The Horns Tavern, West Norwood

Coming off the x68 at west Norwood yesterday, it was pouring with rain. So, I did the wise thing and bobbed into Tesco for some Bran Flakes while it passed. I bought them and a few other bits and came outside. It was raining harder than ever and I had left my brolly at work. It was raining so hard that I took evasive action and dived into the Horns Tavern.

Sitting opposite West Norwood Station, it is well-located for me to go in for the odd pint. But in two years, I haven’t been in there. I know this sort of place. I come from Essex.

In I went. I felt the eyes of the men upon me. The regulars. Putting the hours in to make the place their own. Not encouraging of passing trade, of chaps coming in out of the rain.

The distinction between myself and the men was clear. They were dressed in bomber jackets, jeans and boots. I had on my new three-quarter length black-and-white coat from River Island that tapers to accentuate my slender frame. There were looks to my Tesco carrier bag. You don’t bring your shopping to the pub; you get your missus to go shopping.

I ordered a Guinness from the rotund woman behind the bar: the only woman in the Horns. Guinness always helps to placate men who see my somehwhat effete appearance as an affront to their masculinity. They look at me and think, ‘who’s this cunt!’ Then they see the Guinness, and somehow it acts as a tough mate, saying, ‘he looks like a poof, but he’s not; he’s drinking Guinness.’

The Horns has plenty of entertainment to keep the men amused. Like all pubs of this sort, there are tellies everywhere. There are two big screens at either end of the bar, plus a couple of small TVs, with some sort of online poker game on them. There are little control panels for people to play if they want.

A fruit machine makes its garish appeal to the drinkers. A jukebox plays rigorously heterosexual 70s rock (The Who, The Clash). There’s a pool table.

I take a seat at a table at the back of the pub, below one of the pull-down screens. As I sup my Guinness and read my book, a few details come alive. One of the men is wearing a high-visibility jacket. I’ve done plenty of jobs where you wear these jackets, but I always love to see a man asserting his manual worker status by wearing the thing to the pub. It’s a sort of perverse fashion statement.

The Horns does food. There’s a large chalkboard in the front bar, with but one offer: ‘pizza and beer £6’. An interesting concept, perhaps half-remembered from a trip to Wetherspoon’s. The only food I see consumed is pork scratchings.

One of the blokes playing pool showed the full extent of his descriptive powers. “Who’s that cunt?” he says, trying to remember someone. And then to flesh out the description he adds, “That person.” It wasn’t enough, no one knew and the conversation moved on.

When the football came on, I’d finished my drink. I had the money for another pint but decided the lure of watching Man City v Arsenal in the Carling Cup was not for me, and so wove past the pool players and the pitcher drinkers and left. It had stopped raining and I walked home merrily.