When I first wrote about this pub, I decided not to comment upon the goings on. I may have been unfair. Tonight I was there to witness the frenzied anticipation and build-up to a Friday night out.

The crowd built up gently, girls and women arriving in various arrays of high heeled boots and sturdy tights to fill the leggy spaces beneath some spectactularly short skirts (with matching sensible tops) the only concession to our freezing weather. Minicabs pulled up now and then - this is a destination of choice. Young, and older, gentlemen swaggered in with a variety of East End walks, not quite completing the company with their entrances - for entrances they were - but near enough, accompanied by a mixture of trance and high energy tracks from the 'no request accepted' sound system that the Cock popularly lays on.

These tracks favoured a crowd which comprised a mixture of white East Enders in very expensive labelled sports gear, (imbibers of Stella, in the main); Middle Easterners in leather jackets, jeans and moustaches who favoured the sipping of spectular bright red concoctions; young, over-coiffeured and over-perfumed Asian lads in black, baggy sleeved shirts or retro capped sleeved T shirts whose making of it large will, by popular but unvoiced consensus, eventually lead to their flawless complexions being sullied by violence; and stubbly Eastern Europeans of an Abromavich disposition, if somewhat depleted of the funds that go with that name.

Some older men were out in fleeces and baseball caps, maybe from habit, but maybe in deference to the chill. There were others of course- some besuited solicitor types who had stayed on late after work; Irish Cockney geezers, all known to the boss; peroxide but be-rooted blondes, wearing a look aspired to by their mothers, or even grandmothers, in the 1980s Eastern bloc. They were quietly joined at various points by besuited middle aged Afro-Caribbean gents with short, neatly cut hair; and later by likely hip-hop wannabes; and pervading all evening, the many many market traders and bomber-jacketted toughs. Some of the men should not be slandered with the accusation that they could be pimps, but there was at least one of these with a stable of on-or-off-duty trade. Some of the tougher looking types were on the pay-roll of the premises, like the lad in the Viper jacket whose task it was to keep out what passes for riff-raff in this part of town, or at least frisk those who they didn't... I could go on.

The music was loud, and the music was danced to. It was danced to by two or three people at a time - there are few inhibitions here - or it was danced to by many. Some girls seemed to have a Turkish, breast shimmying stance, others a hands over the head, inhibition-less verve. Some girls were glamourous, with lacquered big hair. Others, petite, dark haired and Romanian, who could move with the time. Self conciousness was not in style. One boy, an Abromavich, danced on and off with two girls, joined by a joyful but ultimately unsuccessful lad who thought he was 'on the pull' - he of the capped T shirt and over-optimistic grin.

The beer flowed steadily, but not in a stupid way. Inside the pub, there were few people making fools of themselves in that respect. This is still a part of the world where being able to take your booze makes a difference, to men who have a reputation to make as a man.

The slot machine had a steady trade, as did the pool table at the back of the bar. Over the bar are many football trophies, presumably won by the Cock's team.