Acton pubs

Luckily we didn’t have to walk too far through the Narnia-like frozen wastes of Acton High Street before finding this place. On walking through the door we found ourselves in a seemingly small, if rather dark pub. Feeling like we had just stepped back into a wardrobe after a bracing walk in frosty forest, we spied a list displaying the names of former landlords hanging by the side of the bar. The list showed that this pub was actually rather historic and dated back to the 17th century. Sadly many of the original features appeared to have been lost following years of successive refits. In spite of this we were cheered by the HSB on tap and with pints in hand we set about finding a place to sit. We followed the bar around to the left and realized that the pub extended back for miles before opening out into a cavernous dining area where all manner of gastro food offerings are served. Statues, probably the petrified remains on non-paying customers, were arranged around the room. Conscious of the fact that the ice queen herself might be stalking the place disguised as a waitress, we shrank back towards the bar and bagged a seat there. After a while a group of women staggered into the pub and proceeded to giggle like a pack of hyenas. This incident caused us to all “break our seals” within the space of ten minutes. Fred went to the gents first and returned with the most bizarre object ever retrieved from a pub’s toilets: a Chlamydia testing kit. The instructions invited the user to piss into the small container provided and mail it to the local health authority. As we had already deposited our urine samples in the usual place and our pints were empty, we decided to leave this odd place behind and return to the icy wilderness of West London. Like a slug with salt poured onto it, Acton slowly and horribly slithers into nothingness. First the shops peter out, then the pubs turn into Polish discos. Female alcoholics with hideous scimitar-like teeth accost you and wail about social services and fellatio. The road becomes a wasteland, fringed by self-storage warehouses and business parks, and soon even the nutters grow scarce, defeated by the raging wind and the fact that the only available public transport terminates at Hayes Bypass. You have reached the heart of West London. You keep walking, reasoning that it can only get better. It doesn’t. You long for human contact, a face in a self-storage window, even a stray roaming nutter, but nothing happens. And then eventually: a pub, windows beaming out into the darkness, the whitewashed Edwardian baroque promising, well, humanity, if nothing else. So you go in, and it’s huge, traditional, wooden, endless table surfaces, old leather sofas, a big bar... and no people. Three blokes who look like pimps hurriedly finish their drinks and leave, and that’s it, you’re the only ones, bombarded by Scooter’s rendition of We Are the Champions echoing into the cavernous void. The Hayes Bypass suddenly seems very exciting indeed. This is what you get for visiting the middle of nowhere. A generic Fullers pub slap bang in the middle of the throbbing heart of Acton. Despite its large size, it sadly only had London Pride and ESB on tap. It could almost be a good pub except it needs more customers. We arrived on a Saturday evening, but were among only a handful of drinkers. After a pleasant chat about football with the diminutive barman, we bagged a seat by the window to observe the thrilling goings on in Acton High Street. We gazed at some tumbleweed being blown down the road by the arctic wind. Eventually three community policemen appeared. They were probably supposed to have been patrolling the South Acton Estate, but had chosen to retreat to the High Street instead. After a couple of minutes even they disappeared leaving the High Street looking like a ghost town. Turning our attentions back inside, we noticed some graffiti on the back of our seat. It read: “Richard 4 Michelle”. Then we noticed some dubious stains lower down on the seat which hinted at Richard and Michelle’s erstwhile amorous activities. This proved to be the catalyst for us to finish our pints and press on down the High Street in search of other human life forms. A solid unpretentious boozer with a stripy-wallpapered interior that is as care-worn as its mature clientele. Whilst its selection of beers will win no awards, it ticks most boxes: big screen sports, a pool table and live Irish music at weekends. The main talking point on our visit to this place (apart from Big Sam’s football punditry), was the gent’s toilets which basked in the glow of several UV lamps. Rather than being installed for the benefit of men wanting to catch a tan whilst taking a piss, these lamps are apparently a deterrent for heroin use. Nice.

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