I knew there was a pub around here somewhere. Bit of a maze these backstreets, well off the main roads. Should have been the first seeds of doubt perhaps, who's sustaining this place when it's so well hidden? I'd looked on Streetview so I knew it was there. It looked perfectly pleasant. Few wooden benches scattered out the front. No clear brewery/Pubco signs, no Sky Sports banners. Couldn't tell much else about it except what it wasn't; a Spoons or Greene King sticky tabled shithole, a Hungry Horse. So all positives.
We approached from the side, so it only dawned on me slowly. The St George's flag was enormous. It was pretty much the same size as the entire fucking pub. It's true that my our visit coincided with England playing football in the women's Euros, but something told me that the two were unrelated.
Each corner of the cross contained an extra message, as if the ten by five metre England flag wasn't conveying it's meaning clearly enough. One corner contained the image of a poppy.I'm sure the Royal British Legion would be proud. An international symbol for the recognition of the horrors of war and the displaced and slaughtered in the name of glory. The incomprehensible suffering of those affected by conflict, and those who died as a direct result of the hubris of others who would never face judgement. Another corner of the flag contained the words "ENGLISH AND PROUD"
All caps. Bold. The font was Impact. It worked.
The content of the other two corners is lost to time I'm afraid. I could check very easily, but that would entail a return visit, which I am keen to avoid. I think it might have been something like this:
I intend to drill down into this in subsequent missives, but it's my belief that you can step into a pub and instantly know if it's a place for you. It's highly subjective of course, but decor, layout, drink selection, ambience, music, fellow clientele, staff all play their part, whether you notice or not. The Palmerston had an enormous red (and white) flag hanging above its front door, so I can't pretend I was looking favourably upon its central truth.
There was a jukebox, but unfortunately it was linked to an online database of songs, which is obviously a complete fucking disaster because there's no opportunity for quality control. There are several tellys showing a mixture of sports. The commentary is on which is clashing horribly with the jukebox, currently clogged up with the most repulsive high tempo electronic algorithmic sounds that are intolerable to anyone who might have considered themselves to have even the most passing interest in music.
The bartender invites us to order. His accent is unusual. It superficially sounds Irish, and yet is unlike any Irish accent I've ever heard (excepting Brad Pitt in Snatch). I'm unable to pinpoint it, but it's certainly not from the Occupied Territories. This makes the exterior decor decisions of the pub quite perplexing to me, but ours is not to reason why.
There is no cask ale. Thank fuck. My immediate impressions of the pub leads me to conclude that any cask ale would be of dubious provenance and questionable condition. Twiggy, with overtones of Sarson's. Lagers from international corporations are the order of the day. My drinking companion orders a half of something pretending to be Spanish or Italian, but we all know full well is made in a massive industrial unit in the English Midlands. I order an Aspall's cider. Yes, I know it's going to be far too sweet for me, but at least there will be some semblance of a flavour. Also, and I stand to be corrected here, but I believe that Aspall's is at least made with unadulterated apple juice rather than concentrate and water, unlike the 'cider' found in most pubs.
I notice that prices are reasonable for this part of the world, though I failed to take these down in my notes.
As service is being made I examine the interior. It's not dire. For the most part it's functional, a bit rough around the edges (though there's nothing wrong with that per se) but pretty clean. The grey flags for me are several of those awful tacky wooden signs behind the bar with painted phrases like "Free beer tomorrow" or some shit about a "Hubby daycare service."
"Rules of the pub:
1) The bartender is always right
2) If the bartender is wrong, see rule 1"
That sort of shit. The sort of shit that might have caused a half smile when first read ten years ago, but is now only amusing or interesting to the mentally enfeebled. ENGLISH AND PROUD.
The beer garden is deserted, despite the glorious weather. Chelsea are playing someone, in a football match certain to go down in history as one of the many football matches. There's plenty of seating out here, some of it covered, but it's really quite barren. I'm glad of the grass growing in the gaps in the the crazy paving, it's the only greenery in this massive wasteland. It's unrealistic to expect National Trust levels of horticulture, but can this really be called a beer garden? A beer yard maybe? A beer desert? An open air beer cell? Beery Guantanamo?
I'm enormously glad there are no outdoor speakers however. Mercifully, it is reasonably peaceful.
The scant clientele are engrossed in the football. We leave them to it. A return visit is not on the cards, which is the shame as pubs in the middle of terraced streets usually have potential for creating a good atmosphere. It wasn't evident at The Palmerston. Regardless of how proud you are of your Englishness and the rights and wrongs of that, wearing it on the front of your pub in unavoidable and unambiguous fashion is guaranteed to make some people feel unwelcome.
A pub can't please everyone, and it's pointless to try. But it shouldn't piss you off before you've even walked in the door.
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