London Calling

Robin Brown leads a tour through London Road's character-filled pubs

Opposite the Eastern Bloc brutality of the Royal Liverpool University Hospital, the Old Fort was clearly, once upon a time, a knackered old pub full of old scousers coughing lungfuls of Capstan Full Strength and quaffing pints of mild.

Pubs near hospitals always have an extra edge of pathos. It’s easy to imagine the sick and the recovering seeking a medicinal pint, or blessed relief, from the Old Fort.

Nowadays it’s had a makeover and gained a smokeless stove. There are rows of old-fashioned condiment shakers, but it seems like a half-hearted protest against the MDF and Sky Sports.

Students will be nosing round next, and the crackheads, the crippled and the crims will have to seek a different drinking establishment.

Looming over the road, and looking bleaker by the second as the light fades, is The Royal. It is, perhaps, the last building on Earth you would associate with the royal family, or health for that matter. The whole area feels infected by the hospital, all slab grey concrete and rusted steel. A sick building. We are, indeed, in the arena of the unwell.

For the first, but not the last time, we realise how poor the choice of ales is. It’s Guinness all the way in from here. At least, that’s what we assume. Durty Nelly’s is selling a drink that is Guinness in name only.

What a name to conjure with. There are plenty of Dirty, Durty (its more authentic-sounding cousin) and Scruffy prefixes adorning Irish pubs. This one is as Durty as they come.

A bloke is skinning up in the toilets. He’s about six foot five. He may have come from the Royal.

“Are you students?” he asks, in a not-unfriendly manner. No, we’re not students.

“I’ve been in a good student pub,” he says, clearly keen to keep the conversation going. “AJs.”

The Augustus John’s, on the University of Liverpool campus, is not a good pub by my reckoning, but it seems unwise to disagree. It’s not the worst pub in the world, we reply.

He thinks about this for a second. “No,” he concurs. “This is the worst pub in the world.”

Looming over everything in the bar is an incredible, ornate ceiling and a large mural detailing the history of Durty Nelly herself. The room is dingy and lit by a sickly yellow light, so it’s largely illegible. It seems appropriate – Durty Nelly should be allowed to keep whatever secrets she may have tucked under her voluminous bloomers.

It’s a characterful place, if the character in question is half cut, missing a few teeth and has a shadow on the lung. One suspects that, no matter what, Durty Nellys will never get a makeover like the Old Fort – and quite rightly so. There’s nothing fun about this pub, and that makes me like it more. Pity about the beer.

On the way out, we notice a large cock and balls graffiti’d onto the door. Perhaps this is, in a way, the worst pub in the world. But I like it.

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