Liverpool Street’s pubs aren’t the fanciest in London. They aren’t the quietest, and they certainly aren’t the cleanest. But they are alive. They are the lungs of the station, where you can breathe before you get back on the train, or where you can hide when you’ve missed it entirely.
So next time you’re running through that brutal, endless concourse, stop. Buy a pint. Watch the chaos. And remember: the train will probably be delayed anyway. Cheers, mate. 🍺
