The Cross Keys Pub, Divine Intervention in England + New Angle for Substack
As a non-drinker, finding pubs has been easy; explaining English(ness) has not
Along with city arms, the crossed keys is one of the most common symbols found in England — and a relatively regular name for pubs, aside from World’s End or the Lord Wellington. While the crossed keys signify St. Peter and his alleged rolls into heaven’s gate — and are dangerously close to the state seal of the Vatican — these keys represent the Anglican Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of St Peter in York. That the Cross Keys Pub is located in Covent Garden makes sense, as well, when one knows that Covent Garden was actually as 12th-century garden for Westminster Abbey before it became the City’s first public square in 1630s. The English are very literal with names.
But this Cross Keys, serving theatergoers since 1840, is anything but ecumenical and everything religious about a proper London boozer: brass and copper everywhere, bar foot rest, dark and cosy with low lighting and solid pub carpet. But even if one doesn’t step inside, the place gives off Victorian pomp with all of its elaborate masory and extensive foliage around the entrance. Those who do walk in for an London Pride face a collection of bric-a-brac — known as “tat” in England — ranging from copper kettles to musical instruments and even a diving helmet. There are also brewery mirrors, a large collection of portraits and pictures, and two « notable clocks. » More to comE on those…
A successful « local » in London is a second home. Cross Keys has been described as such: “someone’s front room when the lights are low and they’re nursing a brandy just before retiring for the evening.” As this customer concluded: “It’s not often you can witness that sort of private scene recreated in a public setting where intimacy is there for all to experience and enjoy.” True. When they aren’t in pubs, the English guard their privacy harder than Peter watches the gates.
In the Tradition of Calvin Trillin’s, Tepper Isn’t Going Out: Adrian is Weeding Now
Bear with this shift and with me. I am no longer working primarily in Journalism, sadly — and have transitioned to starting a tennis app, My writing may be a bit rusty. I started this column when I moved here with a crash, bang in February 2021 after a year of Covid to write about my experiences adjusting to a new country. It has been an adjustment for me, and the column probably reflects all the change.
In short, I moved with my English girlfriend and after Covid, we split up only to realise that we were best friends shortly afterward. The breakup was my fault; I wasn’t adjusting well. She moved from London to closer to home in Birmingham, and I moved to Central London. I had a freelance fact-cheking gig for AirMail, a former Vanity Fair-staffer startup, and another job writing with the UN Human Rights Commission. I also had relationship within three months of the breakup with a Polish/English girl ten years my junior and the complete opposite of me found organically, not Hinge. And Boom, life was good. It was great, in fact: money, love, relative success, fun times, London, European sojourns — it was all mine.
Then my life came crashing down a bit. The UN assignment ended and Air Mail made me redundant. I don’t have a visa to work in England. But just about the time I was sending out some proposals for book ideas, an idea I had about a sign-up app for tennis courts hit. Lately, if something hits, I follow it, as it leads to a paying gig. Then a book proposal hit. Good success for sure, but starting an app business is something for which literally, nothing can prepare you. Starting a business and writing a book meant I had two prospective money-makers, but very little money to pull it off. Then the demands, the investments, the hours and the sheer ability to lay yourself bare over and over again became overwhelming. Needless to say, I got back into old habits, swore off my running and started my old New York party life in London. That was not only untenable, it was also heartbreaking last year when one of my favorite people and one of two people who can make me roll-over laughing ended our relationship over it.
See, I love pubs. I love drinking. First of all, alcohol loosens everyone’s inhabition; if drinkers are in the space between buzzed and sloppy, they are nicer, more honest, more forthright, more intimate — at least in my opinion. When I have had about three cheap lagers in me, I have enough cliche liquid courage to bury my introvert and be “on".” Or so I think. Most people say I am a mess after four drinks. But drinking is not about them; it’s about me. It’s about my preception of feeling relaxed and funny and easy-going and the person I feel people want me to be. It’s also escapism; a check out; a nice warm red telephone box into which I can crawl and remain unafftected while I watch the world go by.
But what do the English do when the chips are down? They do not cry in their Newkie Browns! They Keep Calm and Carry On, damn it! Bloody hell. They don’t whinge and moan and get all sentimental like the American Yank crying in her zero percent beer. By god, these English hop out of their Range Rovers after taking care of business over the English Channel, pop by to see the Queen, stop in for a pint at the local, pound the American (or Italian or Spainard or merde, the Frenchman) at lawn tennis, have another pint and do it all over again tomorrow. Why couldn’t I be more like them?
And yeah, well, I wasn’t going to get much sympathy over here: I had to get on with it, too.
Long story short: this is my life now, in London, living alone, working alone, doing spreadsheets for a book and an app to get them ready for launch, shoving down the crushing lonlieness telling myself it will be worth it. I date occasionally. That said, I have had a terrible time getting used to the England reserve and sense of humour. I grew up in polite society (Tulsa’s only openly gay former debutante) and then adjusted to being a “fuck you, no fuck you, no fuck your mother” subway-riding New Yorker to this weird in-between world. My sense of self is off; I am selling myself and an idea, not my work. I am trying to not take the lack of investment in the app, the low percentage or friends, the general reception of the English toward me and recent breakups personally, while not drinking in London in the pubs I love (cannabis gummies help). It’s a juggle; rather, it’s a struggle
In 2000, right as I was applying to Columbia Journalism School, I read a satire by Calvin Trillin called Tepper Isn’t Going Out. The plot: a middle-aged man goes and sits in his car every day to read his newspaper and have some solace. And every day multiple people drive by to ask for his parking space — is he “going out.” He refuses to leave, and in doing so, becomes a cult hero in New York after he is featured in the Village Voice.
I don’t have a car in which I can sit and read the newspaper, neither in London nor New York. However, as I get through these months of building this app and dating without getting drunk, don’t be surprised to see me outside of my apartment building or around the block doing my own little Islington community cleanup, an “Adrian is Weeding Now” moment. Because I am a bit tired of tennis and the gyms and I need my “me” time — the English call it DIY time (they do a lot of DIY projects). I’m also going to use this blog to test some new writing — my funny, droll, satirical voice. I’m used to reporting stories, spewing out facts and figures and reporting on stuff. While I was doing data-entry the other day, however, I was writing a stand-up routine to entertain myself.
So from now on, Letter from a London Pub/Adrian is Weeding Now is going to be like a riff, a loose check-in on how much I am NOT belonging in Europe. It will be more jazz than indie rock, even though I don’t really like jazz. It will be about my life as it is, not as I want it seen. Some may have themes; some just observations. Some blogs might have coherent prose; others might be snapshots of life. All will have photos, as I love taking and editing photos.
Here it is, the first section of Adrian is Weeding Now.
Adrian is Weeding Now
Open mic stand up:
I started dreaming this standup in my head while doing data entry in Excel and now you know the origin of this problem, my problem, me, as a problem. I’m a journalist; I should not be doing Excel. We hate numbers. We’re also supposed to write to solve problems; excel is unsolvable.
Here’s another reason I started writing stand up. I mostly left journalism to use my talent to solve a tennis problem and finally, maybe make some money — get in on some of this tech millions going around. Little did I realize how many little annoying, niggly problems there are to solve in tennis. Those damn iinfinite numbers again. And well, tennis is not a regularly evolving game filled with people who love tradition. Why I did not realise this impossible situation before I dove head first into it, I have no idea. Maybe I caught Silicon Valley syndrome — it’s like Stockholm syndrome only with tech bros in Patagonia vests instead of hippie groups with guns.
And then, the ultimate problem with me and this desk job situation: my “grass is greener” and “bored easily,” rough and tumble journalism life. It’s like, huh, this spreadsheet is so damn detailed and boring, I have to get through it. But look at this exciting story over here! Ok, let me try one more time to adjust this maketing message to meet the expectations of a test audience. But look at this situation over there — maybe a story will help. I have all these things to get done and here I am daydreaming about getting myself into another project. One day, I even decided that if I was going to leave this career writing about issues and problems to solve, that I would actively solve problems. I got a bit delusional here… I started thinking, for every action Donald Trump takes that makes Americans look bad or stupid, I will take an equal and opposite reaction. I had neither time nor money for that.
So now I’m just this overwhelmed writer and app founder working alone all day and telling my jokes to the cats and then I realised something…
I should try stand-up. Because I am very funny…
In my head… and you know, well, to my cats. They’re so expressive. They’re so encouraging; so enthusiastic. Kind of like my parents…
Ok, we won’t go there.
But seriously, I tried stand up because it took coming to this country to realise the one thing I am great at: making fun of myself
And the English LOVE that. The English love nothing more then to “take the mick” out of you. However, you will endear them foever if you can effectively and cleverly “take the piss” out of yourself. If they’re drunk, you don’t have to be as clever. They just adore you if you aren’t endearing, don’t take yourself too seriously (Brune McBruneFace?), follow their rules and make them laugh.
So here you go, English people. You think you’ve got me beat, you, you, you Redcoats! Hear this! This American is undeterred on your waters. On your land. And I am not leaving. Because in your country, I found my pure joy, my passion, among the purest of the pure, the pompiest of the pomp, the most disarming of the disarming, the oohing and ahhing Victorians of Islington. Yes — I did the one thing Lena Dunham only wishes she could have successfully done — I came to London to craft, like a fine waxed Barbour jacket, like Fortnam + Mason tea, like Waitrose ready-to-eat salads… I came to London to craft my art: self-deprecating comedy. Will let you know how it goes.