June 2026. London.
In central London on the hottest day of the year, I had that joy of an aimless pre-gig wander through the capital, now so freed of traffic you can cross roads without looking and stand in the middle of busy streets taking pictures.
It’s a city spoilt only by the presence of Arsenal, and Spurs, and nostalgia seeking music fans pushing the price of Premier Inns up above £350 a night, and it’s wonderful.
Eaves Wilder, who probably deserves an exclamation mark in her name, is playing The Social, a few streets back from Oxford Street.
A different crowd to Soho round here, more post-work than tourist, and plenty of pub heritage.
I was always going to pick the closest Sam Smiths house,
whether the Cock still had cask OBB or not,
oh, it does, a tasty (if rather chilled) pint,
and I was always going to sneak a photo or two of this majestic interior,
before sinking into the bench seat and just admiring a Proper London Pub in full flow.
But now, as we learn of Humphrey’s death, I feel a slight sadness to have broken his rules, even if his London pubs rarely enforced them.
Matthew (here) and Peter (here) have written lovely, sensible tributes to Mr Smith, a divisive character for sure.
So I‘ll just thank him for his pubs, and his underrated beer, and send my love to his family.
retiredmartin 