Oval pubs

Making my first trip to this pub in two years, I find the pub next door to to it has closed, and a huge gelatinous slab of modern glass building has sprung up next to it. The Beehive is a late C18 or early C19th building, and the sight of this rather cheap, cuboid monstrousity (lacking both elan and adventurousness, it tries to pretend its cheapness is somehow daring in a post-modern manner; it isn't) next to it is somewhat bewildering. A lot has changed, and the Beehive has manifestly tried to keep up with the times. Upon entering I immediately realised that something was wrong, but it took me some time to work out precisely what. Firstly, the stomach-churning wallpaper has been removed, replaced by some beige stuff, which, weirdly, creeps down over the drinks rack above the bar, creating the sweeping curves of a tacky penthouse appartment. Secondly, and to much the same effect, the crappy wall-mounted lights have been replaced by halogen spotlights. Thirdly, the piano, which on a Sunday afternoon got used for playing anything from 'Roll Out The Barrel' to Gershwin, seems to have gone. The effect is rather like that of the building next door: rather disconcerting, an uneasy juxtaposition of modern and traditional, like a spam fritter sold by the Ivy restaurant. The distinct twin bars, the pool table, the floor layout and the gregarious mix of punters (from the very old to the just-arrived in London) all remain, however, although it's hard to imagine the stereo blaring out the theme tune to 'Jim'll Fix It' at the advent of New Year anymore, as for some reason it used to. Letting go of its previous incarnation, as I did after 2 or so pints, I realised there is still plenty to be celebrated about this pub. It has a unique atmosphere, very friendly but slightly anachronistic, that is worth an evening of anybody's time. For the sport and gastronomically minded, it has a large screen and claims to do food, although I've only ever seen a wine selection stored in the hotplate area. Crazed German 'philosopher' Friedrich Nietzsche once posited an idea that roughly translates as "the moment of the eternal return." Nobody really knows what he was on about (and you thought philosophy was supposed to explain things) but one theory suggests what he meant was that when you act, you should ensure that your action is so fearless and true to yourself that, were that situation to repeat infinitely, you would always wish to act in the same way. I actually think that Nietzsche had probably just suffered from wandering up and down the A23 from Balham to Oval, looking for a decent pub and finding that, wherever he went, he was actually stuck in the same crappy, jazzed-up drinking hole. ALL THE PUBS ARE THE SAME! There is no escape! There is nothing to distinguish the Fentiman Arms from the dozens of pubs spread throughout the area, all with the same featureless white walls, the big windows, the oversize metal taps selling overpriced "foreign" (i.e. brewed in Chelmsford) lagers, and meals that seem to think they're gastronomic wonders because they have olives in them. The most scary thing is that this phenomenon, originally confined to Clapham, is now spreading out across the whole of South London. Every pub you go to is either a really rubbish moment of eternal return, or shut down awaiting redevelopment as luxury apartments. Thanks Nietzsche. Thankfully, the bad reputation this pub had for the racism of its clientele has now vanished (along, presumably, with the racist clients). Whilst not quite displaying a throbbing multicultural mixture of drinkers, it is no longer exclusively white, nor does it display its previous wall of hostility towards non-regulars. Veering to the dingy side of traditional, with well-worn furnishings and fixtures, it is nevertheless pleasant enough in a downbeat manner, and at least provides some variation from the rightly dominant and popular Hanover Arms. Sky Sports etc. Once the greatest pub in the known world, but now sadly a shadow of its former self after a completely unnecessary refurbishment. It still has a friendly and convivial atmosphere, however, and doesn't know the meaning of last orders. Non-football fans should avoid the pub during televised matches, as the five televisions and big screen render it completely impossible to cling on to the pretense that football doesn't exist... Every so often when you least expect it, you can stumble across the most intriguing pubs. Having consumed a delicious spread of food at one of the Portuguese restaurants on the South Lambeth Road, we set about trying to find a suitable place to have a drink. I had heard good things about this particular place and I took it upon myself to drag the group into the back streets between Vauxhall and Stockwell in search of this elusive establishment. After five minutes of walking, just as the group were becoming restless, the dimly lit exterior finally appeared. It was with a sense of relief that we entered the place. Firstly, I had managed to avoid a near mutiny and secondly there were normal looking people inside. As we approached the bar to order our drinks, the drumming began. A slow hypnotic beat at first which left us all rather stunned. It took us a while to successfully regain our composure and order a round. The choice of beer was rather limited - mostly lager and no ales. This coupled with a wine list and coffee menu (gasp!) gives the whole bar area a Starbucks meets Slug and Lettuce look which is horribly wrong in any pub. A member of the group who had disappeared to the ladies returned reporting that there was a beer garden at the back containing a sand pit. That's nice, I thought, at least they cater for children here. We settled down on the sofas in the front of the pub and relaxed. It was dark, the lights had been switched off and dozens of church candles were scattered about the place providing a rather limited aspect. Despite the visual limitations I could tell that this was once an old Victorian pub. The chintzy pub decoration had been replaced by cool pastel shades that Linda Barker would have been proud of. The voluminous front area where we were seated contained a whole host of sofas and on the walls were boxing photographs and shelves containing books. There was also seating available on a front terrace. A spiral staircase leads upstairs to a function room which hosts weekly Salsa classes. By now, the drumming had reached a crescendo and was now accompanied by a female "vocalist". It is difficult to put this musical experience into words. It could best be described as progressive percussive ambient hypnosis. We almost fell under its spell, but were prevented from succumbing by the wailing woman who was by now scaring all the dogs in the neighbourhood. This was entirely unnecessary and ruined an otherwise entrancing melody. I sought refuge in the beer garden where I discovered to my utter astonishment that the sand pit was in fact a beach volleyball court! I later discovered that they hold tournaments every Monday. This place breaks many of the rules concerning how a pub should be: bad beer and a wine bar meets coffee shop dcor. However, it works because it dares to be different. We came away feeling as if we had been entertained by the unique music and "cooler then cool" ambience. We will definitely be back to watch the beach volleyball.

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