Founders Arms (Bankside)

The Reverend Harry Powell (The Night of the Hunter)

Just a’strollin’, Lord…a’strollin along the south bank of the Thames river after Friday evensong. A’flickin a disposable lighter on’n’off…and a’watchin the flame leap up against my moonlit silhouette. Ah, what a blessedness…what a peace is mine!

Yes-sir-ee, Friday, the fifth day, Lord…the day you created all sea creatures and ‘birds’ (as cabby folk say here in London). And see them a’whorin themselves on benches and in the half light of street lamps.

What’s it been, Lord? Six reviews in seven days? The pen hand is weary…but the spirit is strong while I’m a’layin down judgements in your name. If you was to know what a crown of thorns I have borne in my work as the Lord’s punter…but I abide as mine is the privilege to spread the word of divine pub review. Aaymen to that.

You’re a’talkin to me now, Lord! I hear yer sayin the Founders Arms is an abomination before mine eyes. I’m a’feelin that, Lord. As I peruse a menu, I can see that it is filled with things you hate most…cask-conditioned ales, paninis, courgette, cherry tomato, and halloumi skewers. Worse still, the promise of ‘continental coffee’ and the ‘best view’ (let no mortal cast an unqualified superlative without your blessin, Lord).

‘Good evenin, Mam, a spark in your eyes tells me you are a kindly and God-fearin soul…’

‘Why thank you preacher’, the lady replies already smitten

‘Could you see your way to a’lendin a tired preacher a few pounds for a cornbread and a bowl of broth?’

She opens her purse. ‘How much do you need, preacher?’

‘That twenty there should see me through’.

She hesitates, ‘Oh…it is my only note…’

‘If you was to let that money serve the Lord’s purpose, Mam…’

‘Well…I suppose…’

‘Much obliged, Mam’. I tip my hat.

It’s rammed in here, Lord. At the bar, sinners wait three or four deep. On the weekend, Lord, you can wait for up to thirty minutes to be served. You finally get your drinks only to have trouble rememberin where you were a’sittin, who you were a’sittin with, and what the hell you were doin here in the first place. The devil wins sometimes.

I’m a’waitin in line now… for you have taught that it is good to wait quietly for salvation, but I feel anger a’risin in me, Lord. ‘Excuse me, brethren, could you see you way to lettin a crippled preacher through to the bar?’ Like deaf adders they do not hearken to the voice of the charmer.

‘Hey, he’s no cripple’ retorts a sinner.

‘Shut yer face, kid. Or you’ll be a’meetin Satan on the way home’

I make it to the bar after twenty-seven minutes a’waitin. Jim Bean’n’coke, thankin you kindly my chile…sorry, I’ve only got a twenty’.

I wend my way out on to the terrace. My last review of the Founders, Lord, was five years ago. At that time, still resistin the Bankside tide of gentrification, it would serve up fish and chips, cheap lager, and the smell of vinegar stank strong of hellfire.

On an evenin like this, Lord, the light was a’blindin inside and dark as death itself outside. Sinners would see nothin but their own heinous souls reflected back from the windows, as they binged on the devil’s mouthwash, Stella. No fancy talk of ales back then, no-sir-ee. A Waggledance was but a sordid act to be committed after hours.

But as the right hand struggles with the left hand, gentrification has won the day…it has come off the ropes to leave shabby obsolescence out for the count. The scourge of the Tate has filled sinners’ heads with lust for trinkets, art-in-a-glass, and Monet mugs…Money mugs indeed, Lord. And they stand and gawp at sand-sculpture as if they were a’witnessin first hand the creation of your own effigy.

What is there to behold now, Lord? Designer patio burners…sinners huddled in the moonlight in woollen rugs-for-hire…soft interior candle lightin…upturned bottles of Chardonnay...floral baskets a’hangin.

I can feel myself gettin awful mad, Lord. I feel the need to urinate. In the gents,unwashed hands and misshapen minds come and go, Lord...weakened by lusty thoughts of the devil’s own strumpet.

Here I am a’queuin again…this time for a urinal. I find one next to a young boy of ten or twelve. He looks up at me as I begin my business.

‘I seen you with my mum, mister. She gave you that twenny. You ain’t no preacher, are you?’

‘Wash your dirty mouth out, son, or I’ll wash it for you…’

‘Where’s that money, mister?…aagh….aagh…get off!’

Time to say a prayer at the sink, Lord…collect my thoughts…use the lavender soap dispenser…cleanse my palms…and adjust my collar (for what it’s worth, Lord, the hand drier here is strong and efficient). I set foot back in the bar area.

‘Mum, mum, that’s him! I said he wasn’t a preacher and look what he did…he weed on my sleeve’

The good book says ‘every goldsmith is put to shame by his idols; every founder is confounded by the graven image; for his molten image is falsehood’.

My work is done here, Lord. It is time.

Candles flicker across tables…empty minds discuss empty thoughts…the flames join up…lustrous eyes still covet lacy frilly things… ale-soaked carpet catches alight…still sinners hoard around the bar oblivious…Young’s promotions curl and wilt in the heat…even on fire the Founders Arms has no ambience…no atmosphere.

Burners outside set light to blankets…still sinners stare blankly at the view…patio furniture burns…disco-barges float precariously up stream and down… laden with dizzy whores and drinkers, unseein of the image of the Founders set in flames like a Christmas puddin.

From the inferno I emerge. I stroll again back down the south bank with disposable cigarette lighter in my left hand. Another mixed review, Lord.

Reverend Harry Powell rating for the Founders Arms …6.66 out of 10.

Draizetrain

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