Background: In 1946 George Orwell wrote his short essay ‘The Moon Under Water’, describing what his dream pub would look like. Heavily influenced by this (in fact, some paragraphs are nearly identical), I have decided to write a modern version of Orwell’s essay, describing my dream startup incubator.

The startup incubator I was accepted to, Fat Tony’s, is only two minutes from a tube station in central London, but it is on a side-street, and neither noisy traffic nor bearded hipster seem to find their way there, even at rush hour. You can always get a seat on the train, and despite being central, the commute never feels that long.

The incubator itself is above a pub, named Fat Tony’s, and next door to a gym, also named Fat Tony’s, for you see, they are one and the same.

If you were asked what you look for in an incubator, it would seem natural to say things like VC connections, reputation, investment, and unicorn alumni, but the thing that most appeals to me about the Fat Tony’s is what people call its ‘atmosphere’.

To begin with, its whole architecture and fittings are uncompromisingly old-fashioned. It has no white shiny desks, ping pong tables or other startup clichés. The offices are many but small, not open plan, allowing for the deep focus of uninterrupted work that is required to be creative. The dark wood grain desks, the patterned carpet, the photos of family that adorn many desks (replacing infantile figurines and ‘hacker’ stickers) — everything has the homely, comfortable, pastiche that modern offices lack.

The pub below (of the same name) is open to the public, but also acts as an informal break-out area and discussion space. In fact, all residents are encouraged to spend at least one day a week working from the pub. The same goes for the gym next door. By being open to the public, Fat Tony’s has a semi-permeable membrane, and encourages serendipitous, real world encounters in its communal areas, unlike the closed campuses of big tech, which lead to monoculture.

All residents of the incubator spend half a day a week working at the pub or the gym, collectively operating them. They learn customer service, accounts, sales, operations, and teamwork. Transferable skills that can be applied to any real world business.

In Fat Tony’s it is always quiet enough to talk, and gossip. Headphones are banned, and people are encouraged to get up and physically talk to people as much as possible.

Everyone knows everyone by name, and takes a personal interest in each other. The residents are not all coders in their twenties — there is a broad range of age, gender, background, and business ideas.

Unlike most office environments, having a lunchtime pint is allowed, as is working your own hours. Traditional meeting culture is almost non-existent. The email servers are rigged to only operate for a few hours a day.

Perhaps the most peculiar thing about Fat Tony’s is the investment model. Its founders understand ergodicity — and encourage residents to take small, ‘low cost’ bets, to tinker, and do not rely on a handful of unicorns to offset heavy casualties. The founders care about the success of the incubator at an individual level, not just an ensemble one.

Another great surprise of Fat Tony’s is its amphitheatre. You go through a narrow passage leading out of the back of the pub, and find yourself in a fairly large garden with a traditional, small, open air Romanesque amphitheatre.

On summer evenings there are talks and performances, and you sit under the summer sky having a beer and listening to incubator residents speak, sing, perform… any topic that takes their fancy. Not a PowerPoint slide in sight. It is pure oratory with the occasional prop. Many as are the virtues of Fat Tony’s, I think that the amphitheatre is my favourite.

Fat Tony’s is my ideal of what a startup incubator should be — at any rate, in the London area. (The qualities one expects of an American incubator are probably different).

But now is the time to reveal something which the discerning and disillusioned reader will probably have guessed already. There is no such place as Fat Tony’s.

That is to say, there may well be an incubator of that name, but I don’t know of it, nor do I know any incubator with just that combination of qualities, but, to be fair, I do know of a few incubators that almost come up to Fat Tony’s. I would very much like to realise my dream of creating Fat Tony’s one day, though its name may end up being something as prosaic as Accel or Matrix.

The other day I received bittersweet news that the Gardeners Arms in Oxford had closed; bitter because it’s my favourite pub in the world. Sweet, because I know long time custodians David and Jenny are now enjoying a well deserved retirement after 30 years behind the bar.

My experience of the Gardeners Arms is very personal… almost supernatural — I will attempt to recount my first visit…

The first night I arrived in Oxford as night fell; a postgraduate student alone in the city. I dumped my bags and decided to head for a walk, not knowing my way.

After walking for an hour, taking in the sheer beauty of the place, and getting thoroughly lost I found myself about half a mile outside the city centre. Annoyingly my phone battery had died at the worst possible time, and so I tried to navigate my way back from memory. Suddenly, I saw a small side street. The whole street had a warm glow emanating from it, due to bunting and warm fairy lights strewn across the buildings on opposite sides. It looked inviting, So I walked down…

A side street beckons

As soon as a walked onto the side street, I had an overwhelming feeling of being out of time and place. I saw a pub; and ready for a rest, I entered.

I can only describe walking into the Gardeners Arms that night as crossing some interdimensional portal to another time and place. It’s no exaggeration to say that the pub WAS the 1970’s. It’s vital to point out, that I don’t just mean a pub with ‘outdated’ decor. The whole atmosphere of the pub was from decades past. The narrow main room was quiet and peaceful, the air felt heavy and respectful and a handful of regulars held court. An old boxy TV, mounted on the wall above the entrance, was showing the 9 o’clock news. It’s two custodians (who I later learnt were named David and Jenny), an elderly married couple, dressed smartly, Dave in shirt and tie, and Jenny in an immaculate dress and pearls, presenting themselves in a way that pub landlords just don’t anymore.

The seating was perimeter style — long cushioned benches attached to, and hugging the walls, upholstered in a beautiful dark green. David and Jenny sat at ‘their’ table watching television, doing a crossword, or talking to regulars. This gave the impression that you were in David and Jenny’s sitting room, making the atmosphere intimate and warm. They would take turns to jump behind the bar every time a customer needed serving. The rear of the pub, almost deserted, was an odd clutter of chairs and a piano, with notice boards plastered with flyers and cards of long forgotten student shows.

I only stayed for a couple, just soaking up the feeling of being transported back in time. It was magical.

I left the pub, exited the street and was suddenly back in the 2010’s. I returned to the Gardeners Arms many times over the next few years, and whilst never quite recapturing the supernatural element of that first encounter, it remains the best pub I have ever visited.

I wish David and Jenny all the best, but I mourn the loss of one of Oxford’s finest pubs, and one of the last of a dying breed of traditional British pubs; pubs which are now critically endangered. The Pub’s owner, Greene King, have announced plans to ‘refurbish’ the pub, I implore them to keep it exactly as is.

Last week I received great news — The Lamb and Flag in Oxford has reopened.

This historic Oxford pub operated continuously for over 450 years, but ceased trading in 2021, a casualty of the COVID lockdowns.

Established in 1566, and moved to its current site in 1613, the Lamb & Flag is an institution for generations of Oxford residents and students, including myself. It’s panelled walls, wonky layout, and stone floors offered a soothing antidote to the modern, sometimes soulless gastropub chains. To quote Evelyn Waugh, the pub “exhaled the soft airs of centuries of youth”.

It was home to The Inklings (although the pub across the road gets all the credit), a writing group consisting of Tolkein and C.S. Lewis amongst others, who would meet regularly to read and discuss chapters from their latest books. More recently it saw Tony Blair pulling pints behind the bar in his student days.

It’s a pub you can feel good drinking in for reasons beyond historical aesthetic — profits are used to fund scholarships at a nearby Oxford college.

My favourite memory of the place was slipping away at midday, to partake in the now lost ritual of the lunchtime pint. What I love about the place is its egalitarianism. A brotherhood of lunchtime drinkers convene at the bar to discuss events far and wide. Members include Oxford dons, security guards, students, lawyers, and of course the barman. The place is Moe’s Tavern — Oxford Style. I will always fondly remember the eclectic conversation I had sat at the bar in-between lectures.

I look forward to revisiting the newly reopened pub on my next trip to Oxford — may it endure for another 450 years!