Eleven days after turning 45, I sent my first ever letter of complaint to the council. A real coming of (middle) age. The topic of my complaint? My local pub.
I followed the British protocol for complaining – I made it clear I’m ‘dismayed’ and ‘appalled’ and hope people can ‘see sense’ – about an issue that has instilled such rage in me that a stiff drink is required. You see, my local, the Compton Arms in Islington, north London, is under threat of closure.
This is no ordinary pub. Tucked away from the busy stretch of Upper Street, on a picture-perfect back road, is an establishment that has been serving the public since the 16th century, open near continuously since the 1800s. We can blame Hitler for the fact that it has been denied National Heritage status, thanks to a 1944 bomb destroying slightly too much of the original exterior.
These households have no right to call last orders on centuries of history, on people’s incomes and careers
When George Orwell described the perfect pub in his 1946 essay ‘The Moon under Water’, the Compton Arms, which he visited regularly, was his muse. He described a spot small enough and ‘always quiet enough’ to talk, where ‘you can get a good, solid lunch’. Still accurate, almost 80 years later.
Orwell’s perfect pub was also ‘uncompromisingly Victorian’ and free from ‘modern miseries’. Tick. Its Dickensian windows, its understated decor of cream walls and wooden floors… the Compton Arms has a no-fuss, authentic aesthetic. It’s a pub with a diverse clientele, so typical of London boozers, and representative of the community in which it sits. Staff are friendly, efficient and embarrassingly attentive when your companion happens to have four legs, not two.
But the Compton Arms could soon be consigned to the history books. Four neighbouring households, having grown used to a more tranquil setting during Covid times, aren’t relishing the return of us locals – the people who give this pub its purpose and personality. They’ve successfully obtained a licence review, having pieced together a few claims around the pub being a public nuisance and a threat to health. Which, as a regular, seems an almighty stretch.
Perhaps a more accurate take on things is that these four households simply decided they don’t like living next to a pub any more. It’s a bit rich given they presumably had no issues buying homes next to a pub in the first place. It’s a bit rich, too, that their chosen course of action is to attempt to close it down, rather than, well, move. It smacks of entitlement – which, let’s face it, is synonymous with being a bit rich these days.
It’s frustrating because pubs are already endangered. On average, three per day are closing their doors for good in Britain. This is despite the fact that every pub injects around £100,000 into its local community, and nationally pubs employ more than 600,000 people, according to the British Beer and Pub Association. For generations, they have played a vital role, culturally, economically and socially. Pubs are a leveller, where people from all walks of life cross paths. Orwell wrote of regulars who ‘go there for conversation as much as for the beer’, and pubs are a lifeline for the isolated, particularly the elderly, who may be wholly reliant on popping into their local for connection and conversation.
But I’m even more irked at this particular flex of privilege: the bitter efforts of a few posh types wanting to deprive the local community of a pub it loves, so that little Rupert can sleep with the window open and fewer (electric) cabs pull up to safely get women home. Some might say this is gentrification – the new order of things in inner city areas, along with farmers’ markets, barista culture and brunch spots replacing greasy spoon caffs. But I don’t accept that. Community dynamics shift as a result of the many, not the will of a few.
These households have no right to call last orders on centuries of history, on people’s incomes and careers, on a community’s fierce loyalty to a much-loved local. We can only hope that Islington Council sees sense. Pints on me, if it does.
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