Thornton Heath pubs

Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? I’ve often wondered whether Thornton Heath is the heath King Lear wandered around in his madness, pummelled by storms and wracked by grief, passing judgement on stools and keeping the company of fools. It certainly bears the uncannily similar attributes of being a blasted wasteland populated by lunatics. To think it was once considered posh: back in the bad old days of Brixton riots, families moved out this way thinking it would provide them with a better life, and now Brixton is full of trendy art folk paying high rents, drawn like moths to the candle flame of inner city arts funding, while Thornton Heath has rotted away, neglected by Croydon council and duking it out with South Norwood for the honour of being the borough’s basket-case district. The Railway Telegraph is a glorious throwback to better days, a generously-sized and attractive Youngs boozer situated close to the railway station, boasting a little bit of railway memorabilia and a lot of tradition. The interior is well-kept, neatly ordered, tidy and clean, with a mixture of traditional tables and some high stool arrangements, and a central bar serving a large saloon and a smaller snug that tends to be where the locals chew the fat. Has a TV, does real ales and is open to both home and away supporters on match days. It also has a neat arrangement whereby, if you purchase a matchday programme from the bar, by returning it after the game you are rewarded with a pint. Now that’s service. One wonders what happens to the returned programmes – maybe they flavour the beer, or perhaps they’re being pulped to provide the raw materials for a regenerated Thornton Heath, rising like a papier mache paradise from the ruins. Whatever, the Railway Telegraph is good shelter from the storm called summer. Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? Some things make me think twice before entering a pub, and one of them is a surfeit of English flags flapping about on the outside. The Victoria Cross had so many that I wondered whether it was staging some kind of reconstruction of the Battle of Agincourt, or maybe it was just full of John Terry clones for whom seeing the flag in multiple brings on the same warm feeling that others get from incontinence. Nevertheless, the next nearest pub having recently been busted for drug use, and it being a cold wet day, I went in. It’s a big pub, one of those Victorian fake-Tudor affairs, half-timbered on the outside and with a wooden panelled interior, split between a saloon and a private bar, with an additional room at the back that’s now dominated by a pool table. By no means crowded on the day of visiting, the bar staff were anyway very attentive and friendly, and seemed on excellent terms with the culturally quite diverse range of punters. They had several real ales on tap (including Brains’ excellent Merlin’s Oak) and, although they don’t do food, they do provide menus from all the local takeaways, and will phone through and order you stuff from any of them, and provide plates and cutlery for you to dine with. Does the usual Saturday night jamboree of karaoke and disco nights, as well as showing all the football. Despite the flags, a really decent, low-key, friendly local. Certainly my pick of the surrounding crop for anyone with business to attend to at the nearby Mayday Hospital.

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