"You get to Strangefellows, the oldest drinking hole, conversation pit and scumbag attractor in the history of Mankind, by walking down the kind of streets that raise the hairs on the back of your neck, and then slipping into a side alley that isn't always there. Mostly, I think it's ashamed to be associated with such a dive. The alley is dimly lit and the street had cobbles. The entrance to Strangefellows is a flat slab of steel set flush with the grimy wall. Above the door is a small but dignified neon sign that spells out the name of the bar in ancient Sanskrit. The owner doesn't believe in advertising. He doesn't need to. If you're meant to find your way to the oldest pub in England, you will. And if you're not, you could search all the days of your life and never find it. There's no waiting list to get in, but the dues can be murder. Sometimes literally." - John Taylor

STRANGEFELLOWS
The Oldest Bar in the World


Strangefellow is the oldest bar in the world, though nobody knows who or what built it. It's located down an alley that sometimes isn't always there. It was known under several names through the ages. In Roman times the bar was called Dies Irae, while in Arthurian times it was called Avalon. It was at some point taken over by Merlin Satanspawn. After he died he was buried beneath the bar and placed a curse on his descendents; one of them would always have to look after the bar, and they couldn't leave until another descendant took over.

The current owner of the bar is Alex Morrisey. Alex Morrisey Is a long streak of misery in basic black. He was the latest in a long line of bartender/owners, from a family that had been around longer than it was comfortable to contemplate. It's not clear whether they stick around to protect Merlin, or possibly vice versa, and no-one likes to ask because if you do Alex throws things. It's no secret he'd leave Strangefellows in a moment if he could, but he can't. His family is bound to the bar, by ancient and unpleasant pacts, and Alex can't leave until he can find someone else from his family line to take his place. And since Alex Morrisey is reputed to be the very last of his long line, it's just another reason for him to act up cranky and take it out on his customers.

Metal stairs lead down from the foyer into the wide stone-walled pit that held the bar proper. It was decorated with Tudor furniture, with people draped over them like bendy toys, trying to sleep some of the booze off before they had to go home. There were some obscene murals on the walls and ceilings, some of them in bas-relief, stains on the Persian carpet. The first word that came to mind on seeing the bar again was seedy. Though sleazy came a very close second. Clearly the upmarket experiment hadn't taken.

There was the usual sea of mismatched tables and chairs, with booths at the far end for those who felt in need of a little extra privacy. Or somewhere to hide a body for a while. The lights were always kept low—partly for atmosphere, and partly so you couldn't get too good a look at your surroundings. Or your fellow company. The usual babble of raised voices was half-drowned out by loud heavy metal rock being blasted through concealed speakers. The close un-moving air was heavy with smoke, some of it legal, some of it earthly. A sign on the wall at the bottom of the stairs said Enter At Your Own Risk.

Strangefellows has some heavy duty protections placed over it, enhanced and strengthened over the ages after Merlin came around. That, combined with Alex's tolerance of customers who probably wouldn't be tolerated elsewhere, makes Strangefellows an ideal neutral ground in the Nightside. If things ever get out of hand, the bar's Amazonian bouncers, Lucy and Betty Coltrane, will make sure you leave as painfully as possible. The only thing more dangerous than the bouncers was the bar food.