The Prince George, 40 Parkholme Road

The pub sits halfway down a pleasant leafy road in Dalston and occupies an attractive early Victorian building. The walk from the nearest station had been longer than expected but it seemed worth it once we drew nearer to the pub. We came across the quintessentially English scene of people drinking outside on a pleasant summer evening. Our friends had already bagged a table and all seemed well. Inside, the pub had a large square bar offering some ales (Pride, HSB, Adnams and Seafarer), Czech lager, a range of wines and spirits including a selection of malt whiskies. Even the staff were friendly and attentive. It was not until we had bought our first drinks and returned to our table that we realised that everybody else in the pub was white, under thirty and had failed to look in the mirror before they had gone out. The worst specimen managed to combine lycra trousers, a chunky woollen sweater, a bushy beard and a Bavarian hat into a look that, even after heavy drug-use, Gok Wan couldn't have styled. These people probably think they look trendy, but trust me, raiding your Granddad's wardrobe and wearing cast-offs that even a charity shop can't sell is not a good look. Most of these people seemed to be using the pub as a kind of pre-club bar before heading to some dodgy night club on Kingsland Road. Which, I am reliably informed, is where people who cannot afford to go out in Shoreditch head to these days. It is possible that you could get away with looking like this in one of those darkened nightclubs on the basis that nobody can see how much like a twat you look. By this stage I had become acutely aware of the burning sensation on the top of my head. It was then I realised I was sitting under a heat lamp, which despite the fact it was June, had been turned on full blast. I have got a bit of an issue with heat lamps anyway as they are bad for the environment. Not only was the ozone layer melting above us, the hairs on my head were threatening to singe, leaving me with a hairstyle like Friar Tuck. This place could be a great pub were it not for the clientele who are seriously annoying. Just as they were leaving to parade in front of each other in some dive, we headed off to fill ourselves with some excellent Turkish barbecued fayre.

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