Bloomsbury pubs

The Bloomsbury Tavern, 236 Shaftesbury Avenue, WC2H 8EG

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The most difficult thing about not being a believer is that you have to give up hell. There's nothing more delicious than mentally condemning someone to an eternity of pain and torture in the flames of the underworld, because they are Wrong and you are Right. Sitting in this pub, I was suddenly pitched into a moment of pseudo-religious self-righteousness in which I felt we should all be dragged down into hell, every man woman and child. Over-population, environmental degradation, human and animal exploitations and genocides; it seemed to me just then that we're all guilty of fiddling with ourselves as the world burns, self-indulgently parcelling out the blame left, right and centre without ever stopping to take responsibility ourselves and do something to stop it. The solutions to our problems are very simple, after all. The will's lacking, that's all. It's no good just to say that this is the way of human nature and we can't do anything about the way we act - that doesn't ever make it right. We all deserve to burn in hell, if only there was one, and that really should be an end to the debate. The last time I felt like this it was caused by the TV show 'Celebrity Sleepover', and I've never watched TV since. The perpetrator this time? As I looked up from my pint across the old and noble avenues of Bloomsbury, I saw a man riding down the street on a Segway Human Transporter. For those fortunate enough to never have heard of this pointless invention, the SHT is a two-wheeled transportation device not dissimilar to a muddled-up scooter, feted by such luminaries as Steve Jobs (who in his role as head of Apple has overseen the production of 'visionary' computers that variously look like boiled sweets, christmas puddings and wads of chewing gum, and that are as about as useful as the aforementioned in the workplace) as being the vehicle that would change human life, and that is apparently impossible to fall off (although that didn't stop George W Bush). This particular SHT was being piloted by a kerazzee man in a suit, looking rather like a more juvenile Timmy Mallet, red tie flapping as he desperately looked all about him to see who was watching him and his mad stunts in quest of a personality. It was a moment so awful that I just wanted the whole world to be swallowed up by the burning realm of the Fallen One. One third of the planet's population do not have adequate clean drinking water and face a constant daily struggle to put enough food on the table, they face class and caste discrimination and cannot afford healthcare or to send their children to school, and meanwhile our friend here scoots through Bloomsbury on his completely pointless $5000 curio, all in order to bolster something he hasn't got and never will have. I know George W Bush is already trying his hardest to bring down Western Civilisation, but I think it's time we all pitched in too. The alternatives - of burning in hell, or dying of embarrassment as the rest of the world laughs on - are just too awful to bear. Oh, and there's the little matter of the pub. It's small, fairly traditional and okay. Not open Sundays. The world should have ended, but hey...

The Boot, 116 Cromer Street, WC1H 8BS

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I suspect that this is the same Boot used as a meeting place by the leading figures of the Gordon Riots, described in Dickens Barnaby Rudge as being in the fields behind Tottenham Court Road, which it certainly would have been back in 1780. Dickens, when he wrote his novel about the riots some 60 years later, would have been familiar with the area, living only several streets further down in Doughty Street. If it is the same pub, it has certainly changed since the riots. Notwithstanding the disappearance of the surrounding fields, the current pub is not the ramshackle dump of the novel, but is housed in a slightly ungainly Regency building, pasted inside with the muted browns and yellows that constitute Mark 1 pub dcor, feeling slightly fake and disappointingly predictable. Rather lacking in insurrectionary firebrand characters at the bar, it is now a rather quiet spot for the locals, including an always-on big screen so the slack-jawed can drool at non-stop sport, a standard range of beers and an unremarkable but satisfying range of food. Its open at weekends, has a few tables outside and can be very pleasant in summer sitting outside watching the world go by, as Cromer Street is one of the quieter thoroughfares in the area.

College Arms, 18 Store Street, WC1E 7DH

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This pub is full of people who wish they were still students and who want to meet students in the hope they will manage to chat them up. Fat chance. The only students in this pub are incredibly rich law students, who will only deign to go out with people even richer than they are.

The Crown, 51 New Oxford St, Bloomsbury, WC1A 1BL

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As everyone knows, since Britain became a 24hr drinking culture the streets of our towns and cities have simply been too dangerous to walk down. Pubs have become nothing more than violence factories, filled with alcohol-crazed "binge drinkers" who have been quaffing unstable alcopop cocktails solidly since the law changed, and who only leave the pub to commit outrageous and random crimes on innocent passers-by. The police are so stretched by the number of alcohol-related incidents happening all the time that they no longer have the spare manpower to shoot innocent people on the Northern Line. The nation is plainly on the verge of collapse, as the Daily Mail so perceptively realised. Imagine my surprise, then, when I dared to leave my electric fence-fortified gated community somewhere in Surrey and entered one of these pits of iniquity, only to find it was full of perfectly normal people behaving perfectly normally while having a quiet drink. There were no fights, no lakes of vomit, no pancreatic explosions or livers seeking to tear themselves from their owners' bodies. Rather suspiciously, everything went on much as it had done before. It even, er, closed at 11pm. This particular gem is an unpretencious Sam Smith's boozer close to Neal Street, the British Museum and Tottenham Court Road station, very traditional in appearance and small enough to foster a real sense of intimacy. No music, TV or any of that nonense, which doubtless means the regulars are free to concentrate on binge drinking themselves into such a state that they become a threat to national security.

The Duke (of York), 7 Roger Street, WC1N 2PB

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At some point in the late nineties, the Yorkness of the Duke got parenthesised and the whole pub had a refit in order to take it upmarket. Hints of the old establishment remain: the art deco mirror and lamp fittings, the piano (now painted red) hidden in one corner, the ancient telephone behind the bar and the dark wooden booths at the front. Everything else has been cleared out, the back redesigned as a restaurant area and the walls painted pink – something which should be a lot more hideous than it in fact proves to be. Iffy monochrome pictures (for sale, because we live in a commodified world where artists railing against commodification need to make a living, don’t you know?) rather spoil the surroundings, but on a nice quiet Saturday the relaxed strains of jazz and the cheerful staff put a gloss over the pub’s various faults. The existence of two real ale pumps is mitigated by no crisps (arsey ‘bar snacks’ such as olives can be purchased at exorbitant prices), and worse, the possibility of purchasing burgers priced at £12-£16, which presumably includes platinum fittings and a barrel of Brent Crude. The impression that this is a pub with ideas above its station was confirmed on my latest visit by the presence of a group outside discussing Ian McEwan’s appearance at the Hay-on-Wye festival. Middlebrow mediocrity has never been so expensive.

The Friend at Hand, 4 Herbrand St, Bloomsbury, WC1N 1HX

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Owing to a bizarre psychogeographic quirk of time and space, it always seems to start raining just as I pass along Herland Street, tempting me into the Friend (so to speak), which as the name suggests, is indeed at hand. Maybe the landlord has done some sort of deal with the devil. Located at the rather unedifying backside of the Hotel Russell, the thing that most recommends this place is that it isn't the hotel bar. As a consequence, it is full of hotel guests who have seen sense and fled that truly hideous establishment for the comfy blandness of the pub. Traditional decor, food, Sky sports, real ales blah blah blah. It's okay, and the location is conveniently close to Russell Square tube, but its nothing to get in a lather about. Of more interest is the building across the road - the Horse Hospital, which used to be a real horse hospital back in the Victorian era, and which still retains many of its original features inside. It is now host to many bizarre events, including "the first Dadaist salon of the 21st Century". On 'happening' nights, a motley bunch of weirdos can be seen hanging about outside in the rain. The last time I was there, they provided far more entertainment than the football on in the pub.

The Jeremy Bentham, 31 University Street, WC1E 6JL

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His head, blackened and mouldy, is stored in a nearby archive. His body, stuffed, sits in a box in UCL, several streets down. Copies of his will adorn the upstairs walls of this truly magnificent pub. Whatever woes Benthamite economics have brought upon the world are almost able to be forgotten within the public house that bears his name. The staff have a long and honourable tradition of excellent service (including, during the last visit, of serving us and accepting payment through the dumb waiter) and the outside seating seems to be used, rather insanely, all the year round.

The Lamb, 94 Lamb's Conduit Street, WC1N 3LZ

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The watering-hole of Virginia and Leonard Woolf, amongst others. Now mostly colonised by drunken doctors escaping from meetings at the British Medical Association just down the road, plus a couple of completely unreasonable and very rich Manchester United fans. Still a pub with a good atmosphere, despite this, with snob windows still present about the bar for that interesting seven pint effect of trying to amputate your nose whilst ordering beer...

London Pub, 44 Woburn Place, WC1H 0JZ

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No! Stop! This is for tourists and business people only. Turn back at the door and walk the other way. The bizarrely named London Pub (is there only one? What have I been reviewing all these years?) is a Frankenstein creation of The Imperial Hotel, from the outside all cheap smoked glass and from the inside more traditional than John Major doing a Morris dance. A trip to London Pub can be a truly harrowing experience, crushed up between Hank from Dittsville talking about Scotchland while drinking his Authentic Bitter and Roger and Brian from Rank Procurement discussing photocopiers. The Office meets Alan Partridge on a National Lampoon Vacation.

The Lord John Russell, 91 Marchmont Street, WC1N 1AL

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Windows. Lots of windows. A pub to watch the world go by. Good food and good beer. Nothing more to say, really.

The Marlborough, 36 Torrington Place, WC1E 7HJ

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Like a plastic surgery-enhanced famous actress, this ones appealing from the outside, but thats exactly where you should leave it. Large windows, well-maintained window boxes and outside tables all build up the suggestion that this pub is going to be a corker, only for the reality to fall sadly short. Constantly packed, with all the tables taken, huge queues at the bar and inept bar staff to boot, this pub then insults further by charging prices that are consistently more expensive than anywhere else in the region. A honey trap for wealthy/foolish UCL students and unwary tourists, this is the sort of place that gives London pubs a bad name. Avoid.

The Marquis of Cornwallis, 31 Marchmont Street, WC1N 1AP

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Reverting to the name from its spit 'n' sawdust past, this ex-Goose has tried to emerge in splendid grandeur from its golden egg. A total refit has seen mock-Edwardian wooden panelling adorn the walls, natty little lamps spring up like mushrooms after rain and prices skyrocket in order to fit in with the newly gentrified/homogenised Brunswick Centre across the road. It attempts to come over all aristocratic, but looks more like the furniture section in Harrods. Posh students rather than posties seem to be its primary market, and in they swarm, smoking like chimneys and posing like statues, obviously feeling it fits in nicely with their aspirational world. An excellent range of real ales kept me mollified, and the barstaff are very friendly, although as yet serving with all the speed of a glacier, and with rather impenetrable accents ("yoo vant doobellorsingal wodka?"). A better array of tables would help solve its impending seating crisis (seeming to come only in one size - large - the tables are then occupied by two sets of couples, glaring icily at each other and pretending to be waiting for 15 friends in the hope of driving the other couple off), and the music ranged from silly to simply horrendous, but it wasn't overly intrusive, and didn't really detract from what proved to be a mostly enjoyable experience. Does posh food. Gets very, very crowded.

The Mortimer Arms, 174 Tottenham Court Road, W1P 9LG

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Long thin bar with silly high tables at the front, usually populated by lost tourists sheltering from the rain. A more relaxed and traditional pub feel at the back. Some real ales. Popular with UCL medical postgrads.

The Museum Tavern, 49 Great Russell Street, WC1B 3BA

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Sitting opposite the main entrance to the British Museum, I didn't expect too much from this. It has a suspiciously olde worlde look about it: mottled glass and an abundance of hanging foliage, signs extorting its traditional pub food (at traditional tourist-fleecing prices) and outside tables that get used even in winter. It had always seemed to be nothing more than a giant Tourist Trap; in they would go and their pockets would be emptied for a half of flaccid John Smith's and a radioactive baby cod smothered in undercooked batter, served up with all the panache of the Eastbourne Conservative Club. I was wrong. While the food is indeed pricy, the drinks aren't so bad and they have a range of Belgian bottled beer for the more choosy amongst us. The decoration inside is splendidly baroque and not half as fake-plastic-Victoriana as I had feared. Sitting there listening to the quiet hum of about twenty different languages being spoken around me, I realised that I was actually enjoying myself.

The Museum Wine Bar, Grange White Hall Hotel, 2-5 Montague Street, Russell Square, WC1B 5BP

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Despite the heroic pretence of independence given by the sign outside, the bar is quite clearly a creature of the hotel whose basement it squats in. Too-bright lighting, uniformed staff and a big bunch of hotel guests winding down for the evening give the game away. It has that slightly bland, out-of-focus, profoundly inoffensive interior decoration so loved by hotels the world over, a sort of gone-to-seed luxury that hints dreamily of lost grandeur and 1930s bohemian living, but only delivers the spiritual equivalent of a cucumber sandwich. On the positive side, the wines weren't spectacularly pricey, tasted okay, and there was a wide range of fried nibbles to chomp over. On the negative side, after loudly defending science fiction novels against all-comers, we were approached by a diminutive, stressed looking woman who declared: "Well I'm a science fiction writer and I've got only three things to say to you: Isaac Asimov, Frank Herbert and Philip K Dick." Then she spun on her heels and, without waiting for any sort of reply from her nonplussed audience, marched smartly out, quivering with righteous rage. Our jaws flapped lamely in the air-conditioned breeze.

The Norfolk Arms, 28 Leigh St, WC1H 9EP

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In a fascinating semantic shift, the previously trendy strapline of "pub and kitchen" has now been replaced - too passe, darlings - by "public house and restaurant", as exclusively trailblazed by this disastrous makeover. The endearingly tatty interior has been halfway replaced with a gruesome combination of white tables and fancy chairs, while the gastro intentions of the new owners are announced by a big sign informing the world that they now take bookings. This new policy of foodie exclusivity seems to have struck a chord with a new crowd, mostly of the going-downhill-fast-but-with-money variety, plus a few painful trendy Arts Council grant-getting gastronomes. Another pub lost to the Dark Side.

Onyx Bar, 91 Gray's Inn Road, WC1X 8TX

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Combining the look of Pink Floyd’s 1960s Highgate flat with the feel of an airport platinum lounge, the Onyx bar scales Himalayan heights of retro-exclusive crapness. Featuring a giant shiny bar and Comfy Power Sofas, the stage is set for anyone in a suit to relive the tedious power onanism of the late 1980s. An apostrophe catastrophe on the outside boards somewhat ruins its attempt at sophistication.

The Perseverance, 63 Lamb's Conduit Street, WC1N 3NB

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This used to be the worst pub on the planet, in both of its hideous incarnations as fake Irish theme pubs, with the sort of atmosphere that could suck the life out of a stag night from ten paces. A lot has changed. Gone is the ridiculous Wombles-style accretion of junk, to be replaced by a solid, middle of the road boozer look that just reeks of, er, booze. People actually go there now, too, which is a major improvement. It also, apparently, serves very good food... An atmosphere that was once lunar now hums with pleasant discourse... A bit of a winner...

The Plough, 27 Museum Street, WC1A 1LH

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Rough and ready boozer, spartanly decorated, very dark inside. Cheap food, usual drinks, cheerful bar staff. Sky sports, music. Popular in summer.

The Queen's Larder, 1 Queen's Square, WC1N 3AR

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Nestling on the edge of Queen's Square, the Queen's Larder is small but perfectly formed (so to speak). Upstairs is a reputedly good restaurant, downstairs is the tiniest of public bars, with room for a smattering of tables and not much else. Convivial, intimate and always packed, this perfect Georgian-period pub has everything apart from enough room. There are seats outside should you not be able to squeeze in (although they're usually full too - even in winter).

The Rugby Tavern, 19 Great James St, WC1N 3ES

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Funny how so few pubs are named over anything to do with football. At least I thought so for a bit, as I sat in this delightful boozer watching solicitors natter over saucy cases. We have Cricketers Arms, Rugby Taverns (this one with a enormous picture of a rugby ball on its sign, in case we didn't get the connection) and Faltering Fullbacks, but no Midfielder's Metatarsal, Boot and Eyebrow or Striker's Bottom. Then I wondered who would go into a pub named after a football connection. Certainly the nattering solicitors would not be seen in the Howling Hooligan or the Tedious Back Pass, so maybe it's better the way things are. I overcame my deep prejudice against rugby to enter this place, and was impressed with the calm, relaxed atmosphere, relatively smoke free, TV and games machines purring away in the background. Usual red comfy decor etc. In the summer, a large spray of tables cover the extensive forecourt, and these are actually enjoyable to sit at, there being little in the way of traffic down Great James Street. It does food, and a range of decent bitters as well as the usual additives in a glass that pass for corporate lager. Not open Sundays.

The Swan, 7 Cosmo Place, WC1N 3AP

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Cosmo Place is an attractive little street just off Southampton Row, with a selection of eateries, antiques shops, two pubs and a bar. The Swan is the runt of the litter, a nondescript acceptable boozer that usually has free tables due to the immense popularity of the other pub, The Queen's Larder. The Swan boasted a huge range of traditional ales "for St George's Day", all but two of which were off (very English, that). I ordered one of the survivors, only to be told that was off too. Oh. Well, I'll be entering the treacly hallucinogenic world of Old Peculiar, then. I don't think it was just the weird beer, but the bar staff were very friendly and the whole place rattled along cheerfully enough. I came back several hours later with the various diverse elements that make up my Hindi class (long story), who seemed most impressed, describing it as being fairly smoke-free and not too noisy (the faintest of praise, I know, but they did like it). So, er, a bit of a winner for those group situations where everyone's from different places and social classes. It seems to be a particular knack some anonymous pubs have.

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