I live in Cricklewood. There, I said it.
My local pub is called the Cricklewood. To enter The Cricklewood (The Cricklewood. Does it really deserve the definite article?) is to enter a world of consolidated loans, bad debt and crap teeth. This a no-frills pub for proper drinkers, who watch normal telly on the big screen when the football's done. This is a boozer's boozer. Not surprisingly, there are never many women in the Cricklewood, and on some nights none at all. How different this would look in another part of town! But it doesn't come any less gay than in here, all these Irishmen staggering into the toilet, pissed out of their heads, wearing the same clothes their own fathers would have worn to church. I can not imagine these men with wives or lives outside of these clothes or this pub.