that one stands in the middle, while every other kid stands at one end. And the game begins all over again. And that’s it until the bell rings and with bloody noses, fat lips, torn sweaters and old scores settled, you make your way back to class.
As I said, other than people who went to my primary school, I’ve never met anyone who has ever played British Bulldogs. I can’t see it catching on today, what with our litigious society and cotton-wool parenting. (What if a child got hurt?) The horror, the horror.
Plus, it’s an unfashionable game. No uniforms, schedules, referees, or league tables. No Dads on the side lines yelling abuse at the coach because Junior didn’t get enough playing time. Instead, it was just a whole bunch of kids blowing off steam and having a helluva good time in the process.
The way games should be.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Down the Pub
So I’ve had to find a new favorite pub. That’s no easy task here in the colonies where “pub” generally means “restaurant with a drinks license” and if you aren’t ordering food, the wait staff make it clear you’re taking up valuable real estate and it would be nice if you would bugger off.
While Irish themed bars (“theme” bars of any sort, really) generally have me looking around for a vomit bucket, I thought I’d struck it lucky with my regular haunt for the last few years; a cool, dark, rabbit warren of a place where the cares of the day could be soaked away with a pint or 4 of slow-poured Guinness. Yes, it served food but the place was a pub in the purest sense of the word. A long bar, rickety furniture, friendly staff, and a marked lack of yuppies. When I was in town and thirsting for a bevy, this was where I went.
So you can imagine my distress when I drove past it (on St. Patrick’s Day, of all days) and saw that the recent ‘renovations’ were not simply a lick of paint and a vacuum round (which was all it needed) but a full on transformation into something new and horrid. My favorite pub is now a “Bar and Café”, serving “Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner”. It was bright orange, utterly charmless and I hated it on sight. The fact that the parking lot was full of SUVs simply added to my anguish.
What to do, what to do, what to do? It’s not that I hit Denver’s bars all that often; I don’t drink and drive and 50 miles back up into the mountains is one heckuva walk. However, I do occasionally take my bike into town and one of life’s simple pleasures is a long ride with a pint at the end to wash the dust off. Clearly, I needed to find a new watering hole, and soon.
I usually avoid ‘British’ pubs for the same reason I do their ‘Irish’ counterparts. Man Utd scarves tacked to the ceiling, a mug shot of the Queen on the wall and The Clash on the jukebox, do not a pub make. That said; Denver has one with pretty good ale, made on site. Problem is; the service is sketchy. The last time I was in there, I had to track down the waitress to explain that when I gave her a $20 bill for a $12 tab, I didn’t intend her to keep the change. She seemed genuinely surprised and was more than a little graceless about it. Being British, I’m still not used to the idea that I have to pay (certain) people extra to do their jobs and I really don’t like it when they assume I’m tipping 67%.
But as none of the ‘American’ bars I’ve been in (so far) have the ambience I’m seeking, I decided last weekend to check out another ‘British’ place. Although I knew of its existence, I’ve avoided it up to now, partly from my aversion to the concept, but mostly because it’s in an area of town I don’t often find myself.
However, a warm, sunny Saturday saw me engaged in one of my favorite pursuits, on my bike, getting deliberately lost in a neighborhood I hadn’t explored before. I wasn’t paying attention to street names so when I popped out into recognizable territory; I was pleasantly surprised to find myself right beside the aforementioned pub.
I’d ridden a long way and a pint was in order so after chaining my bike to the railing, I stepped inside and was utterly charmed. Dark wood, booths, a homely atmosphere and friendly staff. It was like going home. And better yet, the (British) beer was served just the way it should be. No, I don’t mean warm, I mean cellar temperature rather than with the flavor chilled out of it. And as if that wasn’t enough, happy hour had just started so the prices were reasonable too.
OK, it had some World War 1 propaganda posters as artwork, as well as a Nike advert showing a face-painted football yahoo, and the music was a tad loud for my taste (oh dear, when did I turn into my Dad?). Plus the name, “The British Bulldog” is straying dangerously into cliché territory. However, there was a distinct absence of Union Jacks, no Man Utd memorabilia and not a mug shot of Queen Liz in sight. This was my kind of place.
It’s a long way from home (my actual home, here in Colorado), and not really on the way from or to anywhere I normally go, and I’m not sure how often I’ll ride my bike up that way. But it’s good to know that once more, I have a favorite pub.
So if anyone’s looking for me...that’s where I’ll be.
While Irish themed bars (“theme” bars of any sort, really) generally have me looking around for a vomit bucket, I thought I’d struck it lucky with my regular haunt for the last few years; a cool, dark, rabbit warren of a place where the cares of the day could be soaked away with a pint or 4 of slow-poured Guinness. Yes, it served food but the place was a pub in the purest sense of the word. A long bar, rickety furniture, friendly staff, and a marked lack of yuppies. When I was in town and thirsting for a bevy, this was where I went.
So you can imagine my distress when I drove past it (on St. Patrick’s Day, of all days) and saw that the recent ‘renovations’ were not simply a lick of paint and a vacuum round (which was all it needed) but a full on transformation into something new and horrid. My favorite pub is now a “Bar and Café”, serving “Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner”. It was bright orange, utterly charmless and I hated it on sight. The fact that the parking lot was full of SUVs simply added to my anguish.
What to do, what to do, what to do? It’s not that I hit Denver’s bars all that often; I don’t drink and drive and 50 miles back up into the mountains is one heckuva walk. However, I do occasionally take my bike into town and one of life’s simple pleasures is a long ride with a pint at the end to wash the dust off. Clearly, I needed to find a new watering hole, and soon.
I usually avoid ‘British’ pubs for the same reason I do their ‘Irish’ counterparts. Man Utd scarves tacked to the ceiling, a mug shot of the Queen on the wall and The Clash on the jukebox, do not a pub make. That said; Denver has one with pretty good ale, made on site. Problem is; the service is sketchy. The last time I was in there, I had to track down the waitress to explain that when I gave her a $20 bill for a $12 tab, I didn’t intend her to keep the change. She seemed genuinely surprised and was more than a little graceless about it. Being British, I’m still not used to the idea that I have to pay (certain) people extra to do their jobs and I really don’t like it when they assume I’m tipping 67%.
But as none of the ‘American’ bars I’ve been in (so far) have the ambience I’m seeking, I decided last weekend to check out another ‘British’ place. Although I knew of its existence, I’ve avoided it up to now, partly from my aversion to the concept, but mostly because it’s in an area of town I don’t often find myself.
However, a warm, sunny Saturday saw me engaged in one of my favorite pursuits, on my bike, getting deliberately lost in a neighborhood I hadn’t explored before. I wasn’t paying attention to street names so when I popped out into recognizable territory; I was pleasantly surprised to find myself right beside the aforementioned pub.
I’d ridden a long way and a pint was in order so after chaining my bike to the railing, I stepped inside and was utterly charmed. Dark wood, booths, a homely atmosphere and friendly staff. It was like going home. And better yet, the (British) beer was served just the way it should be. No, I don’t mean warm, I mean cellar temperature rather than with the flavor chilled out of it. And as if that wasn’t enough, happy hour had just started so the prices were reasonable too.
OK, it had some World War 1 propaganda posters as artwork, as well as a Nike advert showing a face-painted football yahoo, and the music was a tad loud for my taste (oh dear, when did I turn into my Dad?). Plus the name, “The British Bulldog” is straying dangerously into cliché territory. However, there was a distinct absence of Union Jacks, no Man Utd memorabilia and not a mug shot of Queen Liz in sight. This was my kind of place.
It’s a long way from home (my actual home, here in Colorado), and not really on the way from or to anywhere I normally go, and I’m not sure how often I’ll ride my bike up that way. But it’s good to know that once more, I have a favorite pub.
So if anyone’s looking for me...that’s where I’ll be.
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