The BlackStock

Just what London needs - another pub claiming to be the neighborhood's living room. The BlackStock in Finsbury Park had me rolling my eyes before I even crossed the threshold. Another watering hole trying to be all things to all people: craft beer for the beard-strokers, cocktails for the Instagram crowd, and football matches for, well, this is North London after all.

But damn it all if this place hasn't wormed its way into my jaded heart like a particularly stubborn earworm.

First, let's address the elephant in the room - the location. The BlackStock sits in that sweet spot where Finsbury Park's various personalities collide, and somehow it manages to cater to all of them without feeling like it's trying too hard. It's a feat that deserves recognition, even if it pains me to give it.

The interior strikes that elusive balance between "actually clean" and "authentically lived-in" that so many London pubs get wrong. You won't find any manufactured vintage signs or deliberately distressed furniture here. Instead, The BlackStock offers something far more valuable: genuine comfort without the artifice.

I hate to admit it, but the drink selection is impressive. The craft beer rotation shows actual thought rather than just ticking boxes, and - brace yourselves - they pour one of the better Guinnesses north of the Thames. The cocktail menu initially had me preparing my best eye-roll, but their Picante (which I ordered purely for research purposes, mind you) managed to shut me up mid-snark. The combination of spice and sweetness with that tajin rum is annoyingly good.

The staff, curse them, are actually competent. Not in that rehearsed, corporate-training-manual way, but in the increasingly rare manner of people who genuinely know their stuff and seem to enjoy sharing that knowledge. They remember faces, drink preferences, and somehow manage to keep the place running smoothly even when it's heaving with Arsenal supporters on match days.

Speaking of football crowds - here's where The BlackStock really distinguishes itself. While most pubs either become unbearable sports caves or try to pretend football doesn't exist, this place somehow manages to be both a proper sports pub and a legitimate venue for those who wouldn't know a corner kick from a corner shop. It's like watching a master class in crowd management.

They've partnered with Yard Sale Pizza for food (delivery straight to your table), which is a smart move that saves us from another mediocre pub kitchen. The outdoor seating area is actually usable, not just a couple of sad tables plonked on the pavement, and - miracle of miracles - the bathrooms are consistently clean. I know, I can hardly believe I'm writing these words either.

What really gets me, though, is how The BlackStock manages to shape-shift throughout the day without feeling schizophrenic. It's a proper local during afternoon hours, a lively match venue when required, and yes, they even have DJs that don't make you want to stuff your ears with bar nuts. The transitions feel natural rather than forced, which is rarer than a reasonable rent in Zone 2.

Look, I'm as surprised as anyone to be writing this, but The BlackStock has managed to become one of those places that actually delivers on its all-things-to-all-people ambitions. The prices won't make you choke on your pint - they're standard for the area - and what you get in return is actually worth it. God, I hate when places don't give me anything proper to complain about.

For those keeping score: yes, they take cards (including contactless), yes, they're dog-friendly (because of course they are, this is London), and yes, you can book tables, which you probably should for match days or weekend evenings unless you enjoy standing around looking hopeful.

So there you have it. The BlackStock in Finsbury Park has forced me to eat my words, and they're surprisingly palatable. Whether you're after a proper pint, a decent cocktail, or just a place to watch the match that won't make you question your life choices, you'll find it here. Just don't blame me when it becomes your regular spot - I tried to be cynical, but the place simply wouldn't let me.