Soho pubs

Pillar of the gay community in Soho, spilling out to take over most of Compton Street in the summer, it seems to have lost some of its kudos recently to the nearby rising stars of Comptons and the Duke of Wellington. Wireless internet. Terrifically inviting exterior, with light blazing out through the extensive windows and the full array of alcohol behind the large, imposing bar twinkling like a temple of booze. On entrance, the whole place proves to be far more prosaic, boasting the usual flotsam left over from the Victorian era, plus the dark woodstain trying to tilt the decor towards the right side of the Authentic Pub Experience. Greene King ales help smooth over the cracks, although the fairly anonymous workie crowd rather deaden the fun factor. A small screen showed the football, but no-one really seemed interested. Dubious looking, with one of those brown-tiled exteriors that remind me of a Victorian WC and whisper of old men inside choking to death on a pint of bitter. The interior, too, is heroically down-at-heel, a Spartan arrangement consisting of various shades of brown decoration, some brown wood tables and some red seats slowly turning brown. Orange-shaded lights cast garish shadows over a world that has clearly forgotten that it is no longer 1973. In corners, some old men are indeed choking over their pints of bitter. As I sip my brown-coloured beer I watch a surprisingly lively clientele cavort in front of the bar like a bad superimposition of the future shown in an old film. I can almost see the blue border surrounding them. This pub must surely soon become a victim to the horrors of modernisation but, for now, it's about the best pub in Soho As I sit drinking my pint I can't help but notice the steady stream of people entering the tapas bar across the road. The prices in this seemingly popular establishment are enough to make any Spaniard board the next plane to Madrid, yet this place draws the local office workers like bees to a honeypot. Why? It seems that once our salaries have crossed some invisible threshold a trip to the pub is somehow no longer good enough as it does not represent our social standing. As Brits we bemoan the loss of our national identity in the face of the growing global marketplace, yet we fail to realise that pubs are a valuable British institution. Some of us harbour a belief that just because something is foreign, it is therefore by association exotic and must be better than what we already have. These same people would rather pay twenty quid for a glass of wine and a plate of ham than sit in a pub even though the same thing in Spain would be a fraction of the price. Now I am no stranger to tapas bars, but using them as a replacement to the pub is wrong on many levels.

Having got that lot off my chest, what about the pub I am sitting in? Well, it ticks all the boxes. The traditional decor engenders an atmosphere of relaxed familiarity. They serve a pleasing selection of traditional pub fayre plus a decent array of wines and beers. All of this can be enjoyed in the main bar or upstairs should the mood take you. On fine days you can sit outside and watch West Soho walking by. In spite of the competition this solid boozer attracts its fair share of people and deservedly so. You can make big mistakes with pubs in Soho. Every so often, I'm forced to meet people here. It's small, expensive and feels like it's in the wrong town. Don't go. About ten paces down the road is the infinitely superior Dog and Duck Apparently the name means "meeting place" in Gaelic, and what finer place to meet than a Nicholsons pub that retains much of its original Victorian charm. This establishment attracts a rich mix of clientele from office workers to bemused looking tourists and everything in between; although this is hardly surprising given that it's just behind the Liberty department store. There is decent pub grub on offer together with a pleasing selection of beers to wash it all down with. Despite the fact that prices are a little on the high side it would be harsh to hold it against the management, besides you could do a lot worse around here. Not THE Coach and Horses, as I find after 30 mins listening to new media babble and hoary old tales from the building trade. But it should be. Battered and well-loved, with a tiny ground floor host to lively conversations and an unexplored upper region that seemed to be preferred by trendy folk. The staff are friendly, the views of passers-by and media goings-on unparalleled, food and decent beer provided. An unexpected hit Very disappointing. Wildly over-priced, this is the abode of people with literary pretensions and smooth young things exuding blandness. And mad old women. Hideous orangey decor, this only survives due to an illustrious past The whole idea of capitalism is to sell the consumer crap for as much as it can get away with. Oddly, over a certain price, people start buying more of something, even though it's still crap. Take houses. 10 years ago, when a pile of rubble in Canning Town went for the price of a packet of crisps, nobody cared. But now the same pile of rubble is worth over ten times the average national wage, everybody wants one. The same goes for pubs. The most dismal pub selling only slops, or the fed-back waste from the urinals, would go down a storm as long as it was damn expensive. Exclusive, in fact. The more shite and expensive they are, the more packed out they get. This one's heaving on a Friday night I stumbled upon this pub after collecting my tickets for the theatre across the road and myself and friends were looking for somewhere reasonably priced to eat. We were drawn in by the traditional English menu and seemingly fair prices. Oh how we were fooled.

It was very smokey and unfriendly instantly, the bar staff spoke between themselves in another language I did not recognise, which I found very rude, whilst trying to place an order. My friend requested half a pint of lager and we were given a pint and then told it was basically tough as they could not put it as wastage.

Hoping things would improve we went up to the dining room. We had ordered 2 x steak and Ale pie and one Scampi and looking forward to receiving them. The upstairs bar was closed at this point. It soon got busy as more theatre goers stumbled upon it in the same manner. People who ordered sandwiches were served before us and I was shocked to see both of these separate customers send them back. One got a refund and left and the other excepted a replacement.

When our meals arrived they were cold. It felt like they had been left out on the side for ages after being heated up in a microwave. The pie had been drowned in hot gravy to try and digiuse this but it did not work. The pie was so hard no one could cut through it. I hate complaining and this is the only time in my life I have asked for a refund and left.

The bar lady screamed down the stairs at what I can only presume was the chef and said I would need to go and wait downstairs for a refund. I sent my friends along to get a table at Harry Ramsdens. The senior bar lady downstairs said I would have to wait for her manager. I waited. I waited. She stood around for about 10 minutes and then seemingly changed her mind about the manager thing. She gave me a refund and literally slammed the money into my hand after asking why I was not willing to wait for it to be re-heated! I left feeling so angry and would never go back to this so called establishment. Cheerful triangular pub just off Piccadilly Circus. It would be difficult to find anywhere less pretensious: there's a bar, some tables, a juke box, a TV and that's about it. Standard unfussy decor sets the mood nicely, and the bar staff are invariably a happy and welcoming bunch. The small downstairs can get rather crowded, but there's an upstairs room as well that's good for big groups (but that is completely basic - no TV, no music, no bar or anything. Just... tables and chairs. The beer puritan in me strongly approves of this). Considering how close it is to the Trocadero et al, it's refreshingly idiot-free. Good selection of beers, does food and shows most sporting events in the downstairs area. Crowded, lively, interestingly cramped. Dangerous-looking wedge-shaped seats. Slightly odd, cheerful So crowded that I’ve never actually been inside, except to visit the bar. Does French stuff (Breton cider and, er, Kronenbourg) and refuses to sell pints. A potentially poisonous mix of tourists, arty types and English Ultramontaines (or should that be Ultrameres?) occasionally works well, and occasionally doesn’t. Hideous. People seem to fling themselves into its overpriced, overrated maw in the same way lemmings fling themselves over cliffs. The vacuous meeja talk inside generates enough hot air to replace the Gulf Stream, which may be useful when the dreaded day of its failure finally dawns. Intriguing pub lurking just off the heart of Soho. Usually none too crowded (a definite plus for the area), well-endowed with local characters, a strange low-level table arrangement and a basement bar that seems permanently booked out by about-to-fail Dot com firms. It's Samuel Smith's beer only, so don't expect good stout. Not reviewed yet.

Want to review it? Dreadful TV sports pub full of shouty people who somehow fell off Oxford Street. Avoid. I don't know whether the name of this pub is related to the nineteenth century epidemiologist Dr John Snow, who lived for a while in nearby Frith Street, but I suspect it is. With outbreaks of cholera throughout the mid part of the century, it was a lively time to be an epidemiologist, and I was rather disappointed not to find any enormous pictures of bacteria or the like on the walls to commemorate his work. This is, however, an extremely cheery pub, rather smaller downstairs than one would have expected from the venerable exterior, but with a colossal and very attractive upstairs to make up for it. The decoration is a fairly standard dark wood and floorboards type affair, rather dark and intimate (on the ground floor at least) and probably not too useful for big groups. Any music is played quietly, and mostly the pub hums to the sound of gentle chatter. No TV and I'm not sure they do food at the moment, and pints come served in those irritating long glasses, the width of half-pint glasses but twice as long, that always feel like they are about to break if picked up wrongly, but all these are minor quibbles. It really is a quiet, enjoyable establishment, with a particularly friendly barman employed at present. Almost unbelievably ordinary pub perched just down from the hideous Glassblower. Nice upstairs, usually rented out for parties, and a lot of tourists looking dazedly for authentic London (tip: try the nearest Slug and Lettuce). Sort of wooden, red furnishings, normal beer and wine. Seats usually available. Does food. For a whole better time try the Glasshouse Stores 20 metres down the road on Brewer Street. I thought this was a Wetherspoons at first, but I was wrong. Sure, it shares a few similarities: good and reasonably priced beer and cheap microwaved food, but the likeness stops there. The décor is rather confused: faux traditional meets 1950s working man's café. The bar area looks like it should belong in a canteen. The only thing missing are the formica tables. Big windows opening out into the street give the place a pleasantly light and airy atmosphere, and you can watch the fashionistas wander past. A good place to meet before moving onto somewhere else. It looked nice from the outside, painted rich red with gold gothic lettering, and a spherical glowing lampshade in the window that resembled the future earth after the radical inaction of the Bali Treaty. The inside (of the pub, not the earth) was filled with flapping transients attempting to amuse themselves with the lyrical delights of Newcastle vs Fulham on Albanian TV. The Nellie Dean's standout feature is a vertiginous stairway that sadly doesn't lead to heaven, but rather to a fetid piss-swamp masquerading as the gentlemen's loos, toilets which, moreover, weren't even full of gentlemen, but rather a solitary nutter bashing his head against the wall. Well, it's better than Fulham vs Newcastle. Not a coffee house, although I had laboured under the misapprehension that it was for years. It is, in fact, a pretty laid back and fun establishment in the northern part of Soho. A decent scattering of tables, mirrors, cluttered walls, decent barstaff and some colourful locals make for a good place to meet This place is proof that the beloved traditional pub still exists in Soho. It exudes character, not in an artificial “ye olde” way – no; instead it has a more genuine understated charm that is difficult to find in London these days. Tobacco-stained walls (minus the carcinogenic smog) and an interior that is heavy on wood enhance the experience. The pub attracts a mixed crowd of punters, but doesn’t seem to get as rammed as some of the other local pubs, which is a blessing because this place is small. As you walk in there are a few tables near the door, some stools by the bar and a further collection of tables at the back. Does a few good ales and traditional pub grub. There are few streets less kingly than Kingly Street, which in anatomical terms would be the colonic irrigation pipe attached to the backside of the fake Tudor monster that is Liberty's. A dingy row predominantly consisting of tradesman's entrances, a decent blues bar and the occasional nightclub for the rich and famous, the Red Lion swims into view rather like an apparition of somewhere else completely. It is, in the way of all Sam Smiths pubs, completely and solidly traditional, eschewing music and TV screens in favour of decent beer and conversations. Quite a hit with lost tourists (one of whom, on my last visit, though he was on Regent Street) and escapees from the blues bar when the music goes bad, it's a vibrant if somewhat architecturally undistinguished place. No late licence, no beer other than Sam Smiths own. The Royal George both is and isn’t in Soho, being the only thing at the end of a blind alley off Charing Cross Road, and I suspect the year-round Christmas lights strung across its front act in a sort of candle-flame-for-moths manner, luring the unwary down a cul-de-sac they wouldn’t otherwise touch with a bargepole. Ordinarily, I can categorise a pub in one swift glance, but there’s something bizarrely uncategorisable about the Royal George, an odd and slightly unruly atmosphere to the place. Inside it looks like a trendy cocktail bar after a fight, with a disordered slew of tables, random seating (high stools, low stools, chairs, sofas), stray lines of fairy lights and coloured lightbulbs that made half the clientele look like they were morphing into the Mekon. And then there’s the clientele itself, a strange mixture of feral Australians, tourists, well-heeled shoppers and Astoria escapees (big boots, big goatees and military-style hooded tops), plus a drunken man accusing everyone of being students and trying to demand he only pay a pound for his drink (it didn’t work). Has a late licence, occasionally inflicts DJs upon the unwary, does real ales, fancy lagers, food and general oddness on tap. It claims to be on Great Marlborough Street but in fact it sits on the corner of this street and Carnaby Street. For this reason I had feared this might be the worst pub in the world ever. Carnaby Street may have been cool 40 years ago but now it seems to be full of confused tourists trying to find a trendy shop. But I'd already walked past two packed pubs trying to find somewhere quiet to sit for an hour to read the paper whilst waiting for my other half. So I ventured in to The Shakespeare's Head. I guess the fact it isn't full on a Thursday night perhaps indicates a problem with the place, but I thought it was pretty reasonable. The interior was scruffy but pleasant enough, the atmosphere was relaxed and there were four bitters available. There were seats and something I haven't seen in a long while, a jukebox, which was at an audible but not tinnitus-inducing volume. Given its location and the travesty of Ye Olde England pub it could have become, this has to get a thumbs up. Intimate, comfortable, gorgeously mellow on a Sunday, and thankfully always devoid of TV and other distractions. Spare dcor, mostly just wood and a few pictures on the walls, the pub has booths and little rooms all connected together in an interesting fashion. My favourite pub in Soho. Very crowded on a Friday and Saturday night, but well worth it, so get in early Immortalised in Born Slippy by Underworld - "I just come out of The Ship, talking to the most blonde I ever met, Shouting lager lager lager lager" It's only after I seat myself under the stairs that I realise they're held together by gaffer tape. Ignoring my impending demise I stare around me at what must be the antithesis to everthing that's trendy in Soho. A combination of the beautiful wooden decor behind the bar and the aforementioned gaffer tape seem to hold the pub together, as everything else is patently disintegrating - walls, carpets, barstaff, punters. There's not much in the way of tables (which is why I'm under the stairs), and those that do exist hug tight to the battered yellow walls. Charlotte Church articles torn out from the nation's favourite red-top hang above the bar, as do some cutlasses and a pair of miniature hoodlums (who are not quite in the same weirdness league as the tiny singing twins in 'Godzilla vs Mothra' but you can't have everything.) The Alternative 80s - you know it: heavy rock, indie, guitars, miserabilism - never died, it just moved in here. Shabby, uncomplicated, cheap, fun. It shows the rest of Soho up for the onanistic nonsense it truly is. This pub is so old-style that is still has those frilly net curtain things in the windows, to protect the innocent outside from witnessing the horrors of drinking. Anyone who's seen the state of the Fulham Slug and Lettuce at 10.30 on a Saturday night will know that such a policy can only be a good thing. Hidden on one of Soho's quieter streets, this is a classy joint straight out of a Derek Raymond novel: just one tiny room covered floor-to-ceiling with wooden panelling, boasting friendly bar staff and some regulars who appear to have been mouldering in the corner since the time of the Roman invasions. Pricey, smoky, and the tables have usually all been nabbed several hours ago, but definitely dwelling in the highest sphere of Soho pubs. Quaint, olde-worlde sort of place, all fake Tudor outside and fantasy Victorian inside. Delightfully laid back of a daytime, but very busy at night. The sort of place to take friends on their first visit to London, if they happen to be hung up on that whole Dickens thing. Has a tradition of serving very good food and a number of real ales. Small but perfectly formed, this Barbara Windsor of pubs gets pretty crowded but is well worth a visit if you can find a perch. For me, the walk down Berwick Street, past all the market stalls, the record shops and dodgy DVD emporia pretty much sums Soho up. Crossing further down onto Rupert Street involves following Berwick Street into a quintessential Soho alley rammed with sex shops, peep shows and, once upon a time, the now-sadly-demised Raymond Revue Bar. Languishing beyond the dance clubs and the clothes stalls, close to Shaftesbury Avenue, I didn't expect much from the White Horse, suspecting it would be either a crass tourist trap or revoltingly hip'n'happening. In the event, it's neither, being instead a fairly rough and ready Sam Smith's joint, traditional in appearance, no music, telly etc, with a fairly decent crowd and a formidable barman. High in the league of Soho pubs. Much like Charlie's Angels (although with less physical charm) I occasionally get strange messages telling me to go somewhere and do something. "Go to a happening bar just off Carnaby Street" this one ordered, so I kicked a tunnel through the wall of union flag-bedecked tourists and whole-chip-swallowing pigeons until I found it. The combination of the words Bar, Carnaby and Street bothered me somewhat, in the same way Uzbekistan, prison and trip would, but I had a mission and so I plunged in. Happily, the experience veered towards the pleasant end of the spectrum. The upstairs was a relaxed and intimate space, with tables for small groups to sit around while being clever and attractive and all of that. Downstairs is the party animal zone, with huge lines of tables for big groups, and lots of blokes in shirts variously lurking around or falling over the tables, and women standing by pillars listening to mobile phones with anxious expressions on their faces. The whole place seems to be permanently reserved for birthday celebrations, so don't expect to find a seat otherwise, and if you reserve a table you must buy a £30 bottle of champagne, which rather reminds me of the sharper practices of the strip joints down the road. Decked out in red paint and wooden panelling, it's all very trendy and exciting to look at, and the bar staff were unfailingly friendly. Good cocktails made up for the expensive beer and iffy wine selection, and the food was excellent. After too many glasses of the champagne (which no-one else liked) and an enthusiastic assault on a third bottle of wine, I found myself grooving away to the okay-ish music on the dancefloor. Packed to the gullets and full of unstable drunken oafs like myself, a few altercations happened as some inebriated fellow or other would collapse into the wrong circle of shuffling fools, and with the benefit of the next day's Sobervision (tm) the whole scene probably resembled a bunch of disorientated pensioners trying to stand upright on a speeding bus. At the time, however, we thought we were great. Then at midnight the music suddenly stopped, our magical disguises fell off and we were forced to go home by Central Line pumpkin to clean the cinders out of the fire (or in my case, stamp on the ants infesting the living room). The strange message I received was right: this is indeed a happening place. But best save it until you have a birthday to celebrate, otherwise the cost in champagne could get a little trying.

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