A Tale of Two Princes

[David Wright]

Wimbledon fortnight, week two. An opportune time to pay a visit to the southern edge of the District Line and soak up a bit of Murraymania before our would-be hero crashes out in the latter stages, dashing the hopes and dreams of a nation once again.

I am surprised to discover, while researching potential pub options, that Morden, the Northern Line’s southern extremity, lies a mere mile south of Wimbledon tube station. Having visited only five EOTL stations in six months, a double-destination trip could keep our target of doing all 21 by the end of the year just about within reach. We arrange to meet in the Prince of Wales, Morden, and then move on to the Prince of Wales, Wimbledon.

Although I arrive at Morden in unusually punctual fashion, I haven’t quite given myself sufficient time to visit Baitul Futuh Mosque, Western Europe’s second largest. I do pause, however, to admire the handsome façade of the tube station, designed by the prolific architect of many of London Underground’s finest stations, Charles Holden, in 1926.

I pass Morden Spiritualist Church and the imposing Trinitarian Bible Society before arriving at the Prince of Wales. Although the recent renovation has left the pub’s interior devoid of character, the barman is extremely welcoming and the Young’s on draft refreshing. While I wait on Dave’s arrival, I settle down in the expansive and pleasant beer garden, complete with outdoor pool table and large screen telly. No mindless music video channels here, but rather, an informative documentary on the dangers posed to young children by urban foxes.

As I’m texting Dave to confirm my arrival, my eye is caught by a small black pig, ascending a set of stairs leading to a terrace above the pub. The pig is then joined on the terrace by its friend, a large rottweiler, to enjoy the remainder of the late evening sun.

Dave arrives. After a lengthy exchange of insightful views on the World Cup and England’s sorry demise, we order a bit of food. My burger and Dave’s chicken breast were both excellent value for money. Whether or not our dining experience was enhanced by the fixed stare of a hungry Rottweiler and the incessant grunting of a pig is open to question.

After our meal, we decided on a few games of pool. I went back inside for the drinks to be met by a scene of minor mayhem. The pig was being chased around by furious bar staff. “Zac! Out of here! Zac!” Zac was finally caught and severely reprimanded. Not only had he entered a no-go zone, but he had allegedly been at the chicken’s food. Zac was ejected into the beer garden, joining us, along with his good friend, Sisco, by the pool table.

After an extremely enjoyable time in Morden, we reluctantly headed north to Wimbledon, passing Wimbledon South station, another Holden creation. We arrived at the Prince of Wales, adjacent to the tube station, anticipating a Pimms-sipping clientele discussing the day's play on centre court. Nothing of the sort. A huge beast of a place, crammed with overexcited teens - a dress rehearsal for the weekend binge. Shiny Happy People blasting out of the sound system had them on their feet. Thankfully, the last District line back into central London would be departing in half an hour.

An unexpected straight sets victory for Morden over Wimbledon.

[David Scott]

Although Wimbledon does win on the Prince of Wales stakes, since it acually boasts two such pubs to Morden's one. Furthermore Morden's Prince of Wales is frequently and confusingly refered to as the Princess of Wales. Still, quality over quantity every time.