The Fentiman Arms in London SW8, became our local pub when we were students at St. Martins and the Royal Academy Schools. I was introduced to it by a colleague who kindly offered me a small room at the hallowed address, 70, Fentiman Road.

The Fentiman Arms was a Courage pub, managed by George and Shiela Gleed who lived upstairs. Ted and Val were bar staff. Ted kept the pipes clean and served Courage ales in good condition. They were always welcoming. But suddenly Val wasn’t there. She’d been sacked for hauling a customer over the taps by his neck-tie! (apparently he’d been rude to her).

The interior was typical of public houses during the 1970s. Flock wall paper, wrought iron bar surround and heavy, muted green curtains with nets for privacy. Noise was cushioned by deep pile carpets. All of which retained a lingering odour of tobacco smoke. The idea of Passive smoking never came into the equation back then. You were obliged to inhale second hand smoke while you drank. Unless weather permitting, you went outside.

Fentiman Road has an esplanade of cherry trees, which by May are in full blossom. Before going next door to scorch some victuals in the name of dinner, a roadside aperitif was a good thing. Young’s have protected the street side exterior against riff-raff with posh iron railings. The footprint of ones like them could be found on walls along the road, cut away to make Spitfires.

In a choice position at the crossroads between Fentiman Road and Caroun Road, the pub commands a great deal of passing trade. In the late 70s it was a distinctly white, South Londoner’s gaff, with a smattering of Yuppies who (very sensibly) gained ownership of the solid, Regency homes along a road which got it’s namesake from travellers on their way to the ferry by the river.
Hidden amongst the quiet mumbles of a secret society who took pride in foxing the Rozzers, lock-ins were de rigueur. In the wee hours it wasn’t difficult to roll like a mariner, back up the stone steps to our leaky garret; considerably colder than the pub.

I hadn’t visited the Fentiman Arms for many years. Outside a neighbours house a gaggle of locals appeared, who I knew from back in the day. ‘Allo Al!’ they said, ‘ain’t seen you in a while!’ (several decades). It was like a time warp, as if I’d never left.
I met a friend at the sacred site and we drank in the pub on a glorious September evening. It was sunny and warm. By 6pm the Fentiman Arms had filled. The colourful interior with a jumble of ‘art’ on its walls had been opened up. Now a Young’s house, the ales are just as good as anything Courage can do…

and the Fentiman Arms has been revamped, offering upstairs function rooms plus a well constructed garden at the back (which used to consist of a few picnic tables and some fag ends). Food is served but most importantly, it remains a meeting place for all sorts of people, something unique to London. It was touching when a member of staff said ‘Welcome back’ and gave me free drinks.
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