Why I Love The Elephant's Head

Why I Love The Elephant’s Head

Benjamin Franklin once said, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Now – aside from the fact that God is a myth, and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t love you (I mean, look at you) – I think our favorite drunken diplomat hit the nail on the head: beer is the best. Beer won’t judge you if you drink too much of it; it won’t be offended if you knock it over. It will, however, warm your hops-craving heart and put you to sleep when you normally couldn’t. Most importantly though, it will make the boring people you surround yourself with all the more interesting. I learned all of these things in one great bar: The Elephant’s Head.

The Elephant’s Head is simple, yet elegant. The prices are low and the morals too. A quiet, English-style pub by day and a figurative brothel by night. Beer enthusiasts; wine fanatics; wet pussies at a premium (the drink and otherwise).

We were walking down Camden High Street; I had a flask of JD gently caressing my right testicle and a cigarette drooping from the corner of my mouth. We hadn’t made plans, but it was often the case that these nights would turn out the best. Hung over from the night before, drinking was a necessity, but moving overly far to do so was not. We passed Lock 17 pub walking towards the underground. It was dead – as always. The plan was to jump on the train and head east, but on our walk we passed the dingy little Asian take-away place on the corner of the markets run by the guy who sounds like a disgruntled wildebeest. This caught our attention and we realised we were hungry. Stopping there to get us a “Mix & Match” for three pounds, I gazed along the skyline to come across a gigantic elephant hindering my view of the grey and unimpressive London sky. I was intrigued. As I neared closer, I realised that the elephant was a symbol for a pub; this was our place.

sign

Walking in at around 4pm, I asked myself who all these disenchanted, entitled, suit-wearing wankers were who were stealing all the seats and drinking tea instead of beer. My friend and I were instantly deterred, but as my mother once told me, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I looked to the back and saw a jukebox. Now I am a firm believer in the rating of a pub being directly related to the music that its jukebox has on it, so I walked over. The first page featured the likes of Pink and Taylor Swift. “Here we go,” I thought. As I flicked the page, I came across Led Zeppelin IV; that was it for me. 20p later, Rock & Roll was resounding throughout the pub and my friend and I had a beer in our hands dancing throughout the building in an attempt to fuck these wankers off. The longer we went on, the more obtrusive we became, and they were soon fleeing the venue as if we posed a danger to their wanky prerogative and undue agenda in a London pub at 4.30pm on a Saturday afternoon.

We went outside to have a smoke, thinking about calling it quits at this pub: “Shitty,” we thought. On re-entering to pick up our creamy and delicious London Pride ale however, we noticed a shift in the tenor of the bar. A bunch of seriously babin’ birds had waltzed in. Shit. Yeah.

Little did we know at the time, but we had just stumbled into a pub that would play home to our shenanigans for the foreseeable future. By 6 o’clock, the pub was full of a bunch of legends sucking beers back like nothing I had ever seen before. Shots of tequila were flying around and I don’t even think anyone was paying for them; I certainly wasn’t. I nipped in to the bathroom to have a little sip of my flask, only to be rudely interrupted by a man bungling into the cubicle to put some cocaine in his nose. I don’t know if he saw me or not but it didn’t seem to matter to him. One line: racked, two lines: racked, three lines: short pause… then racked. This dude was nailing it. He stood up and looked at me and screamed, “COWABUNGA!” before scurrying off into the masses.

It reached midnight: typically the time where all of these kinds of pubs would close around London, because the city is a joke. However, at midnight, this place was just getting started. I asked the sexy Slovakian bartender what time it closed and she looked at me with some very sad eyes and exclaimed softly, “2”.  We partied on until 2, and there was no way this place was closing. It was beyond capacity, and although last drinks had been called, people were buying three-four backup beers just to keep them going. By this time, I was sucking back Fosters beer; “purely Australian” they said – yeah right.  It hit 3 and people were being shuffled out – not in your typically Australia-cunty-security-guard manner, but in a nice way which made you want to come back just to get kicked out all over again.

Gigantic elephants heads fueled the next few months, and I established quite the rapport with the workers there. Cheaper beers and wetter pussies than usual meant a good time for everyone all the time.  The Elephant’s Head comes highly recommended, by me and by everyone I ever took there. I assure you that you will leave will less dignity than when you walked in.

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