Cannons The Factory

Just what North London needed - another Arsenal pub. Cannons The Factory in London sits smugly on Blackstock Road, wearing its Gooner pride like that one friend who won't shut up about their CrossFit routine. I approached with the enthusiasm of a Spurs fan at the Emirates, but damn it if this place hasn't wormed its way into my cold, cynical heart.

Let's address the elephant in the room - it's tiny. If you're expecting the sprawling sports bars of American suburbia, Cannons The Factory will give you claustrophobia faster than a packed Piccadilly line carriage. But there's something oddly charming about its compact dimensions. Like a London flat that estate agents would describe as "cozy," it forces a certain intimacy that, after a few pints, starts to feel less like overcrowding and more like camaraderie.

Speaking of pints - they're £5. In London. I'll pause while you recover from the shock. Yes, in a city where a half-pint of craft IPA can cost you a small mortgage, Cannons The Factory maintains pricing that seems imported from 2015. The cynic in me wanted to find something wrong with the beer - surely at these prices, they're watering it down or serving it through pipes last cleaned during the Arsenal Invincibles season. But no. The pours are proper, the temperature is spot-on, and the selection, while not encyclopedic, hits all the right notes.

The staff deserves special mention, if only because they've mastered the art of efficient service in a space where two people trying to pass each other requires Olympic-level choreography. They navigate the cramped bar area with the precision of a Bergkamp first touch, somehow managing to keep glasses full even when the place is heaving with match-day crowds.

And those match days. Good lord, those match days. The atmosphere transforms from merely cozy to absolutely electric. The whole pub thrums with nervous energy, collective groans, and explosive celebrations. Even if you're not an Arsenal supporter (and I'm certainly not), there's something infectious about the pure, unfiltered passion. It's football fandom distilled to its essence, without the corporate polish that's sanitized so many other London football pubs.

Let's talk amenities, or rather, the careful curation thereof. Yes, there's a bathroom (thank heaven for small mercies). Yes, they take cards now (though carrying cash won't hurt). And yes, they serve more than just beer - there's a perfectly serviceable selection of wines and spirits for those who've evolved beyond hop-based beverages. But that's about it. No fancy gastro-pub menu, no artisanal gin selection, no Instagram-worthy decor. Just the basics, executed with surprising competence.

The real magic of Cannons The Factory lies in what it doesn't try to be. In an era where every London pub seems desperate to reinvent itself as a craft beer emporium-slash-small plates restaurant-slash-co-working space, this place stubbornly remains just a pub. A proper pub. The kind of establishment where the regulars have their designated spots, where the banter flows as freely as the beer, and where the biggest innovation in the last decade was probably the addition of a second TV screen.

For match day visitors heading to or from the Emirates, or locals seeking refuge from Finsbury Park's increasingly gentrified offerings, Cannons The Factory provides something increasingly rare in London - authenticity. It's not trying to be the next big thing. It's content being what it is: a small, honest football pub that serves good beer at fair prices in an atmosphere that feels genuinely lived-in rather than focus-grouped.

I hate that I like it. I hate that despite my initial skepticism, despite the crowds, despite my natural aversion to anything Arsenal-related, I find myself recommending Cannons The Factory to friends. But here we are. If you're in this corner of London and fancy a proper pint in a proper pub, you could do much worse. Just don't all go at once - there literally isn't room. And if you're there on match day, arrive early or be prepared to perfect your shoulder-squeezing-past-people technique. Against my better judgment and professional cynicism, this little pub has earned its stripes.