Belgrave Walk – some 500 metres and 30 minutes from Mitcham – wasn’t on a golf course, but it was sandwiched between two suburban areas, in some sort of forested No Man’s Land. It took us a while to figure out which way to go, but eventually we realised that we had to follow some sort of nature trek south through the woods, and along an ill-lit path to Morden Road. (Note: the fact that the Surrey Arms is on Morden Road does not mean that it is anywhere near the tram stop called Morden Road.) I must say that if I actually lived round here, I wouldn’t feel too safe about walking home at night. Perhaps the jokers who devised Tramlink might like to improve security somewhat by making a slightly less overgrown path, installing some lighting, or – God forbid – employing a human to work at one of the stops. Having said that, we probably just failed to find the correct route in a drunken haze.

Indeed, by this stage in the day we were all feeling a little tired and emotional (with the exception perhaps of Ian), so I don’t remember much about the Surrey Arms, except that it seemed to be in a purpose-built concrete block. When we walked in, some of the locals turned round and saw us and exclaimed that Westlife had just entered the pub. Now, I know we’re all pretty fresh-faced and we’ve got great singing voices (as the landlady at the Jolly Gardeners had noted), but to mistake us for a tawdry boy-band is taking it a bit far. Then again, “maybe, just maybe”, they were being ironic.

Well, it seemed that now was the time to make Ian undergo his forfeit for turning up half-way through the day’s events. We duly forced him to pick the following:

Pad’s purchase from earlier in the day now came into full effect, as Ian had to wear the badly-drawn hat throughout our stay at the Surrey Arms.

Westlife spotted enjoying a quiet drink in London’s fashionable Morden

This didn’t mean that he was in a hurry to get out of there, though – the evidence shows that he went for two pints of IPA, in an honourable attempt to play catch-up. In fact, the choice of beer at the Surrey Arms was pretty limited, which is why all of us drank IPA except for Alan, who was now on his sixth lager (in this case, Carling again) of the day – not bad for a die-hard cider fan.

This pub also had a jukebox, and I distinctly recall hearing a few Queen songs among our selections (which probably explains Alex’s pained expression in the above photograph). Overall, though, we weren’t really that impressed by the Surrey Arms – and Tim was especially appalled:

Before we left, there was something of a debate about what our strategy should be for the rest of the night, given the state of the Tramlink service. The original plan was to get back on the tram and go to Morden Road, missing out Phipps Bridge. However, we realised that the Surrey Arms was actually within walking distance of Phipps Bridge; and given the delays, we thought it might be better to walk straight to that stop and not bother going back to Belgrave Walk.

If you find that confusing, imagine discussing the various pros and cons of such alternatives after seven beers and a rum. Whatever, we eventually managed to conclude that walking to Phipps Bridge was the best bet.

When we got there, we realised how little time this tactic was likely to save us: the previous stop, Belgrave Walk, was visible from Phipps Bridge, being only a few hundred metres away. And it didn’t make any difference anyway since there was not a tram in sight.

As the drizzle gradually turned into full-on rain, we began to curse the shoddy design of the Tramlink shelters, which did nothing to keep out the elements. We then bitterly complained about the reliability and punctuality of the Tramlink service itself, as we found ourselves waiting longer and longer – during which time several members of the public turned up, waited about five minutes, and then walked off again muttering “Quicker to walk”. Eventually, having nothing left to criticise, we turned on each other: a furious squabble broke out between the London Men’s Self-Help Pub Crawl Group hard-liners – who suggested that, by failing to travel on the stretch of track between Belgrave Walk and Phipps Bridge, the whole crawl might be rendered null and void – and the pro-reform members of the group, who held that by visiting an extra stop we were in fact exceeding our remit, and anyway “Who gives a shit?”

During the midst of this argument, out of the darkness loomed a tram. At last! But to our disappointment, it was going the wrong way. As the doors were about to close (always be closing), the hard-liners (if I recall, this faction comprised Tim, Alex and Simon) suddenly jumped aboard, leaving the rest of us on the platform. Their reasoning, it transpired, was that they might as well go back to Belgrave Walk and catch the tram from the correct stop – thereby carrying out the crawl in a more honest fashion – since there weren’t yet any trams going in the direction we wanted.

It still didn’t make any difference, what with the lack of a westbound service, but we managed to pass the time by shouting at each other between stops, practising our semaphore skills, and pulling the world’s least funny “prank”: shouting “Quick, Alan, the tram’s coming” while he was evacuating himself behind a track-side installation. Out of sheer boredom, those of us at Phipps Bridge even tried to walk back to the previous stop between the tracks. However, I think the general consensus on this was that it was unwise.

Finally, after some forty minutes, a tram going towards Wimbledon arrived at Belgrave Walk, and picked up the remainder of us at Phipps Bridge. Whatever the pedantics of the situation, we all agreed that once we got to the next stop there was no way any of us was getting on another tram – the rest of the crawl would have to be on foot.