The Landor, London SW9

Mozz is buying a house. Correction, Mozz is trying to buy a house but no bugger wants to sell theirs unless it’s too small, too big, too decrepit or too far away. But on the upside, after another wasted viewing in Stockwell yesterday evening we traipsed up to Landor Road, collecting our friend Neville from his much coveted house en route and mulled the housing market over a few pints in The Landor.
The Landor is legendary in this popular and over populated corner of London.

Until recently it was famous for holding pool tournaments, a legacy hung on to by its own website but I’ve always known it as a good, local (not actually local to anywhere I’ve yet lived, but it’s got the homely feel of a local about it) theatre pub.

Thing is, The Landor’s one of those pubs that I rate highly before I go, higher still after I’ve been, but never actually think about what happens inbetween. When I do, which I have just now, a less convincing picture emerges. The 6X was musty and sort of lethargic, as if it couldn’t really be arsed, the IPA we moved on to was at the end of the barrel and disappointing, although not disastrous or to merit complaint, finally the London Pride was fine really, which is just what it always is.

We were hungry, so Neville had a tuna baguette which did its job adequately, and Mozz and I both had fish & chips with salad: why oh why would you ever serve fish & chips without mushy peas? It’s like roast beef without Yorkshire pudding, or spaghetti Bolognese without parmesan, or Top Gear without Richard Hammond. Utterly senseless. Fortunately for the chef, Neville had distracted me by asking about my favourite topic (me) so by the time I realised the fish wasn’t a fish at all but a mashed, flattened and fried tennis shoe, I’d finished it.

It’s a smoky pub as well, which is partly my fault (enjoying it whilst I can ‘til the July ban which incidentally I’m hugely in favour of) so I probably can’t complain, but I sympathised with Neville, Mozz and the Kencoes, a young married couple who had something to do with me finding Mozz, who live around the corner and joined us later on.

So, variable beer, barely edible food and too smoky… but still a pub that attracts regulars on every level; locals with nothing better to do who have their own bar stool, locals who work 10 hour days and come in for pint and a laugh with their mates every other week or so, less local Londoners who make the trip to see something at the theatre (I did once, it was awful. But generally there’s some good stuff) and even less local provincial folk who pay a visit when in town to remember life before babies and a two hour commute.

If you can forgive its faults (and remember, to forgive is to be happy), you really can’t fault the place.

However, last night truly local drinks were required to end the evening, so after three pints and enough banter, we hopped on the Northern line to Balham…