Late 1990s, January 2002
By rights The Argyll Arms should be a terrible pub, situated as it is so close to Oxford Circus. But it defies expectations, especially if you can get a seat in one of the dimly lit, serene snugs. Cocooned by etched glass partitions, you can find respite from the scrum.
There’s a large window at the front, perfect for people watching. I remember sitting there with Damien and seeing Rachel walk right past a couple of days after I had met her in 2002.
And earlier than that, in the late 90s, going with John before salsa lessons on Mondays – and sometimes afterwards too. One time we bounced back twice – pub to salsa club to pub to salsa club. That led to an outrageously late Monday night out, and the only pre-meditated duvet day I can recall. I made an excuse about a leaking roof, for which I got my comeuppance when a colleague asked my flatmate about the roof at a gig a week later. What leaking roof?
In the back you can get stuck with a mid-corridor table if you’re not careful, and the room trades an open layout for atmosphere – but still with elegant, timeworn Victorian decor. There’s an upstairs dining room which I have never frequented but which ticks another box from The Moon Under Water, George Orwell’s sketch of the ideal pub. In fact it meets a surprisingly high number of Orwell’s criteria. It’s on a side street away from the bustle. Its architecture and fittings are indeed “uncompromisingly Victorian”. No music is played, so you can hear yourself talk. If we don’t quibble over the finer details, then all it lacks is a garden and china mugs.