“The Taps is a pretty depressing, marginally unfriendly shop-conversion Irish pub - the kind of place you can only see inside properly through the door when someone is entering or leaving. It might pick up on weekends, but on the basis of our midweek visit, leave it for the locals who like shop-conversion Irish pubs.”

                                                             ----  Fancyapint.com

What makes a pub then? Because it’s not just the building. It can’t possibly just be that, because if it were we’d be in some trouble, since there’s certainly no doubting that she’s not much to look at from the outside – and what she looks like from the outside is what she is: a shop conversion Irish pub.

Inside – well, it’s not overly inspiring, but it is cozy. A long bar, wooden floors, stone work and fireplace. Plasmas dotted around, row of draught pumps, fridges for the bottles and shelves for the spirits. It’s certainly not the Princess Louise in Holborn that’s for sure, but then where is.

(Or - say it quietly - the Kings Head in the Enfield Town Market Place, for that matter).

What she is however, is what she is. And that for damn sure isn’t the building. For if it were...well, I just covered that.

What the Taps is...what the Taps is....well, try it is this way: the Taps is the place where Brodie and Dan had their leaving drink when they went travelling around the world; and it’s the place where they celebrated their return. The Taps is half a dozen Christmas Eves shared and New Years seen in. The Taps is Christmas Parties until 6 in the morning, and impromptu, uncalled for, regretted lock-ins on a hundred School nights. The Taps is where I drank (and drank) for weeks after my mum died. The Taps is England football World Cup elation and misery shared; the Ashes won, Liverpool coming back from 3 nil down to win the European Cup, Spurs coming back from 2 nil down to banish a 17yr curse against Arsenal, Tom Watson almost banishing his age to win the Open. The Taps is the Lions coming oh so close in 2008, 3-1 against Internationale Milan. It's Nadal/Federer, Mayweather/Hatton.

The Taps is watching Sky News together in silence on July 7^th 2005.

The Taps is a thousand crosswords puzzled over with friends. The Thesaurus checked, the internet scoured. The Taps is a hundred arguments, tens of fallings out, scores of friends made, innumerable ridiculous jokes told and a hundred lock-ins just for the hell of it. The Taps is books borrowed and DVDs lent.

The Taps is promotions celebrated, break-ups gotten over and break-ups caused, happiness shared and private misery endured. The Taps is long honest, conversations about life and love and politics and morality over too many drinks and at too late an hour, while it silently snows outside.

The Taps is friendship and the people.

The Taps is Jade and Charlotte, Len and Dan, Matt and Alice, Daryl and Judy. The Taps is Booker, my brother, Adam, Cooper, Gareth, Casey, Jim, Irena, Pete, Gus, Michelle, Fran, Deon…the Taps is too many people to say. The Taps is all of those people. Their laughter, their anger, their jokes and their stories. It's their bad days and their good days. Their advice and their stresses. Their pride in their kids and their fears for their jobs.

The Taps….well, apparently the Taps is a pretty depressing, marginally unfriendly shop-conversion Irish pub. The kind of place you can only see inside through the door properly when someone is entering or leaving.

And if you believe that I'll tell you another.