One Tun
58-60 Goodge Street, Fitzrovia, Town, London W1T 4ND


Weekly Events


Sunday Roast 11.00AM - 10.00PM

Come and taste the best Sunday roast's in Fitzrovia - slender 21 day aged beef, succulent pork, tender chicken and if you are lucky perhaps some lean lamb... with goose fat roast potatoes, seasonal veggies, fluffy Yorkshire puddings & mouth-watering gravy. What's your game? Join us every Sunday, served all day long.




It's never too early to arrange the office Christmas party!
Whether your party is 6 people or 50 people we have something just for you; festive feasts, nibbles, sweet treats or just a good drinks sesh - we have the perfect space for you!

Reserve your place today with just a £10.00 per person deposit!


Dry January 2019 - 11.00AM - 11.00PM

Had too much of the 'festive spirit'? Want to loose the Christmas dinner podge? Doing Dry January BUT don't want to NOT come to your fave local?! Well fear not we here @ the Tun are with you and in honour of Dry January will have a selection of delicious NON-alcoholic drinks to keep you watered so you don't miss out on your game of darts with your mates here at the pub :)


6 NATIONS 2019 - 2.00PM - 11.00PM

Taking bookings now for the 6 Nations games - don't miss your spot to catch all the action!



Burn's Night 2019 - 11.00AM - 11.00PM

Join us on Friday 25th January as we celebrate all things Robbie Burn's - with some tasters, a Burn's Night mini-quiz (win a bar tab!) and some special surprises too...

"...Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace, As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill, In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil, Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve, Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, 'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew, Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view, On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit;
Thro bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned, Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware, That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer, Gie her a Haggis..."