My local is 115 miles away from my house. I’ve been working away since September, only on-site every other week, but when I’m in Walsall, after I’ve had my tea (a few decent curry houses, a surprisingly good chicken burger in a sports bar or, forgive me, ‘Spoons tea) I walk up the hill to the Fountain.
For all sorts of reasons, I’ve never had a local in London. The pub at the end of our road is shit, a “hostel” of sorts, five lagers of doom and a clientele to match. There are no other pubs in walking distance.
Twenty years ago, we terrorised the pubs of Soho/Fitzrovia, never settling on one as we flaneured around town. Now it’s hard enough to get four people out on a Friday, scattered to the wind as we are.
But here, on a Tuesday night, the soft burbling of 6music from a small radio on the bar, the wargamers in the corner on a break between slightly too loud rants, Sid the cat pacing around, making sure everything is OK, a pint of local cask, fresh on, the Dolphin feels like home.
I sit in the corner and don’t really bother anyone, although I did correct someone on what a Half Man Half Biscuit song is called earlier. I recognise a few faces now and get a few nods and “y’alrights”.
It’s a two room pub although there’s not that much difference between the snug and the public. The snug’s only slightly smaller but it does have carpet. The bar serves both sides, half a dozen handpulls, usually mainly pale n hoppy (because if you want brown beer, there are several Black Country Ale pubs in town[1]). There’s a couple of crafty kegs and some decent bag in box cider, often Little Pomona. The fridge has some Belgians and cans from Track and Beak.
Everyone here is Just Nice, conversations about people’s days and lives and music and games and a little bit of politics but usually not too much (need to be slightly careful with one lad, seems to mention Things He’s Seen On YouTube a bit much) and it’s ok to drop in when you’ve got something to say and there’s a gap in the chat. I can sit on my phone and pick up bits of conversation. Never brought a book, but I’m sure it’d be fine.
First time I walked in, there was a Spoken Word thing happening in the public, seems to be sporadic, rather than regular. The second time I happened upon it, despite being sat in the other side, the whole pub went silent as a lad told a Proper Shaggy Dog Story (with very good Mick and Keef impressions), the punchline of which (after 8-10 minutes) was “The Rolling Stones gather no Moss” and the groans could be heard down the street.
My local is 115 miles from my house and I’ll be a bit sad when this contract ends…
[1] Went to the Pretty Bricks once, nice enough bouzer, but I was the youngest person in by a distance. Maybe it’s just a midweek thing.