Does Battersea host the most basic night out in London? We sent our intrepid Gen-Z correspondent to find out.
‘The most basic night out in London’, my editor told me, showing me an Instagram video of an un-diverse crowd of 20-somethings unironically enjoying a one-man acoustic Maroon 5 cover in the sun. They were at the Pear Tree Cafe in Battersea’s green and pleasant parkland, sunglasses on, phones out to capture the moment. Friends sung the lyrics to each other, this was a moment to remember. ‘This and then a taxi straight to Hannah Battersea,’ the caption read. I knew what I had to do. It was time to go full Adam Levine and see for myself if this was in fact what we suspected.
We arrived on the final bank holiday weekend of May. It was the last opportunity to go fully feral before the reign of two-day weekends resumed. Surely the masses would be taking full advantage of this opportunity? Losing It, by Fisher, pounded into my sober ears as we arrived. Yes, they were.
As I surveyed the crowd, I spotted two white men in matching pink and yellow striped long-sleeved shirts. When Walking on a Dream came on, they held each other’s hands and got up on the table, searching for the thrill of it. It was high time for a pint, I thought.
As I sipped, we endured the most 2010s setlist known to man, a pastiche of a musical era better left behind. The next time I saw the striped twins I had to ask about their fashion choices. ‘Did you plan to be matching?’ I queried. ‘A happy accident,’ the first grinned. ‘They’re our lucky shirts,’ said the other with a hopeful wink. Later, he got off with a blonde girl in their friendship group while his friend watched on, listlessly. ‘Apparently they just picked the most ridiculous shirts they had,’ said another man in their entourage.
At Hannah Battersea, a 40-minute walk away (everyone else Ubered), a guitar cover of Tom Petty’s Free Fallin’ greeted us. The tuneless singing along confirmed the crowd was enamoured with the vibe. The guitarist segued into Teenage Dirtbag, providing the soundtrack to my boyfriend desperately trying to get us each an £8 pint. ‘Get a Jubel,’ a girl suggests helpfully. ‘They don’t even taste like beer!’
We headed to the smoking area, to try and get into the psyches of the people on this night out. Had they been here a lot? No, three girls trilled. It was their first time at Hannah. ‘We went inside, got a drink then came straight back out again,’ they revealed.
Two men in their late thirties agreed. ‘We mostly come here in the daytime,’ one said. ‘And sit in the garden,’ the other was quick to add. It was 10pm at this point. I could hear the first bars of Mr Brightside seeping into the cold night air. ‘Nice that they have live music though,’ his friend added. Two American women agreed. They’d never come before, but rated the tunes. ‘The live music is soooo good,’ one assured me. ‘It’s nostalgic. I hope they play Sweet Caroline.’
Other first timers, however, were not so keen. ‘It’s like a student bar in there,’ a Welshman said. I asked his incredibly pissed friend, who I later realised was just a man who had walked up to him in the smoking area, if this was the most basic night out in London. ‘It’s not London,’ he said. ‘It’s Clapham.’ His wide eyes suggested grandeur, significance.
Others received my question less kindly. ‘What is basic?’ a red-head asked back. ‘You’re basic if you’re asking,’ she said, in the smoking area. Uno reverse of the century. ‘Do you think we look basic?’ her friend chimed in. ‘What is this for, the Daily Mail?’
I went back inside to subject my ears to the tunes for a moment. At one point, the guitarist took a break from his instrument to ask: ‘Anyone single?’ He clarified that ‘any girl in here basically’, would do. Except for one. ‘Six foot nine?’ He asked one girl. ‘You don’t stand a chance.’
‘Top top tier? Got to be the Pear Tree,’ one girl said. ‘But you can’t help it,’ she mused, reflecting on the inevitable draw of Hannah’s. ‘If you live in close proximity it’s where you go. I can’t be fucked to go anywhere else.’
A cover of I Will Wait by Mumford and Sons followed by Dancing Queen strummed us further into the night. ‘Yes,’ a journalist told me in answer to my question. ‘This or Infernos. Look at the demographic: everyone’s white, everyone’s pretty boring, everyone probably went to private school – isn’t it fabulous? But it’s my friend’s birthday, I didn’t get a choice.’
‘The uniform is mom jeans or wide leg jeans and a corset top. Everyone identifies as the same sexuality – straight, which is fine. And listen. ABBA. The same pop music we’ve heard for the last 50 years.’ I looked down at my mom jeans and over at my boyfriend and noticed I had been singing along happily to Dancing Queen. Oh dear.
At this point in the night, it was only natural that I’d bump into someone I knew. My best friend’s boyfriend stumbled up to us. Did he think it was a basic night out?
‘Have you seen how many white tennis skirts are in here? Have you met me? Look at my fucking shoes,’ he said, pointing to his new Birkenstocks.
A girl in her 20s who worked in PR, did not agree, however. Why had she come? ‘TikTok says it’s great – I wouldn’t want to miss out. The tunes are fantastic and the men aren’t bad either,’ she added, slyly eyeing up my boyfriend. Her friend chimed in. ‘The live music pops off!’ she said enthusiastically, before adding, rather forlornly, that ‘the toilets are gross and the band repeats themselves.’ Last weekend the songs had all been the same. I asked the blonde bartender in his 20s as I ordered my last drink of the night, why Hannah was as it was. ‘It’s the age range,’ he replied. ‘It’s because the band are so young.’
Wonderwall played, and I sank my last pint. I knew it was time for us to leave. The drinks were too expensive, the music too crap. The disco lights illuminated the happy, simple faces of the punters. Talk of Inferno’s was heard. Chants of ‘One More Song!’ shook the room. I asked one last person why they were here. Why would anyone be here? ‘My name’s Hannah,’ she said. ‘I had to come!’
