The Chandos
Will Hatchett
This pub is London's unfriendliest scene
The decor – brown and corrupted maroon
Stacked chairs, like a junk shop or lumber room
A pool table's violent shade of green
The locals display their team's tattered flag
It’s a faded badge of hostility
Fierce pride. Grimy authenticity
Everyone hating them is their bag
A giant screen dominates every angle
Raptly, they watch inarticulate men
Prod a small white ball, gracefully
Around a vivid green rectangle
For Christ's sake don't tell them.
It’s a kind of poetry. They would kill me
