An after hours pint

Pubs that serve past 11pm on a Tuesday night are few, even in the heart of London. When the midnight hour approaches, they take on a sinister aspect. The staff are edgy, desperate to get home. The punters know these last drinks are a mistake, any meagre pleasure to be paid back in the morning as they tumble into hangover hell. They have their uses though: when you've worked all day in a pub, sometimes you long for an after hours pint in someone else's gaff. That's my excuse for breaking my self-imposed Wetherspoons ban tonight.

The Sir John Oldcastle is a classic 'Spoons: converted from offices, unlovely location, dreadful atmosphere. Flashing fruit machines and a forest of tacky posters and table-top menus dominate the vista. The scattered, low level furniture is reminscent of an airport departure lounge. Looking around, one sees drinkers conspicuously failing to enjoy themselves. Time to go home.