Some six or seven years ago, Your Lord found himself in the vicinity of Tower Bridge after attending a meeting with his accountants Grab, Grab and Snatch. The weather was extremely clement and as the meeting room had been on the stuffy side, Your Lord decided to find a public house in which to refresh himself with a well-earned pint of real ale and a cigar.

Naturally, this was in the days when grown men and women were permitted to smoke in pubs without the worry of being arrested.

I came upon a rather pleasant looking establishment called The Anchor Tap, just off of Shad Thames and made the decision to enter and make myself comfortable.

Having ordered a delicious pint of beer, I looked around for a vacant seat but was disappointed to see that all available chairs had been taken. It was then that I noticed the games room to the left of the bar was empty, so I made my way in and settled onto a bench opposite the dartboard.

Contented with my pint, cigar and Daily Mail, my peace was shattered by a noisy group of foreign-sounding people entering the pub. To my dismay, they entered the room and proceeded to put their glasses down on the table at which I was seated, took off their jackets and switched on the light above the dartboard.

Now, in my younger days when I was still a blade, I frequented public houses and had acquired quite a talent for dart playing, so I was interested to watch these scallywags make holes in the walls.

One of these characters saw me watching and enquired as to whether I would like to play.

The ale having made its way to my head by this point, I accepted the challenge and proceeded to put up rather a good show at the oche.

It turned out that the group was connected with football, but as you know, Your Lord is not interested in said sport.

The young man who had asked me to take part in a friendly game of darts explained that he hailed from Norway but was staying close by because he was playing for a London team.

I enquired as to his name and he replied, ‘Steffen Iversen, Tottenham’, which meant absolutely nothing to me.

After a jolly good game of arrows he then enquired as to whether I would like to join him and his entourage to an all-expenses paid night out to the west end, to which I declined as Lady Piggott was expecting me home.

He then took off the baseball cap he was wearing, signed his name on it with a black marker felt tip pen and handed it to me, telling me that it was mine to keep. I thanked him for the game and the cap and made my way home.

I gave the cap to my nephew Toby, who apparently sleeps with it under his pillow to this day.

Some weeks later whilst passing Curry’s shop window, I had the pleasure of watching Iversen score a goal for Tottenham Hotspur.


In case City is wondering, this is a true story.

Your Lord would like to hear your accounts of mixing with the rich and famous or perhaps occasions when you have spotted celebrities in unexpected locations.

Erastus

PS: Thank you to Susan for suggesting the subject of this blog.