Spitalfields pubs

The Archers, 42 Osborn Street, E1 6TD

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Small, traditional boozer located at the bottom end of Brick Lane, serving a mixed bag of locals, tourists and the eternally thirst pre-curry crowd. In marked contrast to the heaving, trendy twentysomething hideousness of the Vibe Bar and 93 Feet East just further up the road, The Archers keeps things modest, serving a standard range of drinks and bar snacks in a pretty unreconstructed, endearingly shabby environment. The TV seems to never be switched off, and yammers away in the background, but outside of big football matches it is fairly easy to ignore, and the atmosphere is never less than laid back and genial. Closes late on Fridays and Saturdays, and really takes off after hours, with a lively crowd and plenty of loud music.

The Commercial Tavern, 142-144 Commercial Street, E1 6NU

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Commercial Street marks the boundary between the ever-expanding retail opportunities of the City – witness the redeveloped Spitalfields Market with its generic bars and eateries – and what used to be known as part of the East End, an area successively occupied by dyers and tanners, Huguenots, Eastern European Jews, Bangladeshis and now, slowly driving the Bangladeshi community out of the more desirable parts of the area, a new breed of incomer – Young British Artists. Known for their zany hairstyles and anything goes attitude, Young British Artists can be spotted from afar by the heavy burden of irony they carry, leading to slumped shoulders and a bowed gait. Of all the pubs in the area, the YBA influence can be felt most heavily in the Commercial Tavern. So po-mo it’s amazing Derrida hasn’t resurrected himself just to write about it, the Commercial Tavern, with its granddad beer glasses, faux-naïve soundtrack and Popeye cartoons on the walls, is all about the trash of meaning: stating, more or less, that, because we know everything is going to fail, why bother with anything grandiose, interesting or challenging in the first place? Far more comforting to reject the uncertain and conflicting moralities of the world outside and regress to an infantilised state, to the Freudian anal fixation and the shit, all the while laughing at yourself for doing so. Anyone wishing to see why British art, like British drama and literature, is the void that it is, could do a lot worse than stopping off here for a quick granddad’s mug of ale.

The Golden Heart, 110 Commercial Street, E1 6LZ

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A small pub with some very peculiar regulars, including the security guard who reels off thousands of hopeless jokes before telling inane lies about Jack the Ripper, and how he used to sit in a chair by the corner. Another pub with no conception of closing time, which is just fine as far as we are concerned. By far the best drinking hole in its vicinity.

The Gun, 54 Brushfield Street, E1 6AG

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Right on the City borders, its placing encourages a strange mix of human beings, suits and the more colourful aspects of market life (it's next to Spitalfields market) to cram in here almost all nights of the week. Lovely barstaff, cracking food, a decent location and punters in astonishing outfits making bizarre conversation lead this pub to be, despite the crowds, a real winner. It has lots of guns on the walls, ceiling and carpet too

The Pride of Spitalfields, 3 Heneage Street, E1 5LJ

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Time warp! I was only seven when the 1970s imploded in a brown hairy haze, so the only 70s London pubs I know are the one's I've seen either on TV (most notably in 'The Sweeney') or in films (Hitchcock's 'Frenzy', Carry On films, 'Withnail and I' etc). What I deduced from these was that 1970s pubs were full of old people, market traders and off-duty policemen drinking bitter that smelled of old socks. Pubs were Not Glamorous, they weren't fun, it was just part of life, like having to eat or go to the toilet. As soon as I stepped through the door of 'The Pride of Spitalfields' I knew I'd found a portal through time, and more specifically, back to 1976. Old people, market traders and off-duty policemen squeezed themselves in huge family groups about the tables, while the less stout and more mad stood by the bar, staring at ranks of bitter that very probably smelled of old socks, if anything could be smelled above the WMD-style toxic fog of cigar and cigarette smoke rolling voluptuously across the bar. Everything was brown and defiantly Not Glamorous, everyone seemed to know each other, sinister elevations of Hawksmoor's scary nearby church leered from the walls in lieu of decorations. Young people tried to get to the bar and were rebuffed by a sturdy crowd of tweed jacket-wearing regulars. Once I got served, I found a table in the brown wooden annexe, and was immediately hemmed in by a huge crowd of cheery, gregarious regulars who seemed to swallow up the entire volume of the room. I seemed to slip further into the 70s as free roast potatoes were dished up to every table, and suddenly I was lost in a dizzy free-fall of images: meat and two veg, oil crisis, glam-rock, hairy sideboards, On The Buses, 'ooh missus' smut, Robin Asquith and Sid James. My only way out was to stare at the TV, which by some device was transmitting pictures from the future. I discovered with horror that in 2004 we would not be wearing silver shoulder pads and driving floating cars, no cellophane monsters had yet attacked the moon, we would still be in the middle of an oil crisis and America would once again be involved in a dodgy war somewhere on the other side of the globe. It looked rubbish. I think I'll stay in 1976.

The Ten Bells, 84 Commercial St, E1 6LY

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This pub is famous not only for being the haunt of the victims of the Whitechapel Murders but also for rather luridly having changed its name in the 1980s to 'the Jack the Ripper'. Very subtle. Now back under its original name, and no longer host to 'exotic dancers', it has a burgeoning reputation as a groovy hangout amongst East London trendies and City Suits alike. Stripped completely to basics (bar, floorboards, tables) it still sports some original tiling, grubby ancient wallpaper and on the stairs to the loos some filth-smeared lithographs of the 'Police News' at the time of the 1888 killings (otherwise I found the lack of references to the Ripper to be commendable, enhancing the reputation of this as a working pub as opposed to a tourist-rammed museum piece). Choice music - and not overly loud - rolled out of the speakers, and to my surprise the whole place was relaxed, friendly and quite enjoyable.

The Water Poet, 9-11 Folgate Street, E1 6BX

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This one is cunningly hidden amongst the neo-Georgian houses between Liverpool Street and Spitalfields Market. The name alludes to the rather avant garde entertainment occasionally on offer here. While the main bar area throngs with a mixture of suits, people trying to be trendy (and failing) and a collection of ordinary Joes and Janes, the ample sized pool room was full of blokes taking the game rather too seriously. The beer is as eclectic as the clientele: Adnam's Broadside, Kronenbourg White and San Miguel are all on tap. This coupled with friendly staff and the secluded location make this a good choice on any Spitalfields pub crawl.

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