Chris Evans Buys A Last Round

The pavements ran dry with tears the day Chris Evans, the Ginger Pimpernel of showbiz London, moved on from the cobbled terraces of Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove.

We wuz gutted. He'd been like a native son, always on for a knees up and a game of knock and run. You'd never have guessed he was from Warrington. If ever there was a lad more likely to be mistaken for the Artful Dodger of Artesian Road it was our Chris. For two short years the famed disc jockey, TV star, media capitalist, and devil-may-care wrecker of careers galore, ruled the pubs of W11.  

The Chris Evans pub crawl began in February 1998 at the Windsor Castle on Campden Hill Road. This is where my teachers (Mr Hamilton in particular) liked to sneak off for a few during break at Holland Park Comp in the Eighties. One night, long after Mr Hamilton had ceased to rule my worst nightmares, I'm enjoying a pint in the Sherry Bar when in breezes Chris Evans and Ulrika Jonsson, former TV-am weather gal, game show host and quite possibly the unluckiest woman in love in the galaxy. 

Twas early evening. The cramped Sherry Bar was deserted. Jonsson, nifty in black leather and white vest, is a consummate celeb. She keeps her head down and sidles into an oak booth with Evans. He orders a round. The voice is loud. His subject: Rupert Murdoch. "Say what you like about him Ulrika, but he's a very clever man. A very rich man." No shit Sherlock but what's her dirt on the digger? I got up and walked down to Portobello Road for a cheaper pint of Guinness. They didn't miss me.  

It didn't take long for the Ginger Pimpernel to migrate south to Portobello Road. Back in the late Nineties there were only three pubs of note on "the lane" -- the Portobello Star, the Duke of Wellington (aka Finch's) and the Warwick Castle. The Pimpernel was too wise to drink in a Martin Amis dive bar like the Warwick. That joint was full of smack dealers and regularly shut down by police. Hellraiser Chris and his chums boozed at the Star (small pub) and the Wellington (bigger pub). Wise choices but no less violent.  

Imagine the awe that rippled through the vast saloon bar of the Wellington when in comes Chris Evans, Danny Baker, Gazza and... the Pet Shops Boys. Sean Rowley, the host of C4 show All Back To Mine, and regular at the Wellington, is gobsmacked. "I can't believe it." He says out loud. Much like a school kid. "I've just seen my hero!" He nods to Gazza in canary yellow shirt, fag in mouth, pint in hand, cigarette machine propping him up. "I'm the best footballer in the world," Gazza repeats over and over ad infinitum. Fans, eager for an exchange with their hero, or an old-fashioned autograph, gaze at the Geordie boy as if he's talking sonnets. 

I sloped off to see an ex-pop performer (Loz Hardy) house-sitting for another ex-pop performer (Justine Frischmann). After a sober hour there's an officious knock at the door. "Is Derman there?" asks a drunken Geordie voice. Loz is shocked to discover Gazza, Chris Evans, Danny Baker and the Pet Shop Boys on the doorstep, looking for the absent Damon Albarn (Ed. Note: soon to be dumped by Frischmann for giving her the clap twice). The celebs are away but that doesn't stop Gazza taking a 'berty in the kitchen. He makes a cheese and pickle sandwich. Perhaps I should have nicked the bread knife to sell to Sean Rowley as a souvenir... 

Meanwhile, the Pet Shop Boys programme a synth in the basement studio for an impromptu cover of the Bee Gees disco classic Staying Alive, with a pissed-up Gazza backing Neil Tennant on vocals. Gazza soon gets bored. He wants to go to Soho. Taking a red onion from the kitchen and with Chris, Danny and the Pet Shop Boys in tow, Gazza jumps into a white limo stretched outside and they all head off for the front page of the Sun.             

1998-1999 were vintage years for sightings down the rub-a-dubs of Portobello Lane. Playing man of the people, Evans would buy everyone a drink, leave a hefty tip (the irate publican must have thought he'd died and gone to heaven), and kill time with his entourage playing the fruit machine until last orders. Seeing Evans hypnotized by the one-armed-bandit was an odd sight. It was like being whizzed back (WHOOSH!) to before he was Timmy Malletts's dogsbody at Piccadilly Radio in Manchester; back to little Chris, the schoolboy in nerd spex, too cool for school, bunking off, black NHS frames held together by Scotch Tape, Pinball Wizard on Sony Walkman, pushing coins in machines in rundown parts of Widnes and Runcorn.    

Familiarity began to breed contempt down Portobello. Word went round that Chris Evans and his ilk (media industry fat cats) were "taking over Grove". Envious of his wealth, power and fame, territorial locals would bait Evans and his posse of hangers' on. 

One ex-Holland Park pupil, high on a mind bending combination of drink, drugs and antidepressants, pelted Evans with a packet of Ginger Nuts biscuits shouting, "Oi, Ginger Nut! You bleedin' millionaire! Buy us a fucking drink you tight cunt!" 

It was celebrity hunting season and the locals wanted to bring this very public figure to account. However, the Ginger Nuts incident did not immediately deter Evans from slumming at the Wellington. One night Evans and Co. were in the path of a posh blonde coke whore who was smashing pint glasses and overturning tables. 

Evans went on bikini black special. With a herky-jerky step, he picked up towards Kensington Park Road and glanced back. One of the entourage began to throw a series of Van Damme style snap roundhouse kicks at the back of the coke whore's head. Big mistake. She turned, grabbed Van Damme and swept him into the gutter. Humiliated and weary, Chris and gang eloped to sanctuary in 192 (a now defunct wine bar and restaurant, overpriced but very fashionable in its day). After the call outs and public episodes, Notting Hill had become too dangerous for the Ginger Pimpernel. Evans grew shy of haunting the boozers of Portobello Lane and never returned.