Why?

Because the Hobgoblin-Devonshire Arms is the focus of a Great Goth Controversy. Until recently the Hobgoblin was called the Devonshire Arms - or simply 'the Dev'. It was a gloomy, forlorn establishment situated just round the back of Camden Market in north London, a road down from the rowdier (and following the Great Fire of Camden, more singed) Hawley Arms. It styled itself Camden's premier Alternative Destination, and operated a strict Goths-only door policy. Non-Goths were not welcome, so I never went in.

In summary: you were too scared to go in.

No! In summary: The Dev was stricter than your average super-elitist members bar with its door policy; indeed, when a colleague tried to arrange a photoshoot inside the pub, the management turned her down flat, insisting: 'the Dev is a refuge for Goths'. Imagine, then, the outcry when new management arrived early in 2008, tweaked the Dev's name, implemented a £6,000 refurb and (eek!) relaxed the Goth-only policy. The Goths were not amused. But my friend and compadre in columns Lairy Jon and I were pleased. Now we could get an entrée on this demimonde! Or - whatever's left of it.

And?

We were nervous about going into the Hobgoblin. Despite much bluster about being the alternative to Alternative, Lairy and I are deeply un-alternative in style, and thus destined to stick out like pastel-hued summer-cashmere clad sore thumbs among the alterni-hordes. Somehow, we crossed the threshold. As we suspected, we were the least alternative drinkers on offer. No actual Goths were in evidence, but all other manner of alternative was represented. Rockabilly types, middle-aged paunchy punks, whimsical pink-haired young things of nonspecific alternative-classification, who played silent chess, and contemplated death and poetry. A sprightly young thing with out-of-control hair, huge eyes and a Hobbity demeanour was bouncing around outside the pub, but everyone else seemed well behaved.

Did they stare at you disdainfully?

Not as much as one might expect. They adjusted to our presence and set about the business of ignoring us sharpish, and when Lairy ordered his first Snakebite and Black of the evening, the lone barman took something of a shine to us.

What of the interior aesthetic? Was it crypt-like?

It was dark and clammy, and boasted a motif of hobgoblin statuettes. The ladies loos weren't showing much evidence of the refurb. One of 'em was missing a seat, the other was far from fragrant, and they were populated by three Italian alternative birds, who were lounging at the basins, and who gave me profoundly scornful cut eye when I washed my hands.

You escaped un-maimed?

We nearly escaped unspoken to. Until a very gregarious 63-and-a-half-year-old rockabilly called Delboy engaged us in conversation. He told us he preferred the Hobgoblin in its new incarnation. He'd been a Goth, and had enjoyed the Dev in its Goth-only heyday, until the crowd he was hanging with got vampirey and said it was time to swap the Snakebites for actual blood. Delboy switched allegiances.

And how were the drinks?

I didn't like Lairy's Snakebite, but my V & Ts were excellent. Lairy suggested we finish the night with a shot; the barman offered his special concoction - the 'Dr Pepper'. He wouldn't tell us what was in it, he turned his back on us so we couldn't see how he made it, and then he presented us (with some ceremony) with a couple of half pints of beer, in which the mysterious shots floated. The drink tasted like - Dr Pepper. And left me with a stonking hangover, technically known as a 'Goth-over'.

· The Hobgoblin-Devonshire Arms, 33 Kentish Town Road, London NW1