It was a Monday afternoon in east London and me and my mate Ian Beale were enjoying a pleasant spot of day drinking, when he suggested this place to me. I was a little dubious, given Ian's track record of life in general, but he assured me that it was a fine establishment. With Ian half cut, he led us to 873 Harrow Road in Harlesden, and almost predictably, the pub was no more.
Feeling somewhat of a thirst after our wasted trip across the capital, I suggested that we continue our sesh in the nearest Wetherspoons, but Ian was having none of it. In his inebriated state, he began to insist that "the boozer's still about", and after popping some unidentified pills, became adamant that we head to Borehamwood without delay.
A couple of trains later, we arrived. During the hour or so that we'd been in transit for, Ian had somehow managed to get through seven cans of Stella that he'd picked up from a petrol station along the way, so my confidence in his wayfinding skills, along with his basic grasp on reality, had diminished significantly.
But like some sort of ethanol homing pigeon, he got us there. Admittedly, it was a bit of an odd suburb. The surrounding streets were eerily quiet, but with Ian eager to "get back on the sauce", there was no time to ask questions.
Nobody about.
I followed behind Ian, as he stumbled through the doors. Before I could even take in the surroundings, Ian began a foul-mouthed rant - initially about the lack of bar, immediately followed by something along the lines of "health and safety gone mad", as he read a sign at the bottom of some stairs about being 'extra careful' in the pub. In hindsight, I don't think Ian had a clue what was going on, but I couldn't help notice that we were in some sort of void. Before I could even try and figure out what the craic was, Ian, in an alcohol-fuelled rage, was storming up the metal staircase.
"Health and safety gone mad".
I ran behind him, slightly nervously, as he tripped over every other step but somehow made it to the top. "It's clearly abandoned mate; let's just do an urbex", I said to Ian. After spending at least two minutes making his feelings on urban exploration explicitly clear, we took a short break, as Ian sipped from a hip flask that I could've sworn he didn't have before.
Exploring with Beale.
After emptying every last drop of whatever was in the hip flask into his mouth - as if it was water and we were in the Sahara - Ian staggered his way back down the stairs and we somehow found ourselves in an alleyway. It was clear that, just like the Harlesden pub, this place too was no longer open for business, but Ian was repeatedly slurring at this point that he "knew a way" to get in.
Obstacles.
I had no idea why there were crash mats lined along the alley, but it was clear that Ian wasn't having a good time with them. After violently punching every single one (which proved to be of no benefit whatsoever), Ian eventually passed them, and in doing so, created a clear path for me. This only enraged him further, and I quickly realised that, for my own safety, we needed to get to his beloved Queen Vic. Just ahead was 'Walford Bus Garage' - a good 50 metres away from the pub's frontage - but Ian for whatever reason seemed to think that this was the actual entrance to the pub, and I didn't dare challenge him.
Inside the bus garage, Ian began reading more signage, but it seemed to have a soothing effect this time. "Yeah... BBC" he muttered. "That's the name of the brewery or some shit... we're close".
'BBC'.
I was pretty sure that this 'Queen Vic' joint didn't exist - at least not anymore - but followed Ian anyway, as he had a confidence in his voice that I'd not heard since we got off the train. As we headed further into the bus garage, it looked like we were back outside. The surroundings were the same, but different somehow... had Ian, in his severe intoxication, somehow managed to find the right way in?
Parallel universe?
The door was a bit weird (when I say weird, it was missing), and there was random tat lying about all over the place; but Ian was elated as he ran, the best he could, over to the bar.
Odd entrance.
It soon became apparent, however, that the place was empty - but perhaps more worryingly, Ian was becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of service, and his positive outlook was once again beginning to dissipate.
Last orders?
Concerned about Ian's mood, I took it upon myself to investigate, and headed into the back.
Architectural flaw.
Despite the peculiar design of the upstairs landing, I managed to figure my way into the pub's living quarters, for some reason finding myself searching for Danny Dyer.
First the living room...
...then the bedroom...
...and finally the kitchen.
With the pub seemingly deserted, I decided to take matters into my own hands and serve a furious Ian - charging him the allotted price and placing his money on the till, of course.
Ingredients for Ian's bespoke cocktail highlighted.
Ian, by this point, was poor company, but seemed perfectly happy sat on his own, now that we'd found his much cherished local. I, meanwhile, made acquaintance with a rather elusive lady:
Thanks for reading... sorry if the 'fanfic' was annoying, but I felt like doing something a bit different, and it amused me writing it. Hope you enjoyed!
Feeling somewhat of a thirst after our wasted trip across the capital, I suggested that we continue our sesh in the nearest Wetherspoons, but Ian was having none of it. In his inebriated state, he began to insist that "the boozer's still about", and after popping some unidentified pills, became adamant that we head to Borehamwood without delay.
A couple of trains later, we arrived. During the hour or so that we'd been in transit for, Ian had somehow managed to get through seven cans of Stella that he'd picked up from a petrol station along the way, so my confidence in his wayfinding skills, along with his basic grasp on reality, had diminished significantly.
But like some sort of ethanol homing pigeon, he got us there. Admittedly, it was a bit of an odd suburb. The surrounding streets were eerily quiet, but with Ian eager to "get back on the sauce", there was no time to ask questions.
Nobody about.
I followed behind Ian, as he stumbled through the doors. Before I could even take in the surroundings, Ian began a foul-mouthed rant - initially about the lack of bar, immediately followed by something along the lines of "health and safety gone mad", as he read a sign at the bottom of some stairs about being 'extra careful' in the pub. In hindsight, I don't think Ian had a clue what was going on, but I couldn't help notice that we were in some sort of void. Before I could even try and figure out what the craic was, Ian, in an alcohol-fuelled rage, was storming up the metal staircase.
"Health and safety gone mad".
I ran behind him, slightly nervously, as he tripped over every other step but somehow made it to the top. "It's clearly abandoned mate; let's just do an urbex", I said to Ian. After spending at least two minutes making his feelings on urban exploration explicitly clear, we took a short break, as Ian sipped from a hip flask that I could've sworn he didn't have before.
Exploring with Beale.
After emptying every last drop of whatever was in the hip flask into his mouth - as if it was water and we were in the Sahara - Ian staggered his way back down the stairs and we somehow found ourselves in an alleyway. It was clear that, just like the Harlesden pub, this place too was no longer open for business, but Ian was repeatedly slurring at this point that he "knew a way" to get in.
Obstacles.
I had no idea why there were crash mats lined along the alley, but it was clear that Ian wasn't having a good time with them. After violently punching every single one (which proved to be of no benefit whatsoever), Ian eventually passed them, and in doing so, created a clear path for me. This only enraged him further, and I quickly realised that, for my own safety, we needed to get to his beloved Queen Vic. Just ahead was 'Walford Bus Garage' - a good 50 metres away from the pub's frontage - but Ian for whatever reason seemed to think that this was the actual entrance to the pub, and I didn't dare challenge him.
Inside the bus garage, Ian began reading more signage, but it seemed to have a soothing effect this time. "Yeah... BBC" he muttered. "That's the name of the brewery or some shit... we're close".
'BBC'.
I was pretty sure that this 'Queen Vic' joint didn't exist - at least not anymore - but followed Ian anyway, as he had a confidence in his voice that I'd not heard since we got off the train. As we headed further into the bus garage, it looked like we were back outside. The surroundings were the same, but different somehow... had Ian, in his severe intoxication, somehow managed to find the right way in?
Parallel universe?
The door was a bit weird (when I say weird, it was missing), and there was random tat lying about all over the place; but Ian was elated as he ran, the best he could, over to the bar.
Odd entrance.
It soon became apparent, however, that the place was empty - but perhaps more worryingly, Ian was becoming increasingly frustrated at the lack of service, and his positive outlook was once again beginning to dissipate.
Last orders?
Concerned about Ian's mood, I took it upon myself to investigate, and headed into the back.
Architectural flaw.
Despite the peculiar design of the upstairs landing, I managed to figure my way into the pub's living quarters, for some reason finding myself searching for Danny Dyer.
First the living room...
...then the bedroom...
...and finally the kitchen.
With the pub seemingly deserted, I decided to take matters into my own hands and serve a furious Ian - charging him the allotted price and placing his money on the till, of course.
Ingredients for Ian's bespoke cocktail highlighted.
Ian, by this point, was poor company, but seemed perfectly happy sat on his own, now that we'd found his much cherished local. I, meanwhile, made acquaintance with a rather elusive lady:
Thanks for reading... sorry if the 'fanfic' was annoying, but I felt like doing something a bit different, and it amused me writing it. Hope you enjoyed!
