The House, Dartmouth Park, N19

I spotted the ‘traditional ales' sign on the wall outside so I thought that I would brave it, even after noticing the graceful way that masking tape had been applied to the many smashed windows. The two members of the underclass standing at the entrance under the ‘no drugs on these premises' sign were discussing the finer points of estate life whilst slinging back their pints of Stella, but a knowing nod gained me access. Once I had passed these sagacious gatekeepers I found myself in a bankrupt house clearance storage facility were the bailiffs had been in and taken everything except the most ramshackle furniture and the pool table, presumably as it would not squeeze through the escape route. There was a distant stereo playing some Madness, but the acoustics were desperate and I can only compare them to a hastily organised 13th birthday party in the local scout hut. As I reached the bar I realised that I had been hoodwinked by the sign outside as there were no ‘traditional ales' only standard draught. I opted for a half of Guinness and once this was procured I slipped out the side door into the bricked beer garden. It was here that I noticed that this pub is slap bang in the middle of a large group of Camden estates and a large group of Islington estates. This was when I finally decided to make a hasty retreat as the sun would only be in the sky for another half an hour or so before the locals arose from their pits and converged upon my position. This pub serves to keep the feckless scum that pollute the towns and cities of England away from me, my family and my friends – ALL HAIL THE NEW BRUNSWICK – and may her clientele spend many a long hour drinking in her.