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Coach & Horses, Carshalton


I have always looked favourably upon pubs with glazed tiles affixed to the frontage. I assume that there was a time in the mid twentieth century that they were all ripped off and replaced with pebble-dash, and those few pubs that retained them were completely stubborn and wanted to retain a bit of their history and their culture and their truth.

 In a lot of ways, I was wrong. The tiles were just popular with some breweries as a way of signifying their ownership. Not being remotely familiar with London I didn't realise that a pub plastered with beautiful glossy forest green tiles was not a signifier that the establishment was the last bastion against either gentrification and seven percent NEIPAs or soulless corporate PubCo hell holes serving microwave CTM. I've been informed subsequently that green tiles are a signifier of a Young's pub, though this may be incorrect. The gentleman informing me of this also maintained that a metal band around his wrist had cured his chronic rheumatoid arthritis, and that Barrack Obama founded ISIS.


Anyway, I tend to avoid Young's pubs. I generally try my hardest to avoid any brewery owned pubs to be honest, but there is a ranking system in place. It goes something like:

  •  Joules (this is an outlier, I would happily visit any Joules pub)
  • Sam Smith's (Humphrey might be an absolute helmet, but I like the beer and I love the pubs)
  • Fullers
  • Nicholson's
  • Young's
  • Marston's (what the fuck is going on by the way with putting ale into kegs and trying to flog it as real ale? This needs a foul-mouthed follow-up)
  • PubCos like Stonegate etc would be down here, but it's often difficult to tell which one you're in
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  • Greene King
  • Felinfoel

 

I don't think the Coach & Horses is a Young's pub any more, if it ever was. They had Bath Gem on cask, so highly unlikely. I think it would probably be most useful to carry out this pub review in an itemised fashion, reflecting exactly the chain of events of my visit. But the second thing I will note, after the tiles, is the abundance of Help For Heroes bunting in the window.

 I walk towards the entrance on Carshalton High Street. As I cross the threshold my eardrums are bombarded by the most utterly repugnant electronic music that an algorithm can possibly excrete, and it's far louder than anybody could reasonably desire upon an afternoon.

I proceed in the direction of the bar. To my left, a group of shaven headed males are discussing the issues of the day, but must compete with the PA

"FACK! FACKIN FACK! FACKIN FACKIN FACK! FACKIN FACK! FACK THAT FACK! FACKIN FACKIN FACKIN FUCK FUCKER! FUCKIN CANT!"

By complete coincidence, an entirely identical conversation is taking place to my right.

Several televisions are on. For what reason is unclear.

The bar has three handpulls. Two are Bath Gem, a fine ale. The other is blank. Presumably only one cask is connected, why bother with two pump clips?

By the way, I haven't broken step since coming through the door. I continue to the right, around the bar to check if there are any further ale offerings. There are not, happily. Imagine if I had been ambushed by a cask of Sarah Hughes Dark Ruby Mild? I might have felt a liminal pang of temptation to stay! Perish the thought.

The bartender is queuing more songs on the playlist. I continue walking. There is another door.

I exit the pub onto a busy road and breath an enormous sigh of relief/diesel fumes. The acid fug of the exhausts is bliss compared to that utter pile of dire shite. I go to a nicer pub, which wasn't fucking hard.

If you think that you cannot possibly give a thorough review to a pub that you've only been in for less than fifteen seconds, pay a visit yourself. You will either come to your senses or FACK YOU FACKIN FACK FACKER FACKIN CANT!!!

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