Reviewing bars, I get to visit all sorts. From the sublime - The Connaught whose twenty quid killer martinis I'd never have afforded as a student, to The Flowerpot in Kentish Town whose £2 Sambuca shots, I could have, had I ever actually wanted to. On balance, even back in those impecunious days, I’d probably have elected to neck neat turps with the local bums than frequent what is essentially a retread of grungy, junior muso joint, Bullet. Bleach? Mr Muscle? Whatever they swab the place down with, it smells like a spotty-rashy, trainer-trashy, teenage oik’s pit. Fragrant date winces and demands we leave - immediately! Made of sterner stuff, I insist on at least one drink - industrial strength cider. Suddenly, I’m all nostalgic for patchouli oil, Pot Noodle, Che Guevara posters, lava lamps, Hendrix and that other student bedsit sine qua non, the liberated rubber traffic cone. We park up on shonky, wipe-down banquette that’s in danger of self-destructing whenever either of us moves. The alternative is a grubby armchair, its foam guts spewing out like some fat sleb's during liposuction. The mere prospect of it sets me off on a different (bad) nostalgia trip: the night I caught crabs down Dover docks way. Behind the bar, skinny-jean Flowerpot man (more of a little weed) chomps cheesy crisps and scratches his armpits. Nice one petal! On-stage, tonight’s ’free live music’, Natalie Macool, wails like a bereaved wifey at an Irish wake. Suddenly, I hate my job.
147 Kentish Town Rd NW1 7485 6040 http://flowerpotlondon.com
