What’s it named after? No, not what you think. In cricket, a wrong ‘un is another term for a googly – a difficult, spinning delivery from the bowler. Apparently, Bexley men have been playing cricket since 1746, according to the JD Wetherspoon website. We have no reason to question this.
What’s the carpet like?
Looking for The Wrong ‘Un? It’s tucked away at the west end of Bexleyheath Broadway, right by the bus stop, underneath a large sign reading “SURVEYLINE – RICS CHARTERED SURVEYORS AND VALUERS”. Look below… there it is! You can spot it’s a Spoons because there’s a couple of blokes outside smoking.
A sign at the door gives us a welcome from Terry and the team, and they run a tight ship here. We come on a Monday evening, as the Christmas party season is creaking into life, and it’s busy at the bar. But service is very friendly and you’re not kept waiting too long.
This is a solid, unspectacular, suburban Spoons. It’s exactly as we were expecting, to be honest, here in the less gaudy and bawdy end of Bexleyheath. The pub’s long and thin, with stained-glass windows at the back depicting cricket scenes. Seating comes in two varieties – big, comfortable alcoves, or awkwardly cluttered tables that feel a bit exposed to the rest of the pub. It’s a bit gloomy, too, with some long shadows.
The crowd leans towards the geezerish – one chap sits down with a G&T and a “dear oh dear”, performing an exaggerated stretch before taking a number of calls on his phone. The jolly team leader serves him some food. “You’re too nice to me,” he says, before returning to his phone.
There are blokes at the bar talking about West Ham, a large fella in a Screamadelica hoodie playing on the fruit machine. In one of the alcoves, a man in a Captain America t-shirt is listening to his headphones, contemplating a pint of Carlsberg.
But the big deal is the office Christmas party that’s behind us. It started with six of them, one in a Santa t-shirt. More come in amid a flurry of kisses and hugs. And then it keeps growing. It’s probably not stopped growing, and there may be hundreds of them now.
Later, we’re joined by a couple where the woman has a rotten cold. They’re trying to have a deep and meaningful conversation, but this isn’t the time or the place. They head off, her snotty tissues left abandoned.
Having just survived seasonal lurgies ourselves, we take this as a cue to head off. The party’s in full swing, the pub’s ticking over happily. A baby that can’t be more than a couple of weeks old snoozes quietly at the back of the pub with mum. The pub might be called The Wrong ‘Un, but inside, all is right with the world.