This is not a love song

The Railway, Radlett, as it wasThe Railway, Radlett, as it now is - Prezzo!
Graffiti at The Railway, Radlett
This is not a chicken, this is not a Chardonnay and this is not a fucking PissyPizzaItaliarealitytrough, this is The Railway.

This is where every young gun in Radlett has earned his stripes and lost his youth. It’s where hearts and tables were broken most Saturday nights, it’s where the Clash, The Roses and Led Zeppelin played side by side for the price of a piece of dried up garlic bread. This is where young men (and a few girls) danced around the mini roundabout in the summer of ’96, some naked and everyone drunk on the joy of our victory over Spain, sidestepping firecrackers and traffic and dreaming of a future brighter than the one we’re living.

It’s where a landlord – God bless you John – realised that a few free plates of sausages and chips did more to avert the violence than a plethora of ASBOs. It’s where I nursed a broken heart for the Summer and started laughing again whilst I forgot what I was crying about. It’s where the Friday Club met at five and stayed till midnight, where stolen kisses disappeared into the night, and the music played on long after. It’s where I found fighting and friendship, and Jim swore that he’d never, ever fucking eff and blind again, if only, if only, England won.

Like I said, this is not a fucking restaurant, this is The Railway.


  • Now, that’s a fuckin’ BLOG! Brilliant, takes me right back to the Castle where I lost my early youth to Special Brew and cheap fags.

  • Astrid, is that “come on!!” “let’s ‘ave it!”, or “come on!!” “that’s bollox” ?

  • Oh – that was a sort of rabble-rousing ‘come on you bastards less-av-it’ as opposed to ‘what on earth are you going on about’.

  • That roughly defines the two stratas of society that exist in our ‘burb. The ‘let’s have its” don’t have anything anymore except for an ‘estate’ pub and Jenny Burgers. And the “don’t get its” get everything, as long as it comes in the form of pseudo italian dog’s breakfasts that would send any self respecting cook running to the hills, with mass produced ‘abstract’ art on the walls and mournful Eastern European waitresses that by day are at the beck and call of the self-same people but as au pairs (poor cows what a double whammy).

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