Some pubs do other pubs a favour. Sports dedicated bars ensure that footbalists are a minimal presence in normal places on match days. Gastro pubs provide a meeting point for wannabe foodies and allow good old pub grub to be served elsewhere. The Goat in Clapham is facilitating a meeting point for striped blazer wearing twonks called *insert name you only find being yelled at the Oxford- Cambridge Boatrace here* to elbow people willy nilly and shout boorish nonsense at each other on a Saturday night. Amidst this cloud of up and coming hedge fund fiddlers, bonus wanglers and libor rate fixers are the requisite hangers on and clusters of girls looking suspiciously like they confused the words ‘foundation’ and ‘Ronseal’. Huge thanks though to whoever arranged that all these people are here and not elsewhere inflicting their antics on society at large.

Whilst providing this valuable service, for which I am grateful, there are few other truly good things to say about The Goat. It’s not doing anything revolutionary, doesn’t exhibit an interesting history and beyond the chandeliers that look like saggy tits decorated with sequins the decor is pretty beige.

During one of my long waits at the bar I did have time to take in the marvellous array of options one has when choosing a drink at The Goat. They seem particularly proud of their collection of flavoured vodkas along the theme of ‘Foodstuffs Which When Combined With Vodka Will Almost Definitely Make You Violently Sick’ the highlight of which is surely Vegemite vodka. The pumps though are as sadly lacklustre as any Weatherspoons so unless you’re up for getting ‘bladdeded’ with the rugby lads on JagerBombs I’d steer clear.

My musings on the drink collection were cut short after a mere 13 waiting minutes by a barmaid who finally approached me and posed the question ‘Would I like something?’. Yes I though, yes I would, I’d like to know what I did in a previous life to be spending the night in this establishment. ‘I’ll have a rum and coke please’ came my actual response; not wanting to send her hurtling further into the pit of despair that her dead eyed stare told me she was already in.

Nice things. The bogs are spacious. It’s got a quiz machine. The menu looks like someone probably put a little bit of thought into it.

Review finished. Can I go and review a pub that’s not full of clots now?