Is it the all-vinyl jukebox? Is it the tatty velvet furniture? Is it old habits dying hard? Whatever the reason, London still loves Bradley’s, a two-floor cornucopia of straw-donkey-level Spanish tack just off the wrong end of Oxford Street.
A hotch-potch of local workers, weary shoppers and amorous foreign-exchange students fills the cramped two-floor space, enraging passing taxi drivers as they spill on to the narrow street outside.
All are happy to pay slightly over the odds for draught Cruzcampo, San Miguel and Budvar, the highlights of a fairly limited drinks selection that’s more about quantity than quality.
By contrast, no one’s exactly happy to use the toilets, but their poor condition is generally seen as a price worth paying.