Black Boy

Just what London needs - another pub with "Black" in its name. The Black Boy in London initially struck me as yet another formulaic watering hole trying desperately to convince locals it's been there since the Plague. But damn it all if this plucky little establishment hasn't wormed its way into my cynical heart like a determined earworm at karaoke night.

Let's address the elephant in the room - it's not exactly situated on the tourist trail, which might actually be its saving grace. While hordes of visitors crowd the Instagram-worthy pubs of Covent Garden, this unassuming spot maintains its dignity without resorting to Union Jack bunting or portraits of Churchill looking constipated.

The beer selection at the Black Boy London surprised me, and I hate being surprised almost as much as I hate admitting I'm wrong. The quality of their lagers is remarkably decent for a place that could probably get away with serving whatever swill their regulars would drink anyway. They've clearly put some thought into their tap rotation, which makes me suspicious of their intentions to actually run a proper pub.

What really gets me - and I can't believe I'm saying this - is the weekend bar snacks situation. In an era where most London pubs have replaced free nibbles with £9 artisanal pork scratchings, the Black Boy maintains the nearly extinct tradition of complementary bar snacks. It's like finding a dodo bird serving you nuts and crisps. The cynic in me wants to dismiss this as a marketing ploy, but it's genuinely just... nice. Ugh.

The atmosphere is refreshingly unpretentious, which in London's current pub scene is about as rare as a reasonable rent price. Sports fans will find themselves at home here, though be warned - when the big matches are on, the volume level rivals that of a jet engine. The regulars, a surprisingly non-hostile bunch, actually welcome newcomers instead of treating them like plague carriers, which is practically revolutionary for a local London pub.

The outdoor seating area isn't exactly the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, but it serves its purpose when London decides to grace us with its three annual days of sunshine. Dog owners, rejoice - your four-legged friends are welcome, though I'd advise against bringing your prize-winning Pomeranian during a rowdy football match.

Payment options have dragged themselves into the 21st century, with contactless available for those who've evolved beyond carrying cash. Though I'm still somewhat disappointed they haven't installed a bartering system for vintage vinyl records or rare Pokemon cards.

Here's the thing about the Black Boy in London that really irritates me: it's managed to create something increasingly rare in the capital - a genuine local pub that hasn't sacrificed its soul to the gods of gentrification. The karaoke nights (yes, they do karaoke, heaven help us) are exactly as terrible as they should be, which somehow makes them perfect.

For the value-conscious among us (or the perpetually skint), the prices won't send you into cardiac arrest. It's refreshingly affordable for London, though I'm half convinced this must be some sort of pricing error they haven't noticed yet. Don't tell them - let's keep this between us.

Look, I wanted to hate the Black Boy. I really did. It would have been so easy to dismiss it as just another London pub trying too hard to be unpretentious. But much like that friend who keeps making terrible puns that somehow become endearing, this place has a way of wearing down your defenses. Whether you're a local seeking refuge from the tourist traps or a visitor looking for an authentic London pub experience, you'll find something here worth coming back for. Just don't expect me to admit that in person.

If you're going to check it out (and apparently I'm actually recommending that you do), aim for a weekend visit when the free snacks are flowing and the atmosphere is at its peak. Just remember - if you tell anyone I sent you, I'll deny everything and claim it was my evil twin who writes the nice reviews.