School of Comedy

I'm Connie and you're in my boozer. You can't sit there. That's Terry's table. If he sees you there he'll chuck a stool at you. And not the wooden kind, neither. The brown kind, what comes out of a dog.

I been landlady 28 years, man and boy. My Granddad run it before the war. Stabbed some bloke for it. Then my old man stabbed him for it and then I stabbed it off him - so it's a family business. I love it, but blow me, the punters get on my wick. I'm standing here, quietly watching the optics, when they walk up, bold as brass and start giving it all that. 'Can I have a drink?' 'Why do the crisps taste of petrol?' ‘Have you got a cloth, Terry's just thrown a stool at me?' Takes the michael, dunnit.

That's why you got to have a stric' door policy. No work clothes, no vests, no dirty shoes. No slingbacks, no peeptoes and none of them slouchy boots. No ponces in suits. No women, no children, no blokes. The French are frowned upon. You can't bring your own booze. Or food. And you can't leave till you've eaten a pie. See, our pies are legend. They got all the fillings - meat, offal, sausage, meat - and they come with a choice of chips or nothing. Sauce costs extra. As does cutlery. Them pies is why, hands down, mine's the best boozer in London and anyone who says different's a total Gareth Hunt.