Duke of Wellington suffers nervous breakdown

After enduring the steady erosion of his identity at the hands of a plague of immigrant yuppies, the Duke of Wellington pub in Clapham, south London, has been forced into intensive therapy.

"Look at me," cried the emotionally-shattered hostelry. "Five years ago you'd get all sorts of interesting people coming through my doors. Now it's just media ponces called Toby wearing ironic designer T-shirts. I don't know who I am any more."

Between snotty gulps of air-contitioned atmosphere, the tearful pub described how it all began: "I had a bit of a makeover... you know the sort of thing — chuck out the sticky carpet, sand down the floorboards, get in some pine tables, hang a couple of trombones from the ceiling and sling up a hand-painted mock antique sign saying 'McGinty's Old Thumper Stout' — and there you have it, genuine Celto-Cockney faux Victoriana.

"I felt good at first, I really did. But it was the beginning of the end for me. Three months ago, we had one bloke behind the bar called Dave who could do you a light and bitter, pork pie and bag of pork scratchings in under a minute. Now there are seven Australians and a Theatre Studies student with fin haircuts and matching t-shirts serving guava and sea-salt flavour connoiseur potato chips and Thai food to the sound of some mockney DJ geeza. Now you'd be lucky to get served in under an hour. Help me, for the love of all that's holy, help me..."

Worse lies in store for the beleaguered boozer. As of next Monday, it will be renamed "duke@the_common" and the wonderous transformation from stinking slop house to 21st-century gin palace will be complete.