Sometimes, when you go to a pub in London, order a drink and attempt to pay on card they will tell you that it’s cash only. This is infuriating as nobody in their right mind would carry that quantity of cash.
Watson’s General Telegraph is not one of these pubs, which is fortunate as the only cash machines in the area are Mummy and Daddy, who are starting to feel the squeeze of paying for two children’s private education and juggling payments on the new Volvo. They will be making bold assertions about “tightening their belts” and having “no holiday this year, by the looks of it” whilst dining with friends at Ottolenghi.
So we know that the area surrounding Watson’s General Telegraph is populated by the sort of people for whom the word hardship means a large, uncomfortable yacht. However, the geographic location of said area remains a mystery – it’s one of those disappointingly upmarket parts of South London that you would literally never find again if your life depended on it. Which is a shame because Watson’s General Telegraph is a fairly decent local; lose the naff naughties logo and the excessive telegraph references and you have a quirky, comfortable bar. It’s like an Antic pub, but without the feeling that somebody in their mid-thirties raided eBay for the fixtures and fittings during their lunch hour.
There’s a good selection of beers too, if you’re not on a low-carb diet.
Of course, Mummy and Daddy have invaded in force, and brought their little mistakes with them. But the anguish, frustration and cold, real regret on their faces as Miranda once again attempts to empty the contents of a mustard container onto the floor as another £13.50 fish and chips slowly goes cold makes it all worthwhile.