Matthew B.
Yelp
The Phene Arms was, for years, a London institution. It featured frequently in Evening Standard cartoons. Famously, it was George Best's local when he lived in nearby Oakley Street. If it was a good enough boozer for George it should be good enough for anyone. I hadn't been there for years and had fond memories of the velvet banquettes, interesting urinals, excellent beer offer, the interesting, eclectic mix of city boys, artists and local drunks, and was looking forward to seeing how things had been updated.
As Marlon Brando says in Apocalypse Now, " The horror, the horror". I suspect he had the new Phene in mind.
It's hard to know where to start. But let's start with the decor. To paraphrase Churchill, "Never in the field of human hostelry has so much been spent by so few to achieve so little." Clearly, they have gone for a look of unbridled luxury. Clearly they have failed. It might look OK in a Parisian rent-boy's lair, but in a London pub? Nah...
The people? The women are the sort of anorexic shopping ladies who glare at you as they sourly prod a lone pea around their plates. They will, invariably be accompanied by a man in a blazer with red cords, swilling a large glass of red and droning on. And on. To lower the average age (and, incidentally, IQ), someone has hired a load of floppy-haired hoorays. No-one is having any sort of fun. Including you.
Drinks? You're joking, aren't you? Pint of Pride - from a fucking keg! - served ice fucking cold? Four quid, please. Thanks for that.
The garden's all right, if you can avoid the people. But here's a better idea. Why don't you take your hard-earned money and go down the road to the ever-excellent Cross Keys, or the Pig's Ear. Real boozers, run by real people for real people.