Thomas Neale

BLEAK.
Just for a lark one night, pack your shiv and take a pub crawl around Watney Market. Begin at the Thomas Neale. Recently I returned home from a night in Hackney to police tape blocking off the premises and coppers taking accounts from shaken ladies in the alcove of a nearby estate. What were they shaken by? Who can tell. Could it, perhaps, have been the state of the track suits the ladies witnessed on the Thomas Neale locals? Couldn’t blame them for being a bit upset. This place makes the skin crawl.
I’m not sure where the BNP types that constitute the Thomas Neale’s local crowd actually live. I’ve never seen them in the neighbourhood, and I’m glad for this. The balance around these parts is delicate enough as it is, no need for real incendiaries.
Long story short: if you’re at the Thomas Neale you’ve got a reason to be at the Thomas Neale. If you find yourself there by accident, I suggest you reconsider.

The Thomas Neale is my local. In spite of it being less than a minutes walk from my front door I don’t tend to go there very much.
Has anyone ever been to Butlins or some other of those crappy holiday parks? If so you’ll probably have ended up at the dance hall venue thing they have there and you’ll understand the horror that this entails. This is exactly what the Thomas Neale reminds me of. I don’t know why but everything in there feels tacky and cheap and it has all the atmosphere of your local supermarket.
It does have some redeeming features including Sky TV if you’re really stuck for somewhere to watch the game and the drinks are pretty inexpensive. That said you can’t really enjoy these bonuses as you find yourself looking around thinking, what the hell am I doing here?