For New Year's Eve 2000 we wanted to make a big spash. London was an attractive option having history, panache, and mutual friend John Caster willing to put our group up for the long weekend.
Caster, serving as verger for the Priory Church of St Batholomew-the-Great, located along Cloth Faire street in the City of London, resided in a 15th century flat, which was built onto the medieval church itself. Established in 1123, the place had atmosphere. From a trap-door in John's kitchen we could access an interior loft of the church and look down upon the interior crossing and choir. The church was beautiful and yet carried with it the heavy weight of history. William Wallace was drawn and quartered just outside the front gates, Ben Franklin once worked as a printer in the building's East chapel, and founder Rahere was believed to still haunt the church's interior aisles and naive.
A few hours into our stay, Caster leaned in and told us a ghost story that even today delivers a tingle down my spine. Let's just say, someone still occasionally walks the aisles of St Bartholomew at night, and that entity may or may not have a physical body. (For credibility's sake, John would recount his ghostly encounter about a year later to the History channel as part of their Haunted London documentary series). After a few beers, time for bed, try sleeping on that. Day 1 complete.
Day 2. On the eve of the new millenium, having already experienced a righteous preamble, we decided to settle in for some craft beer at the Rising Sun Pub. From the quaint atmosphere of Clothe Faire we would then depart to watch fireworks at midnight over the Thames River. This was New Year's 2000, and for us, it was huge. The story ends here; nope cue the cinnamon-infused Aftershock liqueur.
From flasks, and from the bottle, we nursed Aftershock like baby calves heading to the slaughter. It was a spirited night of drinking indeed. Back at the Rising Sun Pub, Samuel Smith's Pils was the drink of choice as we caroused with many of the interesting and curious local patrons. We also met John's mates the bobby (police officer), and his wife, and made friends, sort of. Outside the pub we jovially heckled a woman involved in a fender-bender, and quickly received the British V sign. This was a nice rite-of-passage, pretty cool, and very much appreciated.
Back inside his flat, John Caster had lost his battle with the spiral staircase. It appeared the verger had been given to drink. The Aftershock had left a Big Red-hue vomit trail down the front of his white T-Shirt, and John looked as if he had been held over a dark chasm by a giant winged beast. Post haste, we clumsily carried Caster to his bedding, where he could receive rest in preparation for his work at St Paul's Cathedral the next day; televised with her majesty in attendance.
The following morning of Day 3 was a labor of hangovers and hunger as we tried to piece together the previous evening's events. The only thing to eat was a piece of half-frozen haggis, and no one was willing to dance with the devil. Emanating from the second-level kitchen area of the flat, we heard the sound of John Caster stirring his manually operated washing machine. Dried regurgitated cutlets of Aftershock were still visible from one corner of his mouth, whilst a cigarette hung gently from the corner of the other. Time to go to work, John.
At high twelve all available church bells in the City of London chimed in unison to commemorate times past, and times yet to come. We would end up staying another day, and touring all the sites, before leaving for Dallas by way of Dusseldorf, Germany, and then Chicago. Our trip was action packed, and full of panache.
This one is dedicated to Alicia, Kevin, Chris, Jason, David, Philip, & our great host John Caster.
Faithfully submitted,
Philip Bates
