You know, this place reminds me of the pubs I'd visit, in the 1970s, in the company of my Grandad, then a publican in the Rhondda Valley, South Wales. Pretty much all pubs looked like this to me back then as a wide-eyed kid allowed a peek into a hallowed inner sanctum of adult male life. patterned carpet, spartan furniture of the square-section metal variety, and wooden panels everywhere. It does look like nothing's changed since the 70s - except that now they use blu-tac to hold the notices up, and the TV screens are a bit flatter.

From the outside, it's easy to write it off as a dive, but I feel refreshed after so many CBD concept bars. This is a true locals' pub. Sure, it's scruffy. Sure, they don't stick a slice of lime in the neck of your bottle. Sure, you can't get a rocket salad for love nor money. But if that's what you're looking for, you wouldn't be here anyway.

It was 4pm on St. Patrick's day when we arrived, The Surrey Club being the new designated halfway point between pubguide HQ and the abode of pubguide contributor Trent Edwards. There were about three people in. It was like a breath of fresh air. Having just seen the overflow from the Trinity, I was rather relieved not to have to fight for a beer. Oh, and if you appreciate the, um, 'female form' the decor may well appeal to you. I'll leave you to find out for yourself.


review by: pubguide staff