I used to drink in there a fair bit when visiting back home. Prior to that I was very fond of The Bacchus a bit further up off Grey Street. Was once virtually ran over by a drunken mouthy twat in a Fiesta while I was stood outside The Cooperage in a crowd. Never got over the fact he had the temerity to shout at ME for bouncing off his door.

Was very taken with The Grapes on Narrow Street in Limehouse when I lived there in the early '90's.

I first danced with Mrs B in The Black Cat in Camden.

I don't frequent any decent pubs at all anymore. Apart from The Lamb of course! It's full of us!

and Im hard work.

Where I live.. had, at one time, the highest number of juicers per head of population and area in the country. Most closed a long, long time ago. But I still have six pubs within two minute's walk.

Pubs I have frequented and loved:

The Bold Forester in Sarisbury Green. My first local.

The Queen Of Hearts in Fallowfield. Where I got to know my university friends.

The Whitworth in Rusholme. Where those friendships were cemented.

Moncks Bar (now Monk's) in Portsmouth. More friendships made. And where I met a girl one New Year's Eve. She eventually married me and gave birth to our son.

The Sally Port in Portsmouth. More tales than I care to mention. One day I will tell of Sean the chef who played bass for Freak Power.

I haven't been there for years but they used to have a fabulous selection of real ales: Hook Norton, Summer Lightning and the very hardcore Headcracker. On Sunday nights a folk duo would perform and the everyone would join in with very drunken versions of The Wild Rover and the like.

I remember another good one; The City Pipe on Newgate Street EC1. They sold snuff and their own brand of ciggies in METAL BOXES, how PiL is that? One drunken afternoon session led to a bet as to how many times we could touch the doorman's impressive whiskers. I managed it 5 times before we were slung out, arriving back at work covered in snuff and stinking to high heaven

The Bass House in Spalding, where we were informed that we were not to pay for any food or drinks and that if we were spotted eating or drinking anywhere else in town we would be barred. We also had to go and watch the pub football team on Sunday morning before re-enacting the dubious penalty decision on stage later and where our drummer succesfully argued that since it was pound-a-pint night, he should have a pint of gin and tonic which was, of course, delivered by the barman who had been nominated as our designated server for the duration of our stay and threatened with the sack if any of our glasses were seen to be empty during the course of the evening. the carpet stuck to your shoes and we once played a New Year's Day lunchtime acoustic gig to the bare arse of an unconcsious girl who, it turned out, had murdered her husband earlier that day.
Don't look for it, it's not there any more.

Peveril of the Peak (still there - a red-brick oasis in a hideous regen area now)
The Shady Lady, Oxford Road - once fled after Celtic fans started standing on tables and urinating
The Rembrandt - first glimpse of what would later be the Canal Street scene
The Old Garett - now The Garett - seedy
The Salisbury - good for last train home as just up the steps to Oxford Road station, top pool table downstairs

All in the early eighties not that bothered about your exact date of birth.

in Main Street, Mallow,Co. Cork. You could go in there on a Thursday afternoon , around 5 o clock, have a quiet pint, read the Cork Examiner and the only sound you'd hear was the crackling of the logs, the ticking of the old fireside clock and ould "Patch" a 13-year old German-Shepherd cross snoring.
Alas, it later got filled with modernity.

The only time I went in this place it was full of pensioners and stank of piss, never went in again. My watering hole of choice in Gateshead when visiting was usually the Trafalgar( now gone.) Down here in Plymouth I am quite fond of The Fortescue.

My memories are the pubs in London and in particular round Chiswick.
I worked in Gunnersbury and we used to frequent the pubs round Kew Bridge.
The Bridge Hotel, run by two sweet old ladies who were maiden sisters and Tim the barman. Best Youngs in the area and one of the old girls would always do you a welsh rarebit no matter the time if you were feeling peckish. My mate and me one night were put in charge of the kitty and we drank double scotches everytime we went for a round. We kept asking for more cash and surprisingly no one questioned us!!

The Star and Garter across the road. Went there as it had a great pool table. One of our crowd fancied himself as a bit of a Fast Eddie and took on one of the local "faces" It got heavy when the car keys were thrown onto the table and we were edging out with cues in our hands!!

The Wagon and Horses, Courage pub, cheaper than the rest and in the local phrase, a bit dodgy. The seafood stall in the car park got torched one night because the stall holder hadn't paid his "rent" quickly enough for the local, ahem, businessman.

The Thatched Cottage in Shepherds Bush. Big QPR pub across the road from a station house so the place was always full of coppers and lock-ins were never a problem. Used to do smashing filled rolls after the game at Loftus Road.

These days it's in all the tourist books, the Rough Guides and suchlike. The Beryl Cook connection has upped its profile enormously. It's a cracking boozer, and has miraculously managed to remain largely unchanged over the four decades during which I've enjoyed its charms. Draught Bass straight from the barrel, no TV, no blaring music, just loud friendly chatter and an atmosphere to match.

In my youth the Barbican was a working harbour, and the fishing boats would be tied up four deep along the quay opposite. These days the place is awash with students and media types, and looks more like one of those self-important little harbours that litter the French coastline, Cancale for example, all poncy eateries and wine bars. At least the Barbican's restaurants don't have waiters trained at the de Gaulle School of Gallic Charm. They have Australian students instead.

The Barbican has changed almost beyond recognition, but it's good that Plymouth is finally making the most of what is after all one of its crown jewels. Even if the fishing boats have thinned out alarmingly, The Dolphin remains a gem.

A true haunt of mine - a little Free House where you pretty much knew everyone in there. Late night lock ins, Shepherd Neame Master Brew (used to smell like a wet dog), raucous New Year's Eves, Welsh Merf on the untuned Piano, the occasional folk duo and French bread and cheese on the bar - courtesy of whoever had returned on the ferry from Calais or Boulogne.

Too many to mention. Back in the late 80s, over a hundred pubs and a dozen curry house in a small town. It'd break my heart to think they're closing down.
Throw a stone from my house and you could hit 5 pubs. You could hit Morris dancers over our garden fence, which was probably the right thing to do.
- We did a timed run of 2.5 seconds to the White Hart Tap across the road. Played 'pick the worst records on the juke box' till the landlord chucked us out. Spent more time there than our living room.
- The Lower Red Lion was a big favourite. Great kebabs on the way home too. The governor organised a trip to the big Heineken brewery in Luton and stuffed it up (I forget how), proving he couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery.
- The White Hart Hotel at the end of our street. Very classy.
- The Goat a couple of blocks away - CAMRA central
- The Fighting Cocks down by the cathedral, historical like
- 6 Bells and The Rose And Crown, tudor warmth
...and many more great boozers (well used to be anyway). A quick web search shows they're at least still all active.

Down here in Sydney, pub culture is not so great.... The Lord Nelson in the Rocks does a great line of their own beers. The Oaks in Neutral Bay, great BBQ (but standard aussie beer...). The Balmain pub crawl has some stand outs (The London, Dry Dock, Riverview, Exchange etc). Paddington has a few, but nothing I'd cross the city for.

was in Marylebone, and, as is always the case, I can't remember what it was called. It was run by a former body builder, film stuntman and z-list actor who was one of Rank's "gong hitters" during the 1950's, and the walls were decorated with front-of-house stills from some of his films and pictures of him covered in gravy browning posing in his trunks.

I remember one year he was so impressed with his Christmas decorations that he left them until July, and quite often the only other people in there apart from Me and me mate was none other than Wendy Richard (resplendent in furs) and her small retinue.

I don't suppose anyone remembers what it was called, do they?

There's a sign on the door of this great pub which warns: 'Please do not feed Danny despite his persuasive moves, he's been bringing up bile for three days'. Danny is not a desperate regular, he's the pub dog with give-me-a-crisp eyes.

The Sair is a former cottage, about 300 years old, with stone floors, real fires in ranges, its own beers and a fabulous jukebox (plenty of blues, rock 'n' roll and sixties stuff).

Huddersfield is a great place for good boozers - the Rat and Ratchet, the Star, the Grove and the Sportsman - all freehouses or owned by small companies. They have found a successful formula for good pubs that seems blindingly obvious - nice decor, good beer, good food and friendly staff.

Elsewhere I like the Crown Posada, the Marble Arch in Manchester, the Star in Belgravia and the Traveller's Friend in Woodford Green, Essex.

I think the recession has weeded out a lot of shabby pubs with foul beer and muttonhead staff and customers. They won't be missed and the good ones still shine.

just around the corner from Word Towers and opposite the school that the kids who sang on 'Another Brick In the Wall' came from is The Mucky Pup - a rather ace little place. The pub dog is called Pocket but don't try n feed him pork scratchings as you will get a kick up the arse

Steven Wells' wake was held there

http://www.nme.com/blog/index.php?blog=10&p=7040&more=1&c=1

Me and my friends recently had a major Facebook-flashback when someone found a group dedicated to 'people who used to drink in the car park of the Flamingo' complete with a load of old photographs; I first got smuggled in there by my sister in 1990 (when I was about 14), started drinking there properly in 91. All seemed very normal at the time in a 'this is just our local' kind of way.

Looking back, it was one of the strangest pubs I've drunk in. Huge place on the ring road leading out of town by the Fairfield - a fairly deserted spot apart from the local Kaleidoscope needle exchange. Was always absolutely rammed on Tuesdays (pound a pint night) and Fridays, but never Saturdays for some reason. General mecca for every punk, skinhead, goth, indie kid, metaller, grebo and piss-stained biker in that entire corner of south west London (remember talking to people in there who'd come from Brixton just to go for a drink). The whole place was like a geological cross section of eighties counter culture. DJ Pineapple (aging cross between Noel Redding and Rob Tyner) played a solid set of old goth and punk hits regularly reducing half the pub to a huge mosh pit.

It turned its toes up with very little fanfare in about 1996 when we were away at university; became The Tup for a short while and is currently the Flamingo And Firkin. The car park which used to house all the under age drinkers and acid dealers has had luxury flats built over it (like every other bit of open ground in the area). It's now a flag-festooned rugby pub, but when I still like to think of it as a pub where at 9.30pm on a Friday evening you could reliably see someone getting cheerfully chucked through a table as 'Temple of Love' started up.

Probably the strangest thought for me now is that those 'ancient old punks' who were drinking in there in 1991 were a) probably younger than I am now and b) were probably first-wave punks.

Me and my friends recently had a major Facebook-flashback when someone found a group dedicated to 'people who used to drink in the car park of the Flamingo' complete with a load of old photographs; I first got smuggled in there by my sister in 1990 (when I was about 14), started drinking there properly in 91. All seemed very normal at the time in a 'this is just our local' kind of way.

Looking back, it was one of the strangest pubs I've drunk in. Huge place on the ring road leading out of town by the Fairfield - a fairly deserted spot apart from the local Kaleidoscope needle exchange. Was always absolutely rammed on Tuesdays (pound a pint night) and Fridays, but never Saturdays for some reason. General mecca for every punk, skinhead, goth, indie kid, metaller, grebo and piss-stained biker in that entire corner of south west London (remember talking to people in there who'd come from Brixton just to go for a drink). The whole place was like a geological cross section of eighties counter culture. DJ Pineapple (aging cross between Noel Redding and Rob Tyner) played a solid set of old goth and punk hits regularly reducing half the pub to a huge mosh pit.

It turned its toes up with very little fanfare in about 1996 when we were away at university; became The Tup for a short while and is currently the Flamingo And Firkin. The car park which used to house all the under age drinkers and acid dealers has had luxury flats built over it (like every other bit of open ground in the area). It's now a flag-festooned rugby pub, but when I still like to think of it as a pub where at 9.30pm on a Friday evening you could reliably see someone getting cheerfully chucked through a table as 'Temple of Love' started up.

Probably the strangest thought for me now is that those 'ancient old punks' who were drinking in there in 1991 were a) probably younger than I am now and b) were probably first-wave punks.