Hope & Anchor

Another "legendary" London pub? Please. The Hope & Anchor in London has been riding the coattails of its punk rock history for so long, I half expected to find Johnny Rotten's dentures behind the bar. But here's the truly irritating part - I actually kind of love this place, despite my best efforts to maintain my professional cynicism.

Let's address the elephant in the room: yes, every other person who walks through the door will remind you that U2 once played here. And The Stranglers. And probably your uncle's cousin's best friend's garage band. The Hope & Anchor wears its musical heritage like a slightly threadbare badge of honor, but unlike many venues that coast on past glories, this Islington institution somehow manages to keep its soul intact.

The first crack in my armor appeared when I realized the prices weren't attempting to bankrupt me - a refreshing change in a city where some pubs charge you extra for the privilege of breathing their artisanally filtered air. The beer selection is solid, the wine list won't win awards but won't make you wince either, and the staff actually seem to enjoy their jobs, which is deeply suspicious but oddly infectious.

Then there's the music room downstairs. I wanted to hate it - these historical venues often feel like sad museums to better days. But the Hope & Anchor's basement venue still pulses with raw energy. The sound system is surprisingly decent (take note, every other London pub venue that thinks blown speakers equal "atmosphere"), and the sight lines aren't terrible unless you're shorter than a hobbit. They still host regular gigs that range from earnest indie bands to occasional secret shows by bigger names trying to recapture their grassroots credibility.

The pub itself strikes that elusive balance between preserved character and basic functionality. Yes, the jukebox requires actual coins - how charmingly analog - but it's stocked with choices that suggest someone with actual taste is in charge. The wooden floors have absorbed decades of spilled pints but somehow avoid feeling sticky, and the corners are worn in exactly the right ways that suggest authenticity rather than neglect.

What truly infuriates me is how the place manages to be both a legitimate local's pub and a music venue without completely sacrificing either identity. During the day, you'll find regulars nursing pints alongside music tourists making pilgrimages, and somehow neither group seems to resent the other too much. There's even a dog named Dusty who apparently has his own fan club, because of course there is.

The outdoor seating area isn't going to win any garden design awards, but it serves its purpose when London decides to grant us a few rays of sunshine. And while we're on the subject of practical matters, yes, they take cards, the toilets are actually maintained (a miracle in London pub terms), and the staff know how to pour a proper pint - skills that shouldn't be remarkable but somehow are in this day and age.

Here's what really gets me: in a city where "historic" pubs increasingly feel like theme park attractions, the Hope & Anchor in London maintains its credibility without descending into parody. The walls are covered in gig posters and photos that tell real stories rather than carefully curated "authenticity." The regulars include both grey-haired punks who probably saw The Clash here and young musicians who actually know their history.

Look, I'm not saying the Hope & Anchor is perfect. The sight lines from certain angles make you intimate with supporting pillars, and sometimes the jukebox eats your pound coins like a hungry metal beast. But in a London landscape increasingly dominated by soulless chains and "concept" pubs, this place stubbornly remains what it has always been - a proper pub that happens to have an excellent music venue in its basement.

If you're in Islington and looking for a pub that balances history with functionality, character with competence, and music heritage with current relevance, I suppose you could do worse than the Hope & Anchor. And yes, that's as close to a glowing recommendation as you're getting from me. Just bring pound coins for the jukebox, and if you see Dusty the dog, tell him I'm still not over how charming he is, the furry little scene-stealer.