The Manor Arms, 13 Mitcham Lane

Now under new management As the RPF team head towards the giant concrete slug that is Streatham station, I realise that we haven't encountered a single decent pub since beginning our ascent of Brixton Hill. The Manor Arms proves to be no exception. Appearing to be some sort of overgrown council house, and as appealing to the eye as Bruce Forsythe in a leotard, we nevertheless dust off the fog of car fumes and general bitterness and enter SW16's equivalent of the Last Chance Saloon. Almost collapsing over a field of pool tables, I look up and find we have entered a large shed full of blokes, most of whom are busy standing around being Geezers. We purchase several pints of nasty yellowy stuff and sit in a far corner, listening to the wind howl across the bleak vista. The atmosphere soon has its effect on us: first we start arguing, then Doogal leaves. I go to the loo, and when I come back Paul is slumped over the table, head in hands, moaning to himself. It could have been me, I suppose, but like all megalomaniacs I prefer to think it was the pub's fault. It has a TV screen and may do food, but as there's a train station nearby it might be better to make use of that.

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