Prince William Henry, 218 Blackfriars Rd

Named, rather oddly, after a minor 18th century royal who couldn’t keep his trousers on, rather than a physical fusion between the two regal issues in line for the throne that are currently wasting air. Housed in a modern building of no consequence, the pub has suffered from a series of refits that, rather like a faulty airlock on a spacecraft, threaten to suck the life out of it. The whole interior has all gone a bit Laurence Llewelyn Bowen, marrying clear modern lines with slightly gothic furniture, resulting in the empty, lifeless feel of a Canary Wharf luxury apartment that wants to be a Mayfair mansion. A bevy of sulky barmaids work on their pouts behind the counter, like fish kissing the glass of a goldfish bowl in desperation to get out, while the posse of Important Suits that pass for clientele squawk and strut their stuff out on the rather weird acre of wooden decking to the front of the pub. A decent range of food, plus Young’s ales, pushes the whole place just into credit, but there are far better boozing holes in the immediate vicinity. The pub, like the rather sordid and silly prince it is named after, must do better.

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