Last Call at Conways

A large bell rings, and the portly bartender calls out, “Time, gentlemen." It’s my last chance to get a drink for the night. In fact, it will be the last drink I ever order at Conway's, a pub that has been a big part of my life for 14 years.

In many ways, Conway’s is nothing special. Just another run-of-the-mill Irish pub in North West London. Grimy wooden floors, the Irish tricolour hanging behind the bar, a woeful selection of lagers, some of the best Guinness outside of Dublin, and a constant stream of horse racing, football, rugby, and cricket on its multiple television screens.

But to me, and the many others who frequented it until its closure in 2018, it was the best pub in London, possibly the World.

I walk up to the bar, cash in hand, and order two pints of Guinness. The barman turns round and grabs two glasses. He tilts the glass forwards, and begins to pour the first pint.

My first memory of Conway's is nervously ordering a pint of Fosters at the age of 17. Underage drinking was (I assume) a lot easier in the early 00s than it is now. There were no ID checks, no questions about birthdays, just a quick once-over by whoever was serving you at the time.

I was not a particularly old-looking teenager; in fact, I was fairly baby-faced, but I was never turned away from a pub or even a club. It’s just not how things worked in 2004/05. Before Britain embraced 24-hour licences and the crackdown on underage drinking that ensued.

He pours the pint until the glass is close to ¾ full, and sets it down. Then grabs the second pint glass and repeats the process. The pint of Guinness rests in front of me at the bar.

From 17 to 24 I went to Conway's 2-3 times per week, often more. There would be entire weekends that started with post-work drinks on a Friday, and ended with a few pints before coming home to a Sunday roast.

I’d go there with my dad for a quiet pint; I’d take girlfriends there for drinks; I’d go there with some mates to play pool and abuse the jukebox, and I’d meet up with large groups of friends, often as a pre-drinking spot before a proper night out.

I watched Champions League finals, Six Nations Grand Slam deciders, and Ryder Cup matches. The barman would ring his bell loudly whenever United scored, Ireland scored, or Team Europe won a hole. I watched David Haye defeat the giant Nikolai Valuev in 2009 from a booth in Conway's, surrounded by friends, bar regulars, and happy drunk strangers.

I even remember a night when the Irish owners of a winning racehorse came back from Cheltenham with a huge trophy. The bell was ringing loudly that night, and we were all provided with free drinks.

In short, I became a Conway’s regular. Something that I’ve never managed in any other pub. I’d walk in, and the bar staff would know my name. They knew my family; they even knew my dog.

I’d make friends with the regulars. I could walk in early, before my friends arrived, and have conversations with people from all walks of life.

The barman picks up my glass and continues pouring. As he does so, the head of the Guinness begins to form. In truth, the whole “resting the pint” thing is pretty pointless. It harks back to a time before nitrogen revolutionised draught beer. These days, you could pour a pint of Guinness in one go, and you’d still get a serviceable pint. But I like the ritual.

At the time, I would have been happy for my life to stay like that forever. But time waits for no man, and that is never truer than when we’re talking about London pubs.

Back when I was 17, there were pubs everywhere in my area. Stanmore High Street had 5, Queensbury had 8, Harrow Weald had 10 or more. It used to be that you could walk from one end of Wealdstone High Street to the other and go past 8 pubs. The Wealdstone Inn, The Shanakee, Forde’s, Daly’s, The Sam Maguire, The Stone Rose, O’Sullivan’s, and the Railway.

Of those 8 pubs, only 2 remain.

The Wealdstone Inn is now a (very good) Indian restaurant, The Shanakee is a Turkish restaurant, Forde’s is a Korean restaurant, Daly’s is no more, but a new pub has replaced it, The Sam Maguire is now a branch of Anytime Fitness, The Stone Rose is a Sri Lankan restaurant, O’Sullivan’s is a Pakistani restaurant, and The Railway is still clinging on, fighting back against gentrification.

Both pints have now been poured. I hand over a £5 note and a couple of £1 coins, and because this is 2016, I still get 50p change. I carefully walk back to my table with the two pints.

I have no problem with pubs being replaced with small family-run restaurants, and the restaurants I mentioned are family-run. I called it gentrification earlier, but that’s not really the case; in truth, the area is no more or less run-down than it was ten years ago.

The pubs closed because Harrow is changing. Fewer people think of pubs as their third space anymore. Instead, you have cinemas, gyms, restaurants, Reddit, Snapchat, Instagram. You have trains to Central London and splitting the G in the Devonshire because that gets numbers on TikTok.

It’s no loss for society, which is constantly evolving. But it is a loss for me. It is a loss for my friends, and (I believe) it is a loss for the older generations.

Pubs were (and still are) the great levellers in Britain. A place where the rich and poor can hang out. Where young and old can stand next to each other at the bar. Where you can strike up a conversation with your local postman, or window cleaner, or some bloke who makes a fortune in the City.

And I don’t think that any of the things that are replacing pubs can replicate this. Go onto any local sub on Reddit, and it’s filled with posts made by people in their early 30s who have moved to the area and don’t have any friends.

I’m not saying that a pub would be the perfect solution for everyone looking to make friends. But it was certainly a good starting point back in the day. I made lifelong friends in shit pubs, friends I still see to this day, despite having moved halfway across the country.

I place the pints on a small table and sit down. My friend lifts his up, spilling some Guinness down the sides as he does so. I raise my own glass, and we clink them together. “Cheers”. Someone has put The Gambler by Kenny Rogers on the jukebox. We sit quietly and drink our pints.

Yes, pubs still exist in Britain. There are currently 45,000 in the United Kingdom in 2026. At a ratio of one pub per 1,200 adults. Compare that to the 1980s, though, when there were 69,000 pubs and only 43.5 million adults. The ratio has almost doubled.

There are lots of benefits to the drop in pubs. We’re drinking less as a nation, so that means fewer health-related issues, less drink-related crime, more properties that can be turned into housing, and an increase in sports/gym use.

But I won’t lie, it does make me sad.

The doors are locked, ashtrays are brought out, and the blinds are closed. Last orders have been called, but at Conway's, the night almost always turns into a lock-in.

I’m tempted to order another, but both my friend and I have work tomorrow, and it’s already midnight. We finish our drinks, bring the empties back to the bar, and then the barman unlocks the door for us.

“Cheers, mate. See you later”

But I won’t see him later. This will be the last time I go to Conway’s. It’s no longer my local; I live further away – as do all of my friends. My parents have left London completely. The middle classes are fleeing the City.

Conway’s will close 18 months after tonight, and not long after an Indian restaurant will open in its place. My mate says it's pretty good.