Some years ago in a small town near Tours, France, I went with old pals to the only bar open on a Sunday evening. It was the sort that appeared nondescript and unassuming, merely a resting post for locals and anyone else around; a place to drink several small beers between bowls of French fries far better than anyone could have imagined. But if the outside portrayed little, the inside was a cavernous space filled with red and blue lighting, elaborate art and a corner-bound karaoke stage as ramshackle as any. And the people: a small, portly woman who sang like a landlocked mermaid in dainty black boots; a trio of old boys, wined and moustached and watching on; a fun bartender with their merry band of friends; a husband and wife who may or may not have been hoping to invite some of us home.
These romantic, ridiculous places exist in London. Sporting Club de Londres is one, Tiroler Hut another. Then there’s Laryn, found on a meandering stretch of road between Brixton and Clapham and perhaps the maddest of all. A café by day and a karaoke bar by night, it’s chaotic to the point of delirium, almost militantly so. Find it not far from True Flavours, known to locals — I used to be one — for its pepper steak. Laryn is a red saloon with cocktails on tap, fairy lights hanging any which way, small TV screens, a dart board, a whirring fan as wonky as the revellers it attempts to cool down. Many drink lager, cheap wine and shots of sambuca and tequila. In the glow of Bud Light neon, they lean, sipping vodka Red Bulls before a dance as if this could be south London’s rougher version of Nam Long Le Shaker. Remember that place? The iconic Sloane Ranger favourite that once denied entry to Prince Harry for wearing the wrong shoes.
