To unpick the credibility of Start the Bus is to take a great big piss on central Bristol’s only properly decent, triply-cooked, fresh-out-the-fryer, Maris Piper bowl of chips.

But you know, this is obviously the site to visit for shocking revelations about the pub world in Bristol and London, so it should be noted that this place is owned by Mitchells and Butlers, currently under the watchful eye of multi-gazillionaire Joe Lewis. So, as far as I can work out, for every pint of vaguely-hip, vaguely-European is-it-proper-pilsner lager on which you drop your hard-earned, at least £2.63 of that ends up paying off the debts he incurred in buying Bear Sterns.

This is the exterior of Start the Bus (from their website). And to think, but for one small word, it could have been the world’s first David Lloyd-themed pub.

Okay, this may be slightly wide of the mark. But who knows, eh? Right, thank god that’s out the way.

The most important thing to say is that it’s great, Start the Bus. Thirty-something dolts like me can go in there with their awkwardly-attired chums and suck up the desultory atmosphere of the pre-club churn. Students, club promoters and account executives lurk around at the bar with their hyped mates, chatting and scanning, laughing with purpose. We watch, jealously, wordlessly, from our booth.

The pub’s decent range of hot snacks (calamari, fat chips, some form of meat-based fried thing etc etc) don’t make their way through to us at any special pace, nor with much added value, but still, at least they’re on offer, and we could use the hot fat and liberal doses of salt to help inject a few more minutes’ worth of tragic bonhomie into our attempts at staying up with the cool kids, before one last, unexpected, wholly insensible round of almost-interesting lagers really puts the kibosh on things and we weave our way through the by-now contemptuous crowd, leaving the night to people in v-necked tee-shirts and elements of neon elsewhere upon their person.

But the thing is, loads of good music can be heard at STB. That’s what I really wanted to say, before I got bogged down in nonsense. Find their promoter, really seek that cat down, and shake him/her firmly by the hand. They’re doing a grand job. Here’s their listings page, for instance. That might help.

Also, they cook awesome fries. I asked what’s the secret and the chef told me he uses this deep fryer. Good to know! I may buy it myself.

Address:

• 7-9 Baldwin Street
• Bristol
• Avon BS1 1RU

I stand shadowed by Tower Bridge, buffeted by multilingual coos and clicks. The most pomp-jazz bridge in the world glitters above me, throwing stardust into our delighted faces to conceal its main purpose as an arterial route into the bearpits of the City. What a lovely con trick.

There’s lots of that around these parts.  Buildings perform for the crowd, while inside deadening hands flicker at keyboards. I guess the point is – you can see it, can’t you – something about books and covers. Oh, hey! Here we are in St Katherine Docks.

There, in the corner of the marinaplex, lies the multi-storey clapboard-and-redbrick Dickens Inn, replete with balconies redolent of the coaching inns of yore. I suppose they were going for a Corporate Tudor aesthetic. It’s a strong vision, you’ve got to give them that.

There it is, a Hanging Garden in modern Babylon. Nice (taken from their website)

It’s a bit sharp on the edges, and clean on the floor, to really get any kind of proper olde-worlde vibe going on. But nobody seems to mind, seeing as they’re all too busy necking cheap rosé or crowding round sports tellies to give an eff about the authenticity of the place. And fair enough, you might say. At least it’s not a wine bar, or a sports bar, or a bar, even. It’s a pub, deep in one of the more optimally monetised leisure zones within the Financial District. It’s almost heartening to see tables stacked high with half-empty glasses and snack-plastic detritus – at least you’re allowed in the door.

• Address:
• Marble Quay
• St Katharines Way
• London
• E1W 1UH

Clifton used up its edginess quotient on its hilltop location. The rest of it is MOR comfort, brim-full of Lovely Things shops, cobbled streets, coffee shops, and high-ceilinged townhouses. It’s been lording it over the rest of the city for centuries, and shows no sign of stopping.

However, most of Clifton’s pubs have been cocking a snook at their passing trade for quite some time. While most pedestrians look as if they’ve stepped straight off the Fulham Road, Clifton hostelries defy such polish and sheen – the Coach and Horses, Somerset House, the Portcullis, the Grapes, to name but a few, are a good yard of ale away from the gastropub template you might expect for these parts.

It’s rather gratifying, and I suspect Cliftonites rather like it too, even if they might not dip into these places too often; it gives the area Bristolian virtues it struggles to present elsewhere.

This is the outside space what I mentioned. Thanks to Albion Public House and Dining Rooms for the image.

Of course, the Albion lets the show down terribly, sitting as it does in a cobbled alley of its very own – hardly the most down-home statement to be made. It has large peachy awnings outside, beneath which sprawl a selection of pink-cheeked puddings and panda-tanned pricks, bawling and drawling at each other in accents that are most definitely without rotic curl.

Inside lies a crackling fire, open-plan kitchen and solid oak tables. All very comfortable, but for some reason, not especially inviting – not, at least, till you’ve got to the bar and hidden from the haughtier sorts. Despite the grandstanding of the restaurant menu, the Albion tries to keep its pubby heart beating – there are actually drinkers standing up by the pumps, not every table is laid up for dining, and it continues to offer a bar menu (even if this has now been repurposed as ‘tapas’), as well as homemade pork scratchings. Okay, so it’s not quite a packet of Planter’s, but it’s a good effort, and it has a decent choice of ales.

You’ll be amazed to discover that none of these things come cheap. For some, the fact that a pint in an expensively upholstered pub in Bristol’s very own SW6 costs more than elsewhere seems to come as something of a shock. I hope this review has forewarned you sufficiently.

• Address:
• Boyces Avenue,
• Clifton Village,
• Bristol BS8 4AA