YOUNG thrill-seeking drinkers, bored with gentrified gastropubs, are seeking out old-fashioned drinkeries that serve pints flavoured with intimidation and danger.
Twentysomethings are flocking to council estate pubs with clear windows, hostile regulars and barstaff that regard attempting to pay using a phone as a practical joke gone too far.
Jack Browne said: “Guinness drinking games are too mainstream. The new cool is hanging out down The Viking and braving f**ked-off looks from locals.
“I’ve already heard someone snort ‘posh wanker’ for ordering a pint of Landlord as ‘a Timmy T’, after which an ancient regular working as a self-appointed bouncer accosted me to ask ‘what the f**k I was playing at. It’s great.”
Friend Oli O’Connor agreed: “The carpets have been covered in blood and piss since the 1940s and there’s no music. Not in a Wetherspoons way, I think more because they all already have pounding rhythms going on from their throbbing forehead veins.
“Still, you have to admire them for being wild wreckheads at their age. They’re like zombies wanting to pull me limb from limb, which is well within the rules at places like this. I’ll have what they’re having!”
Landlady Carolyn Ryan says: “These types, with their signet rings and their f**king hair, we hate them. But their cash isn’t ironic.
“At least they’re already coked up when they get here, knowing the facilities are reserved for regulars only. But we’d all rather they just pissed off back to Surrey or a Greene King.”
