Disclaimer: this newsletter often mentions beer and pubs. You do not have to read this if your life has been affected by substance abuse.
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Last night I dreamt I went to the Durham Ox again. If it was real that would’ve been the third visit but fittingly both of my actual visits have had a dream-like quality. The Ox is a desi pub in Leicester and out of context it appears to be fairly humdrum compared to the many Indian boozers I’ve visited, enjoyed and writing about. It gives the impression of being a local pub for local people.
But it’s really so much more. The Durham Ox is Britain’s first desi pub - an answer to a question I’m often asked during the publicity phase of my book. Taken over by Soham Singh in 1962, it was even a news story then with the press hailing it as Britain's first Indian pub. I visited it out of curiosity for my book in February and it seemed fairly humdrum with a mainly white crowd with sardar uncles visiting on weekend evenings. It wasn’t a pub that I felt stood out and didn’t feel worthy of inclusion because I wouldn’t have recommended someone making the trip to it.
I visited on Monday as part of an ITV News interview and February seems to be an age ago. The faded, fraying carpet has been torn up, the old rickety bar replaced and the kitchen is now run by a professional team. It has the appeal of a Punjabi-run local, like the Scotsman in Southall, fused with a Gujju sports bar of north, north London. I now highly recommend it.
But instead of me - yet again - telling you my experiences of a desi pub I thought today I would imagine someone else visiting it giving you a different voice (of sorts).
You wake up at 8am, your flatmate slamming the door provides your daily alarm clock for 0p. Floorboards in your room (£1,000 pcm) creak and you hear the others in the kitchen before they - hopefully - scatter into their various rooms before you climb down the stairs.
Brush teeth, shower, change and you sit on the bed and think about last night. The bar had a wide range of drinks, each of which were laboriously explained after they were brought to your table. You remember frowning at the bill (£120), split three ways and the obscenity of your share only covering three drinks and some cheap olives.
Your overdraft (-£67) gets refreshed at payday (£1,850) and will go into the black for a few glorious days. You wonder if it’s worth it as the same faces are in the bars, cafes and street food haunts you visit. The area’s changed and the places which are affordable your friends laugh at, the places you loved to visit as a teenager - having a laugh, sharing drinks and stories. The Spoons. The Yates. The Ritzy.
You open your email but then put down your phone. The same messages from opaque colleagues trying to hint that there’s work to be done (but they’re not the ones to do it). They’re well versed in this bullshit and working at a museum was easy for them as they went to schools which were mausoleums to Britain's past. They grew up palming off work to others and why stop now when there’s a HR department to back them up?
But you were the first in the family to go to university. The first to move away. The first to lose the accent. And, rather aptly, you like firsts. You think of the time you visited the first printing press in Belgium, marvelling at the history contained in one building and how the printed word began. You remember more: the first tea clipper, the first computer, the first radio.
You pick up the phone, email in sick and take great pleasure in turning the “out of office” on. It’s time for another first and you spend hours thinking of where this will take you. A first that will invert your life and give you a link back to your previous world.
You’re sitting on a train. The seats are full of commuters and chippiness is in the air because the previous train was cancelled. You have a seat (£67) and you’re being made to feel guilty about this privilege by sharp elbows and stale breath. You look out of the window and see the Home Counties fly by, parts of green clinging on to London in vain.
Your flatmates think this is a hook-up, a rendezvous with (hopefully) romance. But it’s just a pub date. The train belches everyone out at Leicester and you pass a pub that your East London friends would tolerate - which feels inviting, safe. But boring.
You walk along a busy road and see Asian families hurrying past in the distance, and you think “have I made a mistake?”. The pub appears like an island, its lights piercing the grey gloom. Cars have parked outside it forming a leaky barrier, a poorly erected wall both not uninviting and not inviting. There’s all the paraphernalia of pubs in your childhood town - a mobility scooter, Sky TV adverts and a small neon sign saying “open welcome”.
The exterior was drab but when you open the door inside it’s a different pub. The exterior would impress your flatmates and the sound of the TVs aren’t overpowering but give a feel of discretion - you can talk among friends, without others hearing you unless you want them too.
The Asian bartender welcomes you into his world, he knows you’re a visitor but goes along with the charade that you visit frequently. It’s not just normal being served here, but the natural order of things. You order a pint of Guinness (£3.50), chicken lollipops with sauce and you take the glass when the milk stout settles.
You look around the pub. You’re not the only woman here drinking beer and an elderly person nods in approval as she looks up from her game of cards. An Asian family of three generations share a sizzling stack of meat with chili chips.
Chicken lollipops served with sauce
Then your food arrives and, finally, you feel like you’ve gained an experience worth paying for - soft chicken mixed with a hot sauce. You wanted to be transplanted to your hometown but instead you’ve been split in two. You’re back to the countryside. Back to Yorkshire.
But you’re also in the foothills of the Himalayas about to embark on a South Asian adventure after your visit to Britain’s oldest desi pub. You feel anew and see this country for what it is once the stereotypes have been torn down. Britain is this pub. Britain is the Durham Ox.
Not having a great time of things mental health wise because I have chronic sleep apnoea. Cheer me up by hitting like on this article or sharing it on social media!
