The Top 5 London dating venues (for drinkers)

London is a drunk’s city and most arguably dating is a drunk’s game. My father once explained to me that the difference between a heavy drinker and hobo is that the drinker sleeps with many more women. My father is now dead and previous to this he was divorced many times. But his life has never stopped me from following his advice.

When Yogo Dating offered me the commission to review London’s 5 best dating venues I really hoped that I would turn it down. However, being a drunk does not leave a man with much in the way of options or cash, so I reluctantly leapt at the chance.

To save on evenings I decided to review all the venues in one go and for company I found Julie Carr, another heavy drinker, albeit one who lives in deep denial. I had first met her at a wine tasting evening about a month ago and she seemed to fit the profile of a good date. She possessed an adequate enough job and income to keep her respectable (and pay for most of my drinks) and I figured that she looked at me with enough enthusiasm to make my night optimistic.

The Rocket – Euston Road

One drink is one pound in the Rocket. Amazing, I thought. It was clear that Julie thought this too as she nailed a reef between gin and tonics.

Rocket is your standard “horrible” pub with horrible people and horrible music. In a way the place is curiosity of physics. The beautifully young middle class students and the disgustingly middle aged working class can stand, dance and breathe in the same space without ever really interacting.

The music is nothing but vile although involuntarily my hip begins to vibrate in time with the noise. Julie starts chatting about Ireland and my mind comfortably slips into neutral. I wrinkle my nose as I try not to inhale the sweat.

The Lord Moon of the Mall – Whitehall

I begin to think again as a cold wind slaps my face, descending the steps of a 23 bus outside Trafalgar Square. The Lord of the Moon is probably the finest Weatherspoon’s Pub in the UK, being that perfect combination of deep, oaken and warm. As I strolled through the door and down the bar, pint glasses seem to clink rhythmically with my feet. The effect is hypnotic and deeply irritating, and for a time I long for some bubblegum pop to drown out the “atmosphere”.

I wait at the bar for a pair of ciders and Julie slides her arm around my waist. I turn around and for the first time take in her face – her mug is oval and vaguely pretty although the ripple of gut under her breasts makes me think of better days (hers, rather than mine, you understand).

We finish our drinks and move outside to share a cigarette. Glancing back inside, through windows I see lines of grimacing old men, slowly boozing a smile onto the surface of their lined faces.

The Cheshire Cheese – The Strand

The first time that I walked in the Cheese, I basically loved it. There is something deeply enjoyable about exploring these cavernous rooms lined with excitable young people drinking on uncomfortable wooden benches.

Julie fetches another round whilst I admire the barn which is the Cheese’s main room. The women look attractive and poor and I begin to grin like a simpleton at the child-like Goth girl sitting at the corner table. Julie clocks me and promptly pushes a lager into my chest, staining my shirt. As she turns away to stare at the bar, I dumbly stare at her skull, attempting to calculate if this is at all worth it. Deciding it probably isn’t, I lean around her side and kiss the edge of her mouth. The last tequila consumed belches through my nose and I momentarily feel that I will suffocate.

The Audley – Mayfair

A fine pub. Suited men loiter on the pavement outside smoking Marlboro Lights. The Landlord slumps around the bar and seems about as drunk as myself, although he handles it much better. I smile as I order two double rum-and-cokes. I grimace as I scrape the final £3 from my pocket and add-up my shortfall. I smile doubly hard as Julie sweetly pulls out a ten pound note from her purse and hands it over the bar.

This is an excellent pub for a date – cosy and tidy, with a hundred little booths in which to cram myself with the Irish Girl. Nausea is beginning to bubble in my stomach and, as we sit down, I am forced to overextend a kiss to distract from my glazed eyes and slurred speech. Julie’s slight squirm gives me the impression that she is not quit enjoying it, although I choose to pretend otherwise. My stomach continues to bubble.

The Carpenters Arms – somewhere nearby

Poor toilets in the Carpenters and my urine drenched knees are experiencing the worst. Parts of my stomach are in the bowl and mind is thinking of the distance between me and my bedroom. My body shakes as I stand and attempt to spin my trousers back-to-front – not a perfect solution but one that should successfully hide the stains for the 20 minutes or so it takes to coax Julie back to my flat.

I stumble up the stairs and see her slouched in a booth, staring at the football highlights. A common attraction to both the venue and Julie is their dedication to sports. Stumbling a little more, I move across the pub and stand next to her, gently swaying. She folds a £20 note into my palm and pushes me towards the bar while my sodden jeans sickly stick to my calves.

The bar in the Carpenters is as good a bar as an old man could find in Central London. It serves Ale, Lager and Spirits. No wine and no passable food. Pride of place in the room is given to a pie oven lined up symmetrically with a dusty jar of picked onions. On the other hand, the barman is a cunt and a fool.

We begin to quarrel about his inability to count change, the quality of his rancid beer and then finally the stench of my jeans. I think that I may have thrown a punch – I deeply suspect this, as I now have a bleeding lip and have fallen onto the floor. Remembering that humility is the first rule of drinking heavily, I scramble up and apologise profusely. Although, I find that I’m speaking to no-one – the barman has turned away and I seem to be completely ignored.

Picking up our pints I spin back to Julie – keen to return to those now, immensely comforting hips and pleasing face. Her chair is empty and the reason sadly dawns on me as I see her exiting the pub, giggling with the Landlord’s son. My mind proposes that I give chase, but another wave of vomit hits my throat and my feet drag me back down the stairs. Back to the floor next the toilet – to where I most likely belong.