Devonshire Arms (Piccadilly)

Ray Ferrier (War of the Worlds)

I was one of the lucky ones; I made my escape from the States alive. Not on any ‘plane or aboard a ship. Our Martians visitors (read assassins) had obliterated the military and civilian fleets with their disintegration, heat-ray-things.

No, I managed to hook up with a couple of strange British guys who were in New York. It was a weird set-up. One was an ex-Olympian and the other a TV presenter. They’d just rowed naked across the Atlantic – God knows why - and were complaining how sore their backsides were.

I tried to figure it out. A coupla posh English boys, naked and alone, in a confined space for weeks? With sore asses? But I just couldn't piece the jigsaw together.

Anyway, after a bit of undignified pleading, they agreed to, 'have me in the boat' on the return journey to London-on-Thames. One condition….. I had to go naked too. What the hell could I do? After all, it was unseasonably hot what with all the heat action from the tripod killing machines.

Cutting a long and painful story short, we arrived in London, weeks later. By then I got the sore asses thing. Oh I got it alright.

I soon discovered that in Greater England's capital I was far from out of the cataclysmic woods. By then, the Martian pods had crashed mainland Europe and several had made their way into United England on the Eurostar from Brussels.

"Illegal aliens set to destroy Britain", screamed the front page of the Daily Mail; sub-heading house prices will tumble.

A well-balanced editorial, I thought.

I knew what was coming so I did what any decent coward would do. Went to find a bar to get tanked out of my tree. Soften the death-ray blow for ol’ Ray.

The World's End in Camden would've been an obvious choice. But, even in the absence of the Martians 'hands', I'd heard that pub's bogs were a disaster. Couldn’t have that since I was still having some bother following my 'ride' with those weirdo rowers. So, instead, I plumped for a joint called the Devonshire Arms, near Piccadilly

It's stuck round the corner, north of Eros. A bit difficult to find, so I figured, maybe … just maybe, those slippery, other-world swines wouldn't look there.

When I got inside, I wondered if I was already too late. I mean, the place is pretty beaten up. Post-apocalyptic? Maybe not quite, but it’s still as tatty as a Matalan mannequin.

I'd been drinking for about an hour before the first sounds of screaming, death and annihilation began to ruin the peace and quiet of my solo session. Oh, darn it, I thought; London's knackered. Shame to lose the Devonshire Arms, I pondered; even though it's not the best boozer in central London, it's still a great place to drop off for a beer before death – and it's right in the heart of town.

"Aaaah,,,,,,,aaaaaahh……..aaahahhhh Tissshoooo!!!!"

The icing on the cake. I'd been sneezing like a mother all day. As well as being about to be murdered, I was coming down with a terrible cold. Doh!

Damn town. I blame the tube trains with their snivelling morons firing billions of microscopic twots at each other. Intent on making the end of the world just that little bit worse than it need be.

Oh, but the noise of those death rays. I wish I could think of a way of bringing down the tripods down. Ah, well, might as well just squeeze in another Fosters top before those heat rays bring a Martian re-fit and turn the Devonshire Arms into an Apocalypse Now themed pub.

Ray Ferrier's rating for the Devonshire Arms – 6 / 10

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