No. 24 - The Realm of the Island Queen

When I moved to London in the mid 1980’s I was introduced by housemates and colleagues to many pubs in North London. The Island Queen was particularly memorable, because hanging from the ceiling were enormous, grotesque paper mache effigies of Margaret Thatcher, Chancellor Nigel Lawson, and a smaller one of Geoffrey Howe. I approved, because they were certainly not intended as a tribute.

The Island Queen in April sunshine

In 1969, as an experiment, the pub doubled as the South West Islington Advice Bureau. The Daily Mirror reported “No draughty hall for this social community service. But the snug mahogany and cut-glass private bar of The Island Queen.” A local resident under threat of eviction, shyly discussed their problem with some unofficial welfare workers. “The easy atmosphere of the Victorian pub, the bearded darts players, the Stones’ ‘Honky Tonk Woman’ on the jukebox, help to make the unburdening exercise relatively painless.” The welfare workers were three Tory councillors, and a BOAC pilot named Norman Tebbitt, the prospective Conservative candidate for South West Islington. He could not have foreseen that sixteen years later, some of his closest associates would hang from the ceiling.

Another of Tebbitt’s colleagues, William Whitelaw, nearly resigned over a patron of the pub. In February 1989, The Sunday People discovered that Royal photographer David Cripps had taken to meeting Michael Fagan in The Island Queen. Seven years earlier, Fagan had famously embarrassed the establishment by breaking in to Buckingham Palace and meeting Queen Elizabeth in her bedroom, prompting Home Secretary Whitelaw to offer his resignation, which was declined.

The dramatic effigies were taken down years ago, but the beautiful Island Queen remains, a Victorian backstreet gin palace that can be lively or tranquil, depending on the hour. To sink a few pints there over lunch on a sunny afternoon seems to slow down time itself, and you can enjoy not only the beer and the food, but the lovely dogs that some of the customers bring in with them.

Old Time Copper

The current building opened in 1851, but it was a tavern before that, under the same striking name, set in a pleasure garden with a bowling green, a skittles alley and an archery range. The origin of the name is hard to pin down - there have been ships, race horses, films and more than one novel with that title. I suppose Victoria herself was an island queen. Because of its large capacity, the pub inevitably became a music hall staging regular entertainments, including benefit concerts for sportsmen who had found themselves suffering hard times, such as champion walkers Billy Howes and Charley Grey.

One of music hall’s most famous songs is ‘Don’t Dilly Dally on the Way (The Cock Linnet Song’ published in 1919 and made popular by Marie Lloyd. Telling the tale of a moonlight flit, it includes the line, “Well you can't trust a special like the old time coppers.” But the old time coppers weren’t always to be trusted either.

At 3 am one morning in May 1859, Sergeant Robinson was passing The Island Queen, when he heard a noise from within. Stopping to investigate, he found the side door open, and entered to find his colleague PC Woodhead behind the bar. The constable seemed excited and said he had found the pub open, just as the sergeant had. Having been disturbed, the landlord appeared and swore that last thing every night he'd routinely bolt the door. PC Woodhead then claimed to have entered through the kitchen window, which he had found wide open. Sergeant Robinson told him he had no right to enter on his own, and asked the landlord to check whether anything was missing. He found that one pound, one shilling and sixpence in silver, and eighteen shillings in copper had gone. Back at the station Sergeant Robinson found exactly the missing sum on Woodhead's person, along with two bottles of liquor, and nine Cuban cigars hidden in his hat. The newspapers considered the burglary ‘daring’, but to lose career and liberty for a paltry sum, was in my opinion, more 'stupid'.

Bodies on the Table

In Victorian times, pubs were often used for coroners’ inquests into accidental deaths, suicides and even unsolved murders. Many were large enough to accommodate all the people who needed to attend, including witnesses and a jury, and could offer a table big enough to display the body. The Island Queen was used many times for this purpose before Islington had a coroner’s court. In June 1855, the pub table bore the body of a Mr Houle, who had ended his own life with a razor. The paper reported that he ‘was given to habits of intemperance’ (he was a drunkard) and the inquest concluded that he had ‘destroyed himself while in a state of temporary insanity.’

Sadly, sometimes a large table was not required. In December 1868, 14-month-old Florence Ada Howlett had perhaps been too young to have taken heed of parental warnings about running with sharp objects. With her mother sitting nearby, she was toddling about with a lead pencil in her hand, when she fell and screamed. On picking Florence up, her horrified mother saw that the pencil was wedged into her eye. The Island Queen inquest heard that she died shortly after, because the pencil had also penetrated the lobe of her brain.

Where Champions Are Made

Arthur Chambers who often boxed at the pub before becoming a champion. (Wikipedia)

As with many pubs The Island Queen was a place to initiate sporting contests in running, walking, horse racing, wrestling and boxing and some contests took place there. In 1864, Salford born Arthur Chambers left the navy and began a boxing career, which at first did not look particularly promising. He regularly fought at The Island Queen and recalling his days there in 1897, the Boxing World reporter recalled ‘we could mention half a score of lads who could have beaten Arthur with gloves or knuckles before Chambers set sail for America in the Java, where he arrived as long ago as March 3 1871.’ On September 4 1872, Arthur met Billy Edwards for the Lightweight Championship of America, a title that carried a handsome purse of $2000. Arthur Chambers won. He died in 1923, but in 1954 he was elected into The Ring magazine’s Boxing Hall of Fame.

Mercy

The notion that criminals were always dealt with more severely ‘in the old days’ can often be a misconception. A great deal of common sense and discretion seems to have been used, even in Victorian times, although a lot relied upon the personalities involved.

In August 1850, John Bethell, described in the paper as ‘a decent looking man,’ found himself in the dock accused of the manslaughter of shoemaker Thomas Osborne, after a fight outside The Island Queen. Bethell was undefended in court. The first witness had been the dead man’s companion in the pub. He testified that Osborne had been quarrelsome and had picked the fight, accusing Bethell of robbing him, without justification. The accused at first declined to fight, but due to Osborne’s persistence, he'd said “If you will have it you must have it.” Outside, he knocked Osborne down, but the man got up and goaded him further. When Bethell knocked him down a second time, he banged his head on the kerbstone. The police took him into custody and a surgeon treated his bleeding head wound. The Inspector said that Osborne was talking, and they didn’t believe there was much wrong with him. Three days later he died, the post mortem revealing a fractured skull and a fatal brain injury. Bethell claimed that he intended no harm, but Osborne would fight him whether he agreed to fight or not. The jury found Bethell guilty of manslaughter but made a strong recommendation to mercy. The magistrate fined him a shilling and discharged him.

In July 1937, 19-year-old Denys Henry Rogers from Darlington was hired to work behind the bar at The Island Queen. But two weeks later he stole £2 from from a cash box kept in his employer’s bedroom. When the police questioned him, he broke down and admitted the theft right away. Pathetically, he said, “I am very lonely. I have no parents and I wanted to get a home together and get married.” He promised to pay back every penny. The Magistrate bound him over - so if he stuck to his promise there would be no fine and no prison, beyond the time he’d already spent on remand.

Lunch at The Island Queen.

In November 1926, two men stood in the dock of Clerkenwell Magistrates Court accused of taking part the robbery of three mail bags, containing £7000 worth of diamonds. A witness had picked George Smith of Islington from a police line up, but he grumbled that only one of the other eight men had been as stout as he was. He claimed that he was innocent, having been first in The Wheatsheaf on Upper Street, and then from 12:30 to 15:00 in The Island Queen. The other man was committed to the Old Bailey for trial, but thanks to the testimony of a host of Island Queen regulars, George Smith was discharged.

Bombed

The Island Queen remained unscathed through the Blitz of 1940/41, but it wasn’t quite as lucky during the First World War. On the night of May 19, 1918, because the German Spring Offensive had been halted, and the tide of the War reversed for the final time, the last German air raid on London took place. Giant Gotha bombers passed over Islington, and one of them dropped a bomb which landed on nearby St Peter Street, damaging fourteen houses, two tenements and The Island Queen.

This one old pub offers many dramas. The Island Queen is an excellent place in which to drink with ghosts.