Furlong

Just what London needs - another pub with delusions of grandeur. The Furlong in London's increasingly gentrified landscape initially struck me as yet another establishment trying desperately to balance traditional boozer charm with contemporary expectations. Spoiler alert: I'm irritated by how wrong I was.

Let's address the elephant in the room - finding a properly poured pint under £7 in London these days is about as rare as a politician keeping their promises. So when I discovered the Furlong's surprisingly reasonable pricing, my cynical heart skipped a beat. But surely they must be cutting corners somewhere, right?

Wrong. The first crack in my armor of skepticism appeared when the Guinness arrived - perfectly settled, proper temperature, and with that satisfying cascade that's become increasingly elusive in London's pub scene. The second came from the unmistakable buzz of genuine conversation drowning out the usual soundtrack of phones pinging and influencers arranging their drinks for the perfect shot.

The space itself refuses to conform to the cookie-cutter gastropub template that's infected half of London's drinking establishments. Instead of the obligatory Edison bulbs and exposed brick, the Furlong maintains its character without trying too hard - like that friend who's effortlessly cool because they genuinely don't care what anyone thinks. The garden area, which I fully expected to be three sad tables next to a bin, turns out to be a properly lovely space that doesn't make you feel like you're drinking in a parking lot.

Live music here doesn't mean some bloke murdering Ed Sheeran covers (though I'm sure that happens occasionally). The bands they book actually know their instruments, and the sound system isn't trying to blow out your eardrums. It's almost like someone actually thought about acoustics - a revolutionary concept in London pub design, apparently.

The staff, led by what must be the least pretentious landlady in Zone 2, somehow manage to be genuinely friendly without it feeling forced. I know - I was shocked too. They remember regulars' drinks, can actually talk about the beers they serve, and - brace yourselves - seem to enjoy their jobs. In today's hospitality landscape, this is practically unicorn territory.

Their events calendar shows similar thoughtfulness. Bingo nights that are actually fun (words I never thought I'd write), sports screenings where you can actually see the screen, and a pool table that doesn't require a degree in geometry to compensate for wonky leveling. They even serve proper pie and mash, sourced from a legitimate pie shop rather than some frozen food distributor's idea of "authentic London cuisine."

The dog-friendly policy doesn't result in the usual chaos of unleashed hounds treating the place like a canine social club, and the payment system actually works - accepting everything from cash to contactless without the dreaded "card machine's down" excuse that seems to plague so many London pubs exactly when you want to close your tab.

Look, I'll admit it - the Furlong in London has managed to achieve something I thought impossible: a proper pub that's moved with the times without losing its soul. It's the kind of place where you can watch the football without feeling like you're in a sports bar, bring your laptop without looking like a coffee shop refugee, or just sink a few pints without having to take out a second mortgage.

Is it perfect? No. Sometimes it gets properly rammed, especially during big matches or when there's a particularly good band on. And yes, you might occasionally have to wait for a table in the garden when the sun makes its biannual appearance in London. But these aren't really criticisms - they're signs of a pub doing things right.

So here's my begrudging recommendation: if you're in London and looking for a pub that remembers what pubs are actually for, the Furlong deserves your attention. Just don't all rush there at once - I've finally found my local, and I'd rather not have to share it with all of you. But I suppose that's the price of journalistic integrity. Book ahead for events, bring cash just in case (though you won't need it), and for heaven's sake, don't tell them I sent you. I have a cynical reputation to maintain.