The Faltering Fullback — Restaurant in London

There’s something intimate, but vaguely intimidating, about this rambling, venerated little pile just off the Stroud Green Road: while its Tardis-like interior (the exterior needs, genuinely, a review to itself) contains a dimly lit and high circular bar, stool tables, booths, old gig posters, signed Arsenal shorts, TVs and more, the feeling of claustrophobia is strangely hard to ignore, heightened by the large, but tinted and small-panelled windows that darkly surround the front part of the pub. On my visit this evening (my third?) the cavernous back room was full of students (this is very much a pub that feels like an extension of Camden) so I lurked in the front section, and bagged a secluded table, only to be passed by a couple the female half of which was loudly complaining to her companion about the preponderance of non-Irish people in the place and, within a few moments, to become aware of an older couple (Cork?) who almost hovered briefly (as if eyeing up my berth resentfully) before taking the smaller, darker table to my right, where they muttered darkly for a while (well, he did: although I must stress I don’t believe he was muttering about me) before moving to a newly free, and presumably more suitable table. Nevertheless, relaxation was to be had at mine, the shaking floorboards just to the side of me notwithstanding (and this is a pub with a lot of internal traffic), until, the first pint of Moretti (ordered at 11:05) having slipped down quite nicely, I wandered innocently to the bar (at 11:35) only to be told by the wide-eyed, apologetic barmaid that the pub had stopped serving. Fair enough they were evidently not serving till twelve - Google Maps does sometimes get it wrong - but a call for last orders, or a bell, would have been helpful. As it was, I stowed away my iPad and headed for the door, unnoticed, especially by the young wannabe telling his mates how he had “nearly got in a fight” with someone selling “fake merch” at a gig. Who isn’t opposed to fakery, I wondered? And left behind the tobacco adverts, and shouters, and wannabe Pete Dohertys; as I headed into the damp, cool, liberating...

As it wears a heavy beard of ivy and wallflowers, you'd be forgiven for walking right past the Faltering Fullback, and if you did, you'd be sadly missing out on the delights of its labyrinthine and seemingly cavernous interiors. A roomy, single-story front bar leads to a huge function room and betwixt them a multi-story outdoor seating area, with top and bottom floors linked by a zigzagging staircase. The whole place is strewn with plants and lovely bits of bric-a-brac. The broad shoulders of the bar hold up a wide selection - roughly a half-dozen ales and a few lagers - and, behind the bar, there are wines and spirits galore. It's fully stocked for drinks, and if you're hungry then they also have tantalising Thai food on offer. I've not tried it myself but my fellow guests assured me that it's top notch. I visited on a weeknight, it was busy but not packed to the rafters. I never had to wait long for service which always came with a grin and a friendly word. I was with smokers and so we moved around the various rooms, sitting in each of the areas, and I'm happy to report that the smoking area is partially covered, so I didn't have to freeze my buns off while they puffed away, and moving around in the pub made it seem as though I visited a number of establishments that night, rather than just the one. It's a sports pub that really doesn't feel like a sports pub. It's like someone tucked the Chelsea Flower Show inside a student boozer. The clientele that night proved friendly and made us feel very welcome. All in all, the place has spirit and charm and, after a few, well-poured pints, I felt spirited and charmed. The pub that wears a beard of flowers is as warm and welcoming as you'd expect. I recommend a visit in the summer when the flowers will...

An intermittent customer, today Google just prompts me to review one of the most beautiful pubs one can find in London and I promise you it is. In 2012 I was in my early forties and my living la vida loca was full on — which I've come to realise in my latest visit last night.

My whole eating experience at the FF can be summarised in sacks of probably overpriced taytos — why suffer when you have a handful of decent eateries in a 500 yard-radius. But that must be the payment for the evident efforts they make to maintain FF's distinct decor, which has enhanced my evenings with mates and romantic dates alike; it turns out that the guys I was with last night were so eager to go there — and yes, I knew I could be the proud tour conductor of their first. I've read some reviews; I agree they have a fairly good selection of tap and bottled beers while they could improve that of ciders, and that their bouncers do not appear to be the very friendly sort really.

Inside, the FF was bustling. Not a surprising turnout for a Saturday evening but — am I becoming an old git, or was it too juvenile and noisy (I'm asking this question 24 hours after arriving from Málaga in Spain, where noise levels are serious)? We walked the whole place and I was showing my friends around, they were fascinated by the place but increasingly disenchanted at (I thought) not being able to find seats; what was a surprise was that they told me they loved the place, but they suggested to go elsewhere as it was too noisy — they are 37, 36 and 32 years old.

I'm just hoping the FF doesn't die at the hands of its...