The Clockhouse, 82 Leather Lane

Everything about this pub looks normal, especially when viewed from along Leather Lane on a market day, its traditional Georgian facade obscured by endless rows of pants flapping in the breeze. Upon entering, this normality seems effortlessly maintained. Lots of wooden furnishings? Check. Pissed market traders? Check. Hand-pulled real ales? Check. TV showing golf, racing and Kazakhstani lower-league football? Check. Completely traditional decor, with not a hint of poncey modernity or wobbly twigs? Check. Ceiling? Er, er, oh my God. I look up, and catch me somewhere overhead looking confusedly down at me. I take another look. Yup - I'm up there, hanging upside down above myself, along with the whole pub, vertiginously hovering rather in the manner of a Vogon space ship. And then it sinks in. This pub has a glass ceiling. That's right. A traditional boozer with a glass ceiling, simple as that, no explanation needed. It means that, just like aged, rich Lotharios the world over, when they lean back in a silk dressing gown, turn up the smooth jazz and wait for their trophy wives to slip into something more comfortable, in this pub you too can live out your playboy/playgirl fantasies, stretch out, stare at your beer belly winking back at you from the ceiling and think with pleasure how gorgeous, expensive and sophisticated you are. I suppose you could even try making love on the bar-top in a 1980s soft-porn style while watching yourself, but you might get yourself thrown out. Quite what mind-bending psychedelic drugs the landlord was on when he came up with this one can, sadly, only be a topic for wild speculation.

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