The King's Arms, 25 Roupell St

There really is no better street in London. Hemmed in at one end by a railway line and a tower block, and at the other by a cluster of mid-rise offices, walking down the weirdly named Roupell Street feels like taking a trip into a parallel, Hollywood-fantasy Victorian world. It is so classically, quintessentially London that it's almost a cliche: a long, low row of dirty-bricked terraced houses eyeball-to-eyeball across a narrow road, iron-wrought street lamps dotting an uneven pavement. The commuters hurrying to waterloo station seem anachronistic, and I instead expect to see Dickensian characters, tramps and sweeps and top-hatted gents strolling the streets instead. It's a wonderful place for a pub, and fittingly enough, the King's Arms is a wonderful pub for the place. Boasting two separate bars (one narrow, but with a TV, and the other more expansive, with views along the street) and further room out back for food and functions, there's always a lively crowd of locals and workers alike. Kitted out in the traditional wood panelling, old photos and array of different-sized tables, it acts out the part expected of it by the rest of the street. It's usually possible to find a seat in one bar or the other in order to sit back and enjoy the atmosphere. Everything is so film-set unreal that I'm still expecting a soot-blackened Dick van Dyke to pop in one day, unleash a barrage of fake Cockney at me, do a little jig and then open his umbrella and fly off over the rooftops.

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