Its brickwork is decorated with overlapping graffiti, which nobody will ever be able to wash off entirely, and the bright green paintwork on the windows and doors is now chipped and peeling, exposing the wood beneath. A long time ago, someone – a landlord hoping for a different sort of clientele, perhaps – hung flower baskets along its frontage. But that landlord has clearly long since gone and the flowers have withered and died, leaving a mess of weeds and straw, which partially obscure the pub sign. Strictly speaking, the pub is named The King’s Arms, but it has become known for the music venue in its bowels and now everybody calls it ‘The Bunker’. You don’t even have to go into the main part of the pub to get to the venue (only old men drink in the pub); The Bunker has its own door at the side. Then it’s down a long flight of stairs, which reek of stale beer and urine, to a dimly lit basement where you’ll find another bar and a cavernous room with a stage at the far end.
