Pub Revue: The Crown, Hackney

It's a call to pint

There she is, emerging from the late November gloom. As stunning as the Taj Mahal but with the added bonus of two fruit machines in the back; a glowing maroon bat-signal visible for miles around summoning locals for a pint; a stage where a 1,000 dramas play out simultaneously; Welcome to the Crown pub in Hackney.

Upon entering, the outside world is obliterated. A wall of noise: conversation, laughter, shouts, roars, screams, expletives ringing out like machine-gun fire.

The décor: crimson seats, wooden floorboards, tables, posts and fittings. Old prints, pictures and photos, mostly Irish in theme and mostly ignored, look down from racing green walls. Sports trophies and paraphernalia line shelves and ledges. A strip of fairy lights, which may or may not be Xmas decorations, trails above the bar.

It's packed and, like most London pubs, a melting pot of already melted pots. A second home for locals. A prolonged pit stop for post-shift workers. A curiosity for tourists and passers-by. A gig at nearby Hackney Church has led to an invasion of outsiders, including myself, stopping in for one while the support act grinds away. The bar's encircled by an impregnable line of regulars. All tables are occupied. Most standing space is taken. Except for… a few blokes taking up a quarter of the room playing darts. To be fair, it's a lovely oche with a rare electronic scoreboard.

Two TV screens show a Rangers football game. Two other TVs each show a DIFFERENT horse racing channel. Nobody is watching any of them. In a back corner, two fruit machines flash lights and spin reels desperate for attention. Nobody plays them.

What luck - two prime seats are available

One more time, sweetness. I head to the bar. Alas, this isn't an American TV show where two prime spaces are always available and the service is instant and efficient. This is England. I join the queue, more a sprawling mass of people, trying to funnel through a gap between two regulars to order from the long-suffering bartender.

We wait, that’s what we do.

The lady in front of me whacks me with her backpack. Someone orders four Aperol Spritzes. Someone asks to taste the IPA. Guinness orders clog up proceedings as always. How many hours around the world are wasted waiting for pints of the black stuff to settle? But wait, people seem to be disappearing through a back doorway - is there another bar? Impatience waits for no man, and when someone orders, god forbid, a coffee, I break and go to investigate. Walking through a chilly outside area, I enter… the Half Crown. It’s a different pub. It’s the same pub. They’ve rebadged it, you fool.

As the cunning name suggests, it’s roughly half the size of The Crown and SLIGHTLY calmer. But still busy. Behind this bar, which is also barricaded by customers, another overworked, solitary barmaid works through the waiting customers.

We wait, that's what we do.

A raucous group around a table shouts at each other. Men stare into the abyss at the bottom of pints. Two TVs show a Rangers game that nobody is watching. An old bloke in a spectacular two-piece black tracksuit, probably not an employee, shuffles around, collecting glasses. After an eternity (well, a few minutes), the barmaid stops to chat and pour a drink for a friend/regular who has just rocked up. I break and, in disgrace, return to Big Daddy Crown.

We wait...

Hilarious signs

Decorative signs around the bar:

• VIP lounge

• Beer doesn't have many vitamins so drink lots

• A wee bit Irish.

Eventually, there's just one person before me in the queue. Who orders... EIGHT Jägerbombs. Entire snooker finals have been contested in the time it takes to put these together. Slowly but surely, one by one, eight plastic cups of murky brown and gold appear on the bar... without a tray.

With great bravado, the Jägerbomber attempts to balance these into one tower. The ambitious plan doesn’t work, and one cup slips into another, spilling fluid onto the bar. The barmaid, customer-service auto-pilot slipping, shakes her head and goes to fetch a towel.

While this drama edges into Act 2, another is being played out by three men at the end of the bar.

“Fackin’ Arsenal, fackin’ cants

"Fack em. Fackin’ Arteta’s a fackin’ cant"

"Can't fackin' stand that cant"

"Cant can fack off"

"Gonna win fackin' title ain't they?"

"Fackin' cants Arsenal"

"They can fack off'

"Who can?"

"Arsenal"

"Fackin’ hate Arsenal"

"Fackin cants"

Round and round.

Finally, the grains of sand fall into place, the Red Sea parts, and the bar materialises. The poor bar lady is reliev

ed when I order a simple solitary lager. She pours, the pint stands, glistening, almost quivering, but, out of reach. She goes to the chip and pin machine, stops, starts shaking, whirls around.

To nobody: “Where’s the previous customer?”

Anxious now.

To nobody: “Where’s the guy who ordered the JD and Coke?”

Who knows? I have no memory of witnessing this order but apparently, his transaction hasn’t gone through and another can’t be actioned until it has. In a full-blown panic, the bar lady scans the boozer, then vacates the bar, a one-woman search party.

Most punters don’t notice. They're locked in conversations or staring at phones. Or, in most cases, both at the same time. A chosen few focus only on their attempt to qualify for Ally Pally. A tourist couple enter, look around as if they've walked into a parallel dimension, decide to stay. The dapper glass collector appears and does a circuit. Does he get a free shandy for his labour? Let's hope so. Fackin' Arsenal continue to take some pelters.

Paraphernalia of the perfect pub

Enter stage left: the barmaid. To everyone’s relief, primarily hers, she’s followed by a sheepish-looking guy who inserts his card, taps a pin, and completes his transaction. Hallelujah. The motherfuckin' saga is over.

Normal service resumed, beer finally secured, I slip into a space around an odd brick column in the centre of the pub. And, of course, check my phone - I need to get to the gig in five minutes. The pure magic of a pint, nature's miracle food, is that it can be a 1-hour accompaniment or a two-minute blast, depending on the owner's needs and desires.

Rangers score, nobody cheers. A dart bounces out nearly taking out a bystander's eye. People cheer. Arsenal are still fackin' cants. The tourist couple take photos and embrace the chaos. Before leaving, I pop to the loo - the man in the next urinal is wearing a fur hat like Peter Stormare’s character in Fargo.

As Dostoyevsky almost said, a pub can teach you everything you need to know about life. If so, The Crown is a red-brick university, can't wait to come back.