Jeremy Clarke
Already a subscriber? Log in
The Black Lion would probably be more to Orwell’s liking when there isn’t a match on. Quieter. Regulars on stools holding quiet conversations. Lamb chops on the menu. Tom engrossed in his Racing Post. Fathers dropping their lads off next door at the West Ham Boys Amateur Boxing Club and popping in for a swift half. That’s my guess. But I only see it on match days when it’s pandemonium.
The last time I was there, about six months ago, I added to the pandemonium by lying on the floor, apparently, and ‘pretending’ to have an epileptic fit. It was the culmination of a drunken, attention-seeking performance, and I was slung out. That’s what I heard, anyway. I don’t even remember being there.
Six months is a long time. When I reappeared at the Black Lion last week, I assumed the episode, even if they remembered it, was now something we could laugh about. It’s a famous old East End pub, for crying out loud. There’s probably no type of bad or insane behaviour that they haven’t seen a million times before.
As I walked in, the first person I saw was Mary, the barmaid-in-chief. She was out collecting glasses. She was there that night. She’d seen it. ‘Hallo, Mary,’ I said.
The sight of me stopped her dead in her tracks. In today’s paper there’s a story about a Vietnamese woman who got seafood poisoning so badly her face aged 50 years in a matter of days. She went from being a 23-year-old beauty to a wizened old woman. As I looked at it, Mary’s face visibly aged almost as dramatically.
She’s a lovely, kind, funny, big-hearted woman is Mary. The biggest and best part of her wanted to make a joke about it and welcome me back, I could see that. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do it and she looked down at the floor, ashamed of herself. Her reaction shook me more than any bollocking.
Tom also seemed to remember it as if it were yesterday. He wasn’t laughing either. He looked embarrassed for the both of us. ‘I don’t remember a thing, Tom,’ I said, rounding off an apology. ‘You weren’t a pretty sight, that’s for certain,’ he said.
George Orwell wouldn’t have seen the funny side either. The thing he most liked about the Moon Under Water was that no drunks or ‘rowdies’ found their way there because it was on a side street. But the thing that would turn our hero finally and irrevocably against my favourite pub, more even than people standing on his toes, would be the smoking ban. He’d probably leave his pint of Shunter’s Pole unfinished on the bar and dart off home to write a polemic about the death of English liberty.
Also in Society
Also by Jeremy Clarke
Latest
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in