Cheltenham - Back In The 'Nam

 

Cheltenham or "'Nam" is a dreamy Regency town which advertises itself as the "heart of the Cotswolds" and perhaps it is. I've always thought the center of town was like a park, with Montpellier and the Promenade running through the midst of it, surrounded by Georgian town houses and substantial villas. What's not to like, in a rus in urbe kind of way and that's where I went after the RSC and good old Edinburgh.

First things first, catch a cab from the station to Hotel 131, which is across the road from the Queens Hotel, facing Imperial Gardens. 131 is new and occupies three substantial buildings which would once have been owned and lived in by people of quality. It's a hotel now and not a bad one, despite annoying dance music being played on its otherwise pleasant terrace. Get over that and the fact that the place is like stepping into a Soho nightclub in the late '90s and you're ok.

Nostalgia for central London 30 years ago aside, step out onto the Promenade like a boss and make your way down the leafy, almost ritzy Promenade to the High Street. It hasn't changed all that much since I lived there back in the mists of time apart from restaurants, which seem to be everywhere, annoyingly. Ignoring them, head to the Cotswold Inn to meet an old friend.

Now the Cotswold is, I think, the last biker bar in central Cheltenham, favored by what used to be the Wolves Outlaws and now simply the Outlaws. They dropped the Wolves thing and rolled into a greater transatlantic beast, at least that's my take. 

Whatever the case, they seem to like me there and it was all very, "Alright, Padre!" I've become, curiously, an unofficial chaplain, and I told one of the probationary Outlaws that the Cotswold was the last biker bar in town. He looked at me and exclaimed, "Tradition's important!" So it is, they train them well there. You'll be pleased to know I stuck to traditional Outlaw MC Padre rig, a single breasted blazer, open neck shirt, smart trousers and loafers. Gotta show respect, don't you think?

A few pints later, it was time to head off for Moroccan food, and man was it tasty. Who knew, right in the heart of the Cotswolds, delicious, and it was great to catch up with my old friend. He's had a hard time but hasn't sunk beneath the waves, sort of thing.

The next day, a friend came to visit from Hereford and we had fun strolling around the pubs and leafy boulevards of the place. I cut to the chase, "Tell me, PHA, is this country Communist?" He looked at me with apocalyptic folk music wisdom and asked, "Does it look that way?" We glanced over at a Lexus, a Mercedes and several BMWs, "Yes, if the Politburo's anything to go by."

Someone else's photo of Imperial Gardens

My pal, in fairness, is probably mostly a Commie, even though he's a bell ringer, and doubtless thinks England isn't Red enough. I dispute this, believing it's far too Bolshevik already, but we didn't argue and enjoyed our pints as we walked this incredibly beautiful country town. Go there if you can.

Next evolution? Back to London and then home to the great state of Texas.

Cheers,

LSP

Crockford's

 

You, the discerning and gentle reader, will be pleased to know that I'm not a gambling man. Far be it from me to wager fast and loose on the vagaries of Dog Coin, the Peoples' Currency, and other speculation. That said, others have gambled and played deep, not least at Crockford's on St. James in the 1820s.

William Crockford was a fishmonger, born and raised at Temple Bar in London but, with a quick mathematical mind and attention to odds raised himself to a professional gambler, winning a massive fortune at cards, 100,000 pounds, millions now, at a game with various nobility in a tavern off St. James.

The Fishmonger gambler sensibly invested this money in a club, No. 50 St. James, over and against White's. This aristocratic gambling hell became all the rage, as did its play. For example:

The great majority of the club’s members were serious, indeed inveterate, gamblers. The equivalent of about $40 million is believed to have changed hands over Crockford’s first two seasons; Lord Rivers once lost £23,000 ($3 million) in a single evening, and the Earl of Sefton, a wastrel of whom the diarist Charles Greville observed that “his natural parts were excessively lively, but his education had been wholly neglected,” lost about £250,000 (almost $33 million today) over a period of years. He died owing Crockford more than $5 million more, a debt that his son felt obliged to discharge.

 

Crockford retired a multi-millionaire (not a socialist) in the 1840s and lost most of his fortune, apparently, on ill-advised bets on the Derby. Captain Gronow reckons, on reflection, "One may safely say, without exaggeration, that Crockford won the whole of the ready money of the then existing generation.” Quite a thing, we're talking millions and millions of pounds by 1820s/30s reckoning.

The Clubhouse still exists today and you can see it on your left as you stroll towards White's famous bay window. It was bought by a Russian oligarch around a decade ago and then squatted. Rumours that the DLC are purchasing this fine Regency building are precisely that, rumours.

Arduus Ad Solem,

LSP