It’s rare to find a bar so abominable you can barely speak its name. A dive so gruesome you consider abandoning your drink just to escape the place. A drinking den so nauseating you lose your dinner within moments of entering. But find one I have.
It’s in Brixton. Beneath some railway arches. It looks like a fish n’ chip shop. But there are no fishies here. No chips either. Just desolation… and alcohol.
The owners have optimistically named it ‘Atlantis’. An interesting name which, I imagine, was supposed to conjure exotic images of a wondrous city beneath the sea, of golden sculptures and the love of Poseidon himself. Images which should be disregarded immediately and replaced with naught but a watery grave full of grief. That way you won’t be disappointed.
So What’s It Like?
Horrible. Abysmal. Distressing.
As far as I could tell the only connection with the sea was the bar’s walls, which were for some reason caked in a marvellous layer of moistness. A layer presumably made from the tears of recent visitors, tears which were, as far as I could tell, also trying to escape this ghastly parlour of panic.
The great unwashed.
When we attempted to gain access to this ill-fated chamber of cheerlessness the bouncer glanced over our IDs and then stood right in our way. What’s this? We wondered, for we were surely old enough.
“Can we go in then?” I said to him. He grunted at me, removing his bod from the doorway to allow us to pass. At first I thought this a strange way of encouraging customers to enter. But then it all became clear. He was trying to spare us. It was a sign. If only we had known.
Will I Find Love?
Depends on your standards I suppose. If you have any then it’s not looking good.
Should I Go?
If you do I’ll be disappointed in you.
1/10 (and that’s generous)