Review of The George Inn, 38 Queen Street, Gravesend (From News Shopper)

PubSpy reviews The George Inn in Gravesend

3:02pm Monday 21st November 2011 in Pub Spy By PubSpy

The George Inn, 38 Queen Street, Gravesend

DECOR * (a vacuum of interest) DRINK *** (ales and lagers aplenty) PRICE *** (fairly reasonable) ATMOSPHERE * (I’m a PubSpy, get me out of here) STAFF *** (friendly and served me with a smile. Can’t ask for much more here)

FRENCH philosopher Jean Paul Sartre famously stated hell is other people. Nowhere is this more true than at The George Inn.

As a chilly November wind lashed at my face and blew my hair into what resembled a Mr Whippy, I sought refuge in this prominent boozer opposite an indoor market and a short walk from the River Thames.

The warning signs were there — a weather-beaten sign, the pie-eyed pensioners sucking on soggy roll-ups outside — but I foolishly chose to give it the benefit of the doubt.

Inside was what I can only describe as a museum of natural ugliness — and that was just the punters lining the bar.

Little effort has been made to make this pub cosy or homely.

Faded group photographs of anonymous individuals, stiffly posing as if in a school portrait, are dotted aimlessly around the small front room.

I spot one mildly interesting black and white picture of a sailing yacht but the overall theme here seems to be one of joyless banality.

Pervading everything is a choking damp smell and the only pro in this hole is, as a blank canvas, there is limitless potential for improvement.

With the absence of any discernable atmosphere, it’s no surprise most regulars here are busy getting so hammered they are thankfully blind to their pitiful surroundings.

It’s a spit and sawdust sort of place. But mostly spit.

I decided to join them, ordering a pint of Shepherd Neame’s Master Brew (a fairly reasonable £3).

I quickly found a table away from the lairy Northern Irishman at the bar, who was barely intelligible apart from the expletive which he spat out every three words into a sentence with more fury than Ian Paisley if forced to watch An Audience with The Pope after a Saturday night bender in Belfast.

Instead my ears were bleeding listening to another tune.

The culprits were a trio of drinkers sat near the front door — one resembled Michael Barrymore after a 10-year jail term, another Bob The Builder’s junkie brother and a woman who looked like the mother from cult 70s children’s show The Flumps.

The conversation revolved around the current series of Big Brother (at least somebody is still watching), Jade Goody and Katie Price’s silicone boobs.

With half a pint still left, like the imprisoned BB contestants, I prayed to be evicted from this increasingly unpleasant watering hole.

Of course, it serves me right for eavesdropping but it wasn’t long, however, before the threesome’s chatter was drowned out by the jukebox blaring out Maroon 5’s recent hit Moves Like Mick Jagger.

With Mick having lived in north Kent as a child, I saw the song as a sign from the Stones frontman and, like old rubber lips, I jiggled my sinuous hips, clapped my hands gaily and strode out of the pub faster than Jumping Jack Flash.

Believe me, this was definitely no gas, gas, gas.

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