Scampi Fries, a fruit machine and Guinness: Tom Parker Bowles on the perfect pub

Picture the perfect pub. No, not George Orwell’s Moon Under Water, although I’m all for ‘atmosphere’, a ‘good fire burning in at least two of the rooms,’ and draught stout. Oh, and that ‘snack counter, where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches, cheese, pickles and those large biscuits with caraway seeds in them which only seem to exist in public-houses.’

I’d add a couple of decent draught ales, and proper cider too; a ragtag of regulars, with whom you are on nodding, rather than chatting, terms; a fruity; and a quiz machine, which provides the soundtrack (the ONLY soundtrack). If there’s room, a pool table wouldn’t go amiss.

Then crisps. Obviously. Never those bastard Kettle chips, but the ready salted/cheese and onion/salt and vinegar triumvirate, as well as Scampi Fries, the king of fish flavoured snacks, and pork scratchings and pickled eggs (for dropping into the crisp packet). A plate of ham and cheese rolls, sat under a Perspex dome, is another necessity. What I don’t want in my local pub is a full-blown restaurant with a wine list, waiting staff, and a reservations list longer than ten yards of ale.

That’s not to say that I don’t appreciate (and, in many cases, adore) the modern gastropub, despite the term being stretched until it snaps. The Eagle (the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning, if not the End), The Sportsman, The Guinea Grill, and The French House are all places I’d happily while away a few hours. Along with enough Arms (Parker’s, Bell, Fordwich, Castle, Bridge, Gunton, and Harwood) to kit out an octopus. And sufficient Inns (Bell, Longs, Star) to ensure there’s always room for any passing virgins, carpenters, and babies. Add in excellent London newcomers like The Princess Royal, The Pelican, and The Tamil Prince, the gastropub is in very fine fettle indeed.

But the presence of a bar, however long and sinuous, does not necessarily mean the place is a pub. Anyway, I tend to go to all the above during normal eating hours, rather than the endless lost afternoons, early evenings and late nights that make real pubs so essential to the wellbeing of the nation. And certainly don’t expect battalions of lovingly crafted real ales, glasses with handles, artisan coffee, locally sourced snacks, snugs, or Tudor beaming of great architectural merit. Give me The Chatsworth, in Shameless, over any number of thatched Cotswold beauties. Serve me Bloody Marys with the slimmest slice of lemon, that reek of cheap vodka and an excess of Worcestershire sauce; Schweppes tonic and Gordon’s gin; J20 juice and flat Pepsi on the gun; a concrete-clad view; an ancient, rusting ‘marital aid’ dispenser in the loo; the slightly metallic reek of old spilt beer.

The old-fashioned boozer is an endangered beast. Pub numbers in England and Wales, according to a recent survey, have fallen to their lowest level on record, with 200 shutting down in the first half of this year alone. It was double that in 2021. Yes, these are trying times for the entire hospitality sector – Covid, Brexit, the energy crisis, and ever-rising inflation has led to a chronic shortage of staff, increased costs and decreased spending. We must work to preserve.

The tale of one of my most beloved locals, let’s call it The Cock and Bottle, is a typical one. Run by Richard, a no-nonsense ex-RUC Ulsterman, who lived upstairs with his wife, it was filled with a mixture of die-hard locals (woe betide the neophyte who sat on Jeremy’s stool), louche toffs, professional topers, market stall holders grabbing a quick lunch time pint, and the odd, bewildered tourist. The carpets were a sticky, psychedelic swirl, the interior clad in gloomy wood, and decorated with chocolate box prints and faux Victorian fittings. In winter, there was a scorching coal fire. London Pride and Landlord were on tap, as well as Aspall’s, Strongbow, Guinness, Carling, and Heineken. Tayto crisps were the snack of choice. On Fridays, Richard’s wife would make a salt beef sandwich of West London legend. Oh, and to ensure the fellas didn’t linger too long out back, there was no loo seat in the Gents. God we loved that place.

Then, one day, Richard left, and the Cock was taken over. The bathrooms had a face lift, the carpets torn up and replaced with something tasteful. Next thing we knew, there was a wine list, a fully-fledged menu and a whole new crowd, worryingly well dressed. We, along with the other regulars, slipped off quietly into the night.

My new local is The Keep, just off Brook Green. The Guinness is taken seriously, there’s a lively outdoor terrace, and the landlord, Damian, is as diligent, loquacious and Irish as you could ever wish. A pint usually comes with a free shot of Jameson’s.

There is, of course, a place for both pub and its gastro cousin. But for those of us who occasionally just want a drink – from the swift half to the more extended session – we need the old-fashioned, unkept version. Not only is the pub a place for a drink, but a community hub, gossip repository, refuge for the weary: the pub is Britain’s true secular church.

Sometimes I’ve had my fill of craft ales and barrel-aged negronis, red prawn crudos, and 40-day aged steaks. And only thing I really, really crave, is two pints of lager and a packet of crisps. Please.

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