Wibbley Wobbley, Surrey Quays

For thousands of years Homo sapiens have been searching for means of escaping their violent, brutal, and often short lives.  Methods have ranged from reading a good book to exploring the deepest regions of the darkest K holes. These have appealed to different people at different times and met with varying levels of success and popularity. It’s no secret that personal preference comes into how effective the mode of escapism you’re partaking in is. For example, back in the day, the Chinese were bang on the opium. Couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Whereas 80s lawyers were hoovering up cocaine at a rate that put real strain on Latin America. Different modes of escape for different blokes. My personal indulgences are getting drunk on beer or knobbing about on boats pretending I am a pirate. For the longest time I was satisfied with both of these things as separate entities bringing me joy in their own separate ways. But upon discovery of the Wibbley Wobbley in Surrey Quays the two were finally combined and now I can be as happy as an 18th century Chinese opium addict or a wide-eyed high-flying prosecutor from 1985.

As you may have guessed then, the Wibbley Wobbley is a pub in a boat. Admittedly it is stationary, but it makes up for this by living up to its name and wobbling all over the fucking place. It’s an ex-ferry or something but just small enough to really move about if a large group comes on board. This means that the looks you get from the regulars as you come in are even more pronounced than usual because you have literally made the whole pub move about upon entry. Which is sick.

It is a ridiculous place; you feel that such a novelty pub shouldn’t have regulars but that’s all there seems to be here. Angry eyes asking “why have you come to my ludicrous floating pub?” The bar maid is about 80 and looks pissed off and confused every time you order a drink, which is a nice touch. There are other olde worldy elements to the Wibbley Wobbley too. Stuff I thought didn’t happen anywhere outside of fairy tales (fairy tales about pubs). There is a ship’s/pub cat with its own section in the bar with a scratching post and a bed. There are premade sandwiches clingfilmed, sadly waiting on the bar to be bought. I was actually quite hungry and thought about buying them but then there weren’t any obvious prices about so I didn’t attempt to purchase them incase it turned out it was the old bar woman’s lunch or something and the patrons all turned on us.

What’s extra specially ridiculous about this place is that it has a beer garden, not on the shore outside the boat, but on a pontoon covered with astroturf adjacent to it. And if the boat itself is named the Wibbley Wobbley the beer garden should be named “Wibbley Wobbley 2 : Dangerously Fucking Wobbley.” It’s a bloody treat though, sitting amongst the scum lapping up against the side of the greenland dock and the canal boats that are the Wibbley Wobbley’s neighbours. You can sit in the evening sun and admire the swans stained green and black from all the miscellaneous pollutants floating on the top of the water as the shard glints away in the background.

Not only this but you get to eavesdrop on geniune Surrey Quays locals as they describe how much sex they haven’t been having recently. This was a real conversation heard by my pub mate as we got him a drink at the bar. I have changed the names of the people involved to protect their anonymity and also because I didn’t know them in the first place.

Philip (A camp man in his late 50s that we can pretty safely assume is a homosexual): I haven’t been laid in ages.

Doris (a woman who is at least 80, possibly older): Oh that’s a shame dear, no boys want to suck your cock?

Phil: No it’s not like it used to be, I don’t know where they’ve all gone.

Doris: Well if it makes you feel any better I haven’t had any in a while either, nothing has been in there for a long time.

Phil: Can’t you just pop something up there yourself?

Doris: Well I could but it’s not the same.

Phil: You want to get one of those special condoms that they have in the gents with all the ribs and bobbles.

Doris: Oh yes that might be fun putting up my fanny.

Phil: Or up your bum!

Doris: *loud gasp* I’m not that sort of girl!

Jank right?

Hipst-o-meter 1/10

We saw some people that were in their early thirties and the hipst-o-meter started giving a reading but I think it was only because it had spent so long around 80 year olds who didn’t see the funny side of getting drunk on a boat. There are obviously going to be a fairly large contingent of city workers in Super Dry and Abercrombie doing the rounds as this is where they all live but I don’t necessarily think that’s anything special. There might be a rogue kewl kid banker somewhere though.

Location 10/10

You can see the two tallest buildings in London from here. You can see the Thames whilst being on a separate body of water, something I had previously only dreamed about. There’s a range of raucous birds about, like herons and cormorants and other winged mentals that Bill Bailey would lose his shit over. Surrey Quays is alright for a general nosey about too. There’s a cinema, a Pizza Hut and a sailing club, on top of other less important amentities.

Price 10/10

£3.40 for a lager beer doesn’t seem reasonable enough to warrant a ten out of ten does it? No. Normally it would’t be. That is, I think, standard pint price across London. However, considering the novelty value of the surroundings I reckon it’s awesome value for money. I would have honestly paid a door fee on top of paying £4.50 for every drink just to be on a pub that jolted about and had a ceiling plastered with nautical maps.

Atmosphere 9/10

Whilst it may lack friendliness it is one of the most genuine pubs I have been in for ages. The vibes in here are proper old man regular boozer vibes. It’s as if they’ve taken the clientele and staff from a pub that the likes of you and I wouldn’t dare stray into on account of how unwelcome we’ll feel there and put it onto a fairground ride of a pub where you’re going to spend so much time wandering about having the sickest time that you forget to feel intimidated by the man with a glass eye curling his lip at you in the corner. Also quick shout out to the toilet stairs. The loos are on the top deck and the stairs to them are honestly the steepest you can have a set of stairs before they officially become a ladder. Is this a good idea in an establishment whose primary function is to get people drunk? No. Is this a good idea in an establishment whose primary function is to get people drunk AND wobbles the fuck about every time a new person enters it? Fuck no. I would not be surprised if the next time we visit there are wreaths of flowers at the bottom of the stairs in remembrance of some pissed bloke who stacked it.