Copyright: Thomas McCarthy-Ward, from flickr.
There is no competition in this part of the world: it’s your barmy acid-crazed uncle’s living room, with a bar stuck in the middle.
The first time I stumbled on this marvellous pub was around eight years ago, when it saved us from almost certain death. We had foolishly undertaken a south-west London riverside walk on the day some two rugby clubs were playing each other at Twickenham. On hearing the distant, throaty roars of well-educated booze monsters bent on showing off, we spent a fearful half hour cowering in the shadow of the Wandle Delta Creek (!) recycling station, before phoning our nearest and dearest and heading off towards Putney High St.
Luckily, we never made it there; instead, we sat down on one of the old church pews outside this pub and got rat-arsed, moving inside when it got dark, lying contentedly back on one of their chaise longues, as 50-year-old roués bobbed around to Desmond Dekker. NB: music in pubs isn’t generally our thing, but when the barman has locals like Lawrence Bell, head honcho of Domino Records (home of Franz Ferdinand, Four Tet and Sebadoh, amongst many others), to deal with, you know he’s not going to wang Oasis on the stereo.
There are paintings of Audrey Hepburn and Elvis; photos of flapper girls; voodoo dolls; gilt-edged thrones; hungry armchairs, ready to swallow you whole; a busy fireplace. They’ve even sorted the loos out recently, and have installed a restaurant upstairs. We need reports on this, but can’t imagine it’s detracted from the joy of the place.