Trowbridge House, Bath, Somerset

I entered the Trowbridge House faced with the choice of doors, lounge or public bar, and chose the bar. A County Cricket cup match was on telly and a sour faced old fart perched behind a pint of lager scowled at me from the shadows. The lager looked good to me so, when the barwoman eventually tore herself away from texting in the other bar, I ordered one as well. Pint of Stella, four quid…but ice cold if not nearly so cold as the reception.

 

Mural by the stage in the Trowbridge House

I’m guessing the ancient one’s pure hatred was not entirely leveled at me. I moved to the lounge from whence the hip-hop and gangsta rap emanated and found a skinny wigger straight out of the early oughties sitting with an enormous black girl, both of whom were glued to their handheld devices. Our hostess returned and made them some more drinks and turned up a particularly beastly selection on the tannoy.

Charmed as I was by the white trash ambiance, I chose not to linger. I’m sure that this was a grand little local within living memory. Some of that living memory was sitting in a dimly lit room, straining to hear the cricket commentary beneath the background descriptions of how many ho’s a niggah needs and which motherfucker is gonna get shot.

Don’t get lost in the ‘hood…use this map.

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