When I was 18, I worked in the Compton Arms, a backstreet pub in Islington that boasted one of the borough’s cheapest pints (£2.80 if memory serves) and a host of regulars straight out of central casting.
Among the daily drinkers was a local tour guide who told me how George Orwell, who lived around the corner in the Forties, used the Compton as the model for the perfect pub in The Moon Under Water, his 1946 essay first published in this paper.
I like to think the ‘Barmaid of the Year’ certificate presented to me by another local with a laminating machine and time on his hands showed we were at least living up to Orwell’s requirement that “barmaids know the customers by name and take an interest in everyone”.
I learned a lot in the few months I worked there: formulas for making all sorts of esoteric beer-based mixed drinks; that the scariest gangsters drank the sugariest drinks; and that the best pubs function as de facto community centres.
The Compton is less of a classic boozer nowadays (it briefly served London’s most fashionable burger) but it remains beloved by many — except for four new neighbours, who have complained the pub is a public nuisance and a health risk. Islington Council is now reviewing its licence.
I’ve always thought that if you move in near a pub you must know what you’re getting yourself into.
But in London’s overheated property market the prevailing attitude seems to be that if you’ve paid enough for your home you shouldn’t be afflicted by a single discomfort or irritation.
Out come the lawyers’ letters, down go the shutters.
In fairness to the complainants, all four apparently moved in during the quiet of lockdown. But that’s mere months out of the Compton’s two centuries of existence. Islington has lost a quarter of its pubs since 2020.
This isn’t about young people having fun (although that’s a perfectly worthy end).
Pubs create communities for everyone who lives nearby, not just those who’ve paid the most.