Sitting proudly on the corner of Broad Lane, Mannions Prince Arthur is in many ways an old-school north London Irish pub . It is equidistant from Tottenham Hale and Seven Sisters Tube stations, a stone’s throw from the Walthamstow Marshes. The interior is everything you’d hope for: a pool table, a long bar and a life-sized mural of Samuel Beckett, brooding over the room from behind various sports screens.
The real centrepiece, however — the pub’s pride and joy — is a portrait of the landlord and landlady riding a horse through the countryside; an image as grand as it is unexpected. It is also my local. When our boiler packed up one freezing Sunday last December, Mannions took us in.
It has housed us through sickness and through health. With a pint in hand and a packet of Taytos, it’s our home away from home. Despite its old-man boozer credentials, Mannions is very much the hangout du jour.
We all know Guinness is having its moment with the Gen Z crowd — designer JW Anderson included — and Mannions is the public house embodiment of the vibe. Grandad clothes are in vogue, but the new lot are taking things a step further, embracing Grandad pub culture , too. As a 25-year-old Londoner, I’m here for it — no matter how many pints of Guinness I might have to wince through.
My generation loves traditional pubs. More than 34 of them shut every month on average in the UK, and yet the ones I go to are packed with 20-somethings. My friends and I rarely go to clubs , p.