It went well.
It baffled me to the point where I wondered if Cavendish employed junk-foxes had been lying in wait in the woods outside my parent's old house two July's ago. Surely no one else would have owned and actively kept such a useless item.
But the bizarre co-incidence of blogging about, then discovering this obsolete home furnishing from Barbie's arch rival, further proves why The Cavendish pub in Stockwell, is such a magical den of nonsense.
Last count, there were two analogue TV's carefully arranged in the window, old books on everything from puberty to aeroplanes on the shelves, a pram, many pleasing fifties references and some banana cake. All clean, tidily arranged and carefully considered I must add. If something is next to something else, there's definitely a reason for it. I think...
It is a unique looking drinking establishment which I wouldn't be surprised to find had been made entirely by sentient bric-a-brac and candle wax which one day agreed to arrange themselves into four walls and a bar. Its grotto-like brilliance is unrivalled. It's like if Big Trak got drunk and mated with all your favourite board games at Christmas, then birthed a Happy Shrine. I fully expect to find Wee Willie Winkie drinking here. I see him as a Port man.
And because this has accidentally turned into a review, I might as well tell you to go there. Go there. Drink their good red, fail to play Risk properly, listen to what you keep mistaking for as your own i-pod and make sure you eat some Disco Chips. They're what paprika was made for. A light sprinkling of which is almost the same colour as Sindy's legendary wash bowl... Soap, anyone?
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