The Warwick pub in Soho is one of those places that, although only hazily remembered in any material sense, feels acutely redolent of my formative working years in London. These were the dank, weirdly featureless chain bars that other junior writers and I would duck into for watery pints of Staropramen; the noisy waypoint between the press party canapé dinners we all basically subsisted on, and a costly snooze on a Southeastern train to Zone 4.
I cannot think of losing my very first magazine job at 22 — and feeling that I was professionally finished and would probably have to go back to working at the Bluewater H&M — without also thinking of The Green Man on Berwick Street, a splayed packet of Nobby’s Nuts, and the not especially consoling roar of Champions League football on the telly.
