Barbed Bouquet

Tom Hedley is horrified to see the New Cross Hobgoblin transformed into a rose.

I wasn’t surprised to hear that The Hobgoblin pub had been marked down for major refurbishment. With its ever-increasing student population and well-to-do arty types, New Cross is fast becoming the new Dalston, which is itself the new Shoreditch, so the fate of my favourite watering hole was entirely consistent with the surrounding context.

Long established, The Hobgoblin had been one of the last in the area to maintain ‘proper-pub’ character. Run by Southampton fans, football was a speciality of the house, along with quick-fire comments from both staff and bar-hogging regulars.

The lager was fizzy and the cheesy-chips that appeared from god knows where, were a delight. The pub also made headlines when Hollywood actor Shia LaBeouf (Transformers, Lawless) appeared to start a fight there – not once, but twice.

My heart sank when I heard the news. There was nothing I could do but let the re-brand commence.

Out of the ashes of The Hobgoblin arose the Rose Inn and Kitchen. When it opened its doors at the end of January, I just had to be there to see what Urban Pubs and Bars (what on earth is an urban pub and bar, anyway?) had done with my dear departed hostelry.

Hedleyrose opening

What I found was yet another metrosexual bistro, complete with wood burning pizza oven, bearded bouncer and a landlord whose bonhomie could not quite disguise what looked like pound signs in his eyes.

I forked out four quid for a drink, and sat there while trendy music chipped away at my eardrums. The décor is suave – of course they’d transformed the layout and outed the original furnishings. They’ve also done away with the widescreen TVs and replaced Walkers with posh vegetable crisps (the two things I most enjoyed most on a Saturday afternoon). Meanwhile, out back the wood-fired oven raged on…..

I had to admit that the menu looked pretty good, and if I wasn’t a resident of New Cross, all might have been forgiven: Sunday roasts, toasted ‘pocket’ sandwiches and enough halloumi to pave your way to Cyprus.  What’s not to like?

Plenty, starting with the fact that one minute down the road is New Cross House, an equally bearded establishment serving expensive drinks and almost the same gastropub menu; and one minute down the road from there is yet another replica of the same allegedly unique establishments. Need I say more?

I didn’t bother with another drink. The Rose is hip and possesses all the qualities designed to represent youthful joie de vivre; yet ironically, it felt utterly lifeless. For all its spurious charm and supposed singularity the successor to The Hobgoblin is just another product of the assembly line.

Sad to think that once upon a time you could walk into the place and be greeted by the butt of LaBeouf’s head. But I don’t see him returning anytime soon (regardless of restraining orders). Me, neither. Pleased to say I know of a few treasures further down the road that I will absolutely revere from now on because, well, this is London.

Before I end this terrible rant of a review, I want you to know there is absolutely nothing wrong with the Rose Inn. Unless of course, you object to the gentrification of New Cross; and rather than plastic roses you prefer hobgoblins, warts and all.

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