‘A bloke with tattoos on his face started on me over an umbrella': My day of drinking in Britain's pub capital
The HMS Warrior stands proud in Portsmouth Harbour as rain raps the windows of the Lady Hamilton. It's Friday afternoon and the dockside pub is busy with a mature crowd. Perfectly permed ladies and besuited gents tuck into roast dinners – served here seven days a week – while a kettle boils on the bar. It's a snapshot of a bygone Britain that's fading away.
Also fading is the certificate above the bar reminding patrons that the Lady Hamilton – named after Nelson's mistress – was voted the third best pub in Portsmouth in 2018. Past glories. 'Pompey' has plenty of those.
Oscar Whild has a few, too. The Navy veteran, who's drinking in the pub with family and friends, has the rare distinction of having captained the HMS Victory. Yes, the ship that Nelson died on in the Battle of Trafalgar. It's in dry dock in the nearby Historic Dockyard and is – technically – still in service.
'It's the oldest commissioned warship in the world,' says Whild, proudly, as a nearby fruit machine makes promises of riches. 'If it all kicks off in Ukraine, we're ready to go.'
It might come to that the way things are going. Only the Victory would 'sink in seconds' if they put it on the water, says Whild, who oversaw ceremonial events and maintenance. 'It's just a constant replacing of wood,' he says.
Whild also served in the Gulf War and Falklands, where he was hit by shrapnel on the deck of HMS Broadsword during an Argentinian air raid.
'It was only a scratch,' he says. 'My family got a message to say that I'd been injured and was coming home on the QE2 to Southampton. It wasn't true; the lines of communication had got mixed up. They went down [to Southampton], but I wasn't there.'
It's not every day that you get to meet a former captain, let alone of such a distinguished vessel. But pubs are great levellers, you never know who you might find in one. And Portsmouth – birthplace of Charles Dickens, who liked a drink – reputedly has more per square mile than anywhere else in Britain. Other cities make similar boasts – including St Albans, scene of another pub crawl for this paper – but the (contested) data appears to support Pompey's claim. For now.
'We've lost a lot of them,' says Whild. 'You never used to walk more than 100 yards for a pub.'
Portsmouth's taverns used to be rich pickings for Navy press gangs, who went around the city preying on drunk men in the 17th- and 18th-centuries.
'They'd club them over the head, drag them to the ships and take them to fight the French before they sobered up,' says Whild.
Back then Portsmouth was the world's greatest naval port. It's still a naval base today, but no ships have been built here since 2013, when 500 years of shipbuilding came to an inglorious end.
'I don't know who the biggest employer is now,' sighs Whild. 'It's probably the DHS.'
I leave the Lady Hamilton and head towards Old Portsmouth, passing Gunwharf Quays on the way. The sprawling retail complex rose from the rubble of a former ordinance site, but the only firepower here nowadays is Nandos' peri-peri chicken.
Old Portsmouth's pretty, cobbled streets are a welcome contrast to the rough and ready harbour. I dive into The Dolphin opposite the cathedral, which claims to be Pompey's oldest pub. There, under the low-beamed ceiling, a stag party is playing où est le poulet? (Where is the chicken?).
The game involves dressing the stag up as a chicken and sending him off to hide in one of 10 pre-agreed pubs. While he's there, spending a kitty that the rest have paid into, the other lads split up and look for him.
'You have to have a pint in every pub you look in,' says Freddy Urquhart, the surprisingly sober stag, who's dressed as Snow White. 'They didn't have a chicken costume,' he explains.
Urquhart, who's from Oxford and works for an animal charity, is with three pals who have found him already. 'Three others are still looking for me.'
I leave them to it and head to nearby Still & West, a shipshape Grade II-listed gastro pub at the harbour entrance. 'We're a bit of a tourist attraction,' coos Barry Martin, a manager at the pub, as Isle of Wight-bound ferries sail past the window. 'People sit here for hours watching the ships go by.'
It certainly beats doom scrolling on X. I join them for a bit before returning to the harbour. Big mistake. Dockside Pompey is a different beast. Gone are the genial pensioners. It's a boisterous, blokey affair now, especially in the Ship Anson, long a favoured haunt for rowdy sailors.
Recalling a tip from Martin, I head instead to Albert Road in nearby Southsea, following tree-lined streets where birds twitter in bushes and stout Edwardian homes have me scrolling Rightmove. In the distance, a wheezing hovercraft sets off for the Isle of Wight.
Albert Street is lined with bars and restaurants and has a welcome buzz. There's a theatre, a live music venue – the Wedgewood Rooms – and proper boozers, including the Duke of Devonshire, where I arrange to meet my old pal 'Disco', a proud Pompey lad.
As I walk into the pub, I immediately upset a bloke with tattoos on his face because I have an umbrella. He gets up and walks towards me but is intercepted, mercifully, by a woman I presume to be his wife. 'It's only an umbrella, dear,' she says, calmingly. He sits back down as the Stones come on the jukebox. The mood lifts.
At the bar, a friendly lady called Deborah* sidles over to me. She's old enough to be my mum. She came out for a drink 'about a day ago', she says, but is still out. She whispers some French into my ear and tells me that it's 'nice to meet someone sane', proving she's a bad judge of character.
I make my excuses and find a table near some guy who looks like an extra in Peaky Blinders and a bloke in a Hawaiian shirt. It's 5C outside. Characters – there just aren't enough of them these days.
Speaking of characters, in walks Disco. I tell him about my day in Portsmouth's pubs; about the Navy veteran, Snow White, Deborah, the guy a few tables over who nearly started on me. He sips his pint and laughs. 'Classic Pompey,' he says. 'You've got to love it.'
Love's a strong word, but in the haze of a tipsy hour, I feel a certain soft spot for the salty old seadog.
*This name has been changed
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Western Telegraph
a day ago
- Western Telegraph
When Milford Haven nearly became a Transatlantic port
Here's a pictorial reminder of the class of liner it was hoped would become regular visitors: It's a snap of The City of Paris which arrived at the Docks in September 1899, where she remained for five months before sailing to Belfast, having been lengthened by 100 feet and renamed the Philadelphia. The City of Paris in Milford in 1899 (Image: Jeff Dunn) It's easy to see how the glorious splendour of these magnificent ships would turn the heads of the hierarchy who were desperately seeking to elevate the status of the port of Milford, particularly after the costly building of the docks had been completed. And, after all, wasn't it the famous Lord Nelson, who, when he'd visited the town for a dirty weekend with the beautiful Lady Emma, had declared that there were very few harbours in the world, (and he'd fought in most of them,) that could touch the splendour and accessibility of ours. His words must've burned fervently for almost a century in the very souls of the wannabe Transatlanticarians. But having finally accepted that their dreams would never be fulfilled, and that it would be the hitherto frowned upon fishing industry that would lead the way, the Milford Docks Co. ploughed more capital expenditure into the venture to help develop the trade, and by 1908 Milford became known throughout the UK as "the town where the fish comes from." By then there were already 323 vessels shipping out of the docks. The town's "Fishing Age" had well and truly begun. Then, as the fishing fleets' numbers grew, it was also recognised that there was an obligation to cater for the moral welfare of the fishermen, and in the town a number of missions were opened to provide help and assistance to those fishermen and sailors who were in need of it. These could take the form of cooked meals, religious services and sometimes temporary medical clinics. The oldest of these organisations was the Royal National Mission to Deep Sea Fishermen, which, as well as having a building in the town, also had a canteen based on the Docks. From my pot of old pics, I've unearthed this old snap of this particular Mission's town building which, of course, nowadays is occupied by the Edwards' Printers business. Bus outing from the RNMDSF (Image: Jeff Dunn) In the pic there's a crowd of townsfolk waiting to go on some kind of bus trip. I have absolutely no idea who they may be, nor to where they may be heading. Somehow I don't think it's an annual trip to Tenby, there's not a bucket and spade in sight! It's predominantly ladies, so if I had to hazard a guess, they could be heading up to Haverfordwest, or Fishguard, to follow the suffragette rally of Emmeline Pankhurst, who in 1908, was in Pembrokeshire doing her best to persuade voters to get rid of the Liberal MP and change to Conservative, which, of course, they didn't. The next to come was the Mission and Welfare Centre, British and Foreign Sailors Society, known as the Bethel, the Sailors' Rest, which was funded by John Cory, the shipping magnate from Cardiff. In the early twentieth century, Milford's Charles Street was a busy and hugely popular shopping centre, with a weekly market on the Square, and there was little need for shoppers to go further afield to quench their retail thirsts. The Bethel (Image: Jeff Dunn) One of the street's most impressive buildings, with its imposing tower, was the red-bricked Bethel, the mission which, for more than 50 years, would do so much for seamen. During the First World War, when German U-boats were ravaging shipping off the Pembrokeshire coast, often the injured were received into the care of the Bethel, where medical treatment was administered by the hard-working local doctors and nurses. When the Second World War broke out, the Royal Navy took over the port and the Bethel was set up as a RN quarters. Here's a pic of the place. As well as all it's other duties, during the war it became a popular venue for entertainment. Here are some snippets from a West Wales Guardian just weeks after the war began: "Markets on the docks maintain a high level, except that for the first time in history there is a drop in the value of soles. Herrings are making 3.15s a kit, soles 3 .10s." "Pubs and clubs in the town are busy with trawlermen and servicemen." "A concert in the Sailors' Rest tonight will be compered by local celebrity, Teddy Palmer, aided by D.W. Walters of the County School. Performers will include violinist Wally Walters, accompanied by Mary Owen; tenor soloist Rev. Bartlett; Stoker West and his comic monologues: Well-known pianist Mr. Petter will accompany soprano Mrs McLaren, and there will be dancing from little Miss Ida Holder and Miss Agnes Bean." Wally Walters, of course, became the music master in Milford Haven Grammar School, then, years later, when he left to head up north, from where is wife Pauline originated, he became the leader of the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra... not bad for a boy from Upper Hill Street, Hakin! That's just about it for this one, I'll have another scrummage in my picture box to see what memories I can evoke next time. This week's 'words of wisdom' come from Katharine Hepburn: "I have no romantic feelings about age. Either you are interesting at any age or you are not. There is nothing particularly interesting about being old, or being young for that matter." Take care, please stay safe.
NBC News
a day ago
- NBC News
After a jet crashed into their neighborhood, some survivors say their emotional recovery is stunted by living so close to a busy airport. Ariana Drehsler for NBC News; AP U.S. news A jet crashed into their neighborhood. Now they live in dread below an active flight path. 'We hold our breath now every time a plane goes over,' said Srujana McCarty, who was sleeping when the private jet hit her family's San Diego home.
June 8, 2025, 7:00 AM EDT By Melissa Chan Srujana McCarty shields her head with her hands when an aircraft flies overhead. It's an involuntary reaction now, much like how her neighbors Aislyn Maupin and Renee Rivera freeze up and fixate on passing planes and jets until they're out of sight. They know it's improbable for an aircraft to plummet from the sky above them. But one did two weeks ago as they slept. On May 22, a pilot attempting to land a private jet at an airport nearby struck power lines and crashed into their San Diego military housing neighborhood, killing all six passengers on board, officials said. While the lives on the ground were spared, the disaster displaced dozens of families and shattered their sense of safety. McCarty's and Rivera's children still see the phantom flames down their hallways and streets. 'It's a new fear unlocked,' McCarty said. The survivors are trying to recover. But they live below an active flight path about 2 miles from the airport. About every 30 minutes, an aircraft roars above and brings them back to the morning fire roused them out of bed. 'It terrifies me knowing that we have planes coming over here all day, all the time,' Rivera said. 'It's a lot to be reminded of every single day.' 'Everything on fire all at once' On the night of the crash, before McCarty and her husband, Ben, went to sleep, they tucked in their two young sons, put their dogs in crates, locked their doors and set the alarm. 'Everything was set up for their safety,' said Ben McCarty, 33, who has served in the Navy for 13 years. Stillness fell over Murphy Canyon, home to more than 4,900 Navy families in one of the largest military housing complexes in the world. Then, just before 4 a.m., a Cessna 550 Citation jet slammed into the front yard of the McCartys' home, partially collapsing their roof and thrusting one of their trucks into the living room. Waves of heat from the fire instantly penetrated their bedroom, jolting them awake. 'The impact rushed over me,' Ben McCarty said. 'I felt like this strong wind or force, the heat.' Srujana McCarty, 32, let out a nightmarish shriek. But outside, the deafening booms from exploding cars and the panicked voices of other neighbors screaming to find their children drowned her out. The couple grabbed their sons, ages 2 and 4, and their dogs. The path to the front door was blocked by fire. The wall where their wedding photos hung was crumbling and burning, so the family fled out the back. Next door, Maupin was in a deep sleep when her 14-year-old daughter barged into her bedroom, screaming about a fire outside of her open window. In disbelief, Maupin looked outside and found a hellscape. 'The whole street was just in flames,' she said. Jet fuel snaked down the street, setting every vehicle in its path ablaze, law enforcement officials said. 'Everything on fire all at once,' San Diego Police Chief Scott Wahl told reporters. 'It was pretty horrific to see.' Maupin said people were knocking on doors, telling people their homes were on fire. 'People were pushing us and telling us we had to go this way,' she said. Maupin and her daughter helped their neighbors evacuate, each taking a baby to safeguard. Maupin remembers seeing a young woman, standing alone in the middle of the street, paralyzed in fear. 'People were screaming, 'Where are my kids?'' she said. 'Things are exploding everywhere.' Nearby, Rivera heard banging on her front door. She had seen the light from the explosion but thought it must have been lightning. 'I never in a million years thought a plane hit the ground,' she said. Half asleep, Rivera, 28, herded her 2-year-old asthmatic daughter, grandmother, two dogs and two guinea pigs into a car. As she drove away, she thought of all the children in the neighborhood. Her heart sank, thinking there was no way everyone in the neighborhood would survive. But miraculously no one on the ground was killed. 'Seeing it happen firsthand right in front of you,' she said, 'it changes everything.' McCarty replays each moment of her family's escape when she suddenly wakes up every morning around 3:45 a.m. at roughly the time of the crash. The sleepless nights are hard, but so are the days when planes seem to be constantly flying overhead. 'We hold our breath now every time a plane goes over,' she said. The McCartys are staying in a temporary house in the same military housing community until they're able to move into a new unit in about a week. They had only one plea for those tasked with their relocation. 'We asked to get out of the flight path,' Ben McCarty said. 'It was the No. 1 priority for both of us — anywhere away from the flight path.' Their neighbor, Thomas Lawrence, said his three young children had the same request. 'We had to change streets because they didn't want to live close to the scene of the crash anymore,' he said. 'It was unanimous. Even I didn't want to go back either.' Life under a flight path The Navy families live in the shadow of Montgomery-Gibbs Executive Airport, which primarily serves small aircraft and is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, according to its website. The airport sees more than 386,000 takeoffs and landings a year. The six passengers aboard the private jet were headed there from New Jersey, the National Transportation Safety Board said. Their cross-country flight was about 2 miles southeast of the airfield when, amid dense fog, the jet struck high-tension power lines and went down around 3:47 a.m., officials said. There were no survivors aboard. Music talent agent Dave Shapiro, 42, was killed, as were two employees of his Sound Talent Group, Kendall Fortner, 24, and Emma Huke, 25, according to the city's medical examiner's office. The crash also killed Daniel Williams, 39, a drummer for the band The Devil Wears Prada; Dominic Damian, 41, a software engineer; and Celina Kenyon, 36, a photographer. The cause of the crash is under investigation. A spokesperson for the NTSB said the agency expects to release its preliminary report in the next few weeks. In the immediate aftermath, it displaced about 100 residents, Wahl, the police chief, said. About 39 families were temporarily relocated, and two homes were significantly damaged, according to Gail Miller, chief operating officer of Liberty Military Housing, which provides homes for the families. Miller said the housing provider worked closely with the families to determine their preferences, recognizing that many would not want to return to their original units. Today, Miller said, 31 families have either returned to their original home in Murphy Canyon or have accepted a new home in the same community or elsewhere. The crash was the latest in a string of deadly aviation accidents this year that has sparked fear and unease. Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy has said the skies are safe, pointing to 35 million annual flights that occur in the U.S. with very few incidents. An NBC News analysis of federal data also shows that incidents and deaths on flights have not been rising compared with previous years, and that the number of deaths aboard aircraft in the U.S. is also on the decline. Still, for survivors triggered by the sight of an aircraft, the statistics do little to ease anxieties. In the aftermath of some cases of aviation trauma, constant exposure to planes and jets can be helpful in overcoming fears, but for others, the overexposure can prevent recovery, said Jessica Auslander, a North Carolina-based psychologist with the Centre for Aviation Psychology. 'The brain becomes hypervigilant for any other future signs of danger, to protect ourselves,' she said. 'It has basically learned, hey, this is possible. How can we keep ourselves safe?' Symptoms are most intense in the first few weeks after the incident but generally ease within one to three months, Auslander said. To help get the families back on their feet, the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society said it has provided more than $80,000 in emergency assistance to more than 80 families affected by the crash. The funds have gone toward insurance deductibles, uniform replacement, temporary housing costs, food and household essentials, said retired Navy Rear Adm. Dawn Cutler, the nonprofit's chief operations officer. 'It's going to be a road to recovery,' Cutler said. For the families beginning to settle into their new homes, the emotional healing comes next. Maupin grew up in the area by the airport, desensitized to planes. Now, when one passes, she says, 'everything stops and I just dissociate.' 'It's hard to conceptualize knowing you were so close to no longer being here anymore,' she said. Rivera closes her eyes when she has to drive by the scene of the crash to leave the area. But her 2-year-old daughter stares directly at it. 'She says there's fire, there's fire everywhere,' Rivera said, adding that her daughter will begin seeing a therapist. The McCartys, too, said they plan to seek counseling. 'We've somehow shut down and went numb just so we can move on,' Srujana McCarty said. Her husband said the crash has left him feeling helpless. When they were looking for their replacement home, he said, his family's protection was the only thing that mattered. 'We didn't look if the kitchen was big,' he said. 'We looked in the backyard and said, where is the escape route?' Melissa Chan Melissa Chan is a reporter for NBC News Digital with a focus on veterans' issues, mental health in the military and gun violence.
The Herald Scotland
3 days ago
- The Herald Scotland
Remembering D-Day: Veteran, 100, offers first-hand account of D-Day
Tolley Fletcher, at the time a 19-year-old Navy gunner's mate, remembered the rough seas and the treacherous landing troops at Utah Beach had to make in 3- to 4-foot waves, each carrying about 60 pounds of gear on their backs and descending on rope ladders from larger ships onto smaller landing crafts. "I felt for those soldiers," Fletcher, now 100 years old, told USA TODAY. "In my mind, that was the worst part, other than people getting hurt." Fletcher, who joined the Navy at 17 in late December 1941, said he and his shipmates were fortunate to be mostly out of the line of fire. "There was some shelling, not really a lot, and luckily we didn't get hit. "Maybe halfway in, we started seeing lots of bodies in the water," said Fletcher, who now lives in the Baton Rouge, Louisiana, area. "I was asked (later) what we did about it. We didn't do anything about it - we had a job: to escort those troops to the beach." On D-Day, "that's what these guys faced," said Peter Donovan Crean Sr., vice president for education and access at the National World War II Museum in New Orleans. "They knew they were in the presence of history. Soldiers, sailors, Marines - they knew what they were doing was going to go down in history, which also meant they knew the danger involved. "Guys who were 18, 19, 20 years old were faced with the possibility of their death, but they did it anyway." As we mark the 81st anniversary of D-Day, here is a look at what happened on the beaches of Normandy, the men who fought knowing they might not survive to see victory and the way it affected the Allies' fight to defeat fascism, genocide and tyranny. What happened on D-Day? In order to defeat the Nazis in Europe, the Allies knew they'd have to take France, under German occupation since 1940. Operation Overlord saw a mobilization of 2,876,000 Allied troops in Southern England, as well as hundreds of ships and airplanes, in preparation for a ground invasion, the largest the world had seen. Weighing conditions including the weather, disagreements among other military leaders and strategic uncertainty, Eisenhower gave the go-ahead for the operation to begin before dawn on June 5, 1944. If things didn't go well for the Allies, Eisenhower wrote a note accepting responsibility. The following day, nearly 160,000 Allied troops landed along the 50-mile stretch of French shoreline. More than 9,000 Allied troops were killed or wounded, and 100,000 troops would continue the slow, bloody journey to Berlin, the center of German power. Why was it called D-Day? According to the U.S. Army, D-Day was "simply an alliteration, as in H-Hour." Some believe the first "D" also stands for "day," a code designation, while the French say the "D" stands for "disembarkation." The Army's website says that "the more poetic insist D-Day is short for 'day of decision.'" Asked in 1964, Eisenhower instructed his assistant Brig. Gen. Robert Schultz, to answer. Schultz wrote that "any amphibious operation has a 'departed date'; therefore the shortened term 'D-Day' is used." What happened after D-Day? D-Day was not the only decisive battle of the European theater, Crean said. "It was a crucial battle but there were more ahead," he said. "They had 700 miles of tough road ahead to get to Berlin." The Battle of the Bulge, waged over 41 days in December 1944 and January 1945, required 700,000 Allied troops. "It was a tough slog for another 11 months," Crean said. Victory in Europe - V-E Day - would come on May 8, 1945, nearly a year after D-Day. The war wouldn't end until the Japanese surrendered on Sept. 2, 1945. How many World War II veterans remain in the U.S.? There are about 66,000 surviving World War II veterans in the United States, Crean said, and while that may sound like a lot, it's a tiny fraction of the 16.4 million who served their country in the conflict. "So to be able to talk to and thank one veteran now is a gift for any of us," Crean said. The National World War II Museum's mission "is more critical than ever ... so more people will understand what they did and continue to be inspired by their sacrifices," added Crean, a retired colonel with 30 years' service in the Army. The museum has had oral historians travel the country to record more than 12,000 personal stories from World War II veterans. They've conducted extensive interviews with veterans, Holocaust survivors and homefront workers and, using artificial intelligence, created a way for visitors to have "conversations" with them and ask questions to learn about the war effort. And they offer virtual programming, teacher training and a student leadership award. Fletcher, the Navy gunner's mate, said he's uncomfortable with the idea of being considered a hero. Asked about his role in history, he said, "I really didn't think about it then, and I don't think about it now, though it's been impressed upon me quite a bit. "When I think about what I went through, and what all the Army and the other men who were mixed up in really tough situations, it makes me feel a little bit guilty."
