Came With the Pub: The Unsolved Mystery of Britain's Velvet Koi, Clown and Tiger Collection
Photo: Federal Bureau of Investigation, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Somewhere between the beer mats and the crisps, hanging at a slight angle behind you as you order a pint, is a painting. Nobody chose it. Nobody likes it. Nobody would dare take it down. It depicts either two koi carp locked in eternal combat, a tiger staring into your soul on black velvet, or a clown whose expression suggests he has seen things. And if you ask the landlord about it, you will receive the same answer that has been given in every pub from Penzance to Penrith:
"Came with the pub."
The Official Position of Every Landlord in Britain
Ask about the painting and the landlord will shrug with the weariness of a man who has answered this question many times. It was here when they took over. It was here when the previous landlord took over. It was, presumably, here when the building was a coaching inn, when it was a bank, and when it was briefly a Weatherspoons pitch meeting. The painting predates memory, tenure and possibly planning permission.
This is not laziness. This is a legally binding spiritual arrangement. The painting is not owned by the pub; the pub is owned by the painting.
The National Circuit
Here is where it gets properly interesting. Because every few years, a pub changes hands — and the painting moves. Nobody has ever witnessed the move. Nobody has ever packed it. And yet, like a hermit crab swapping shells, the koi appears in a new establishment forty miles away, slightly more faded, slightly more wonky, carrying with it the accumulated vibes of every landlord who failed to get rid of it.
We at Mad Lad Designs have mapped this circuit extensively (in the pub, mostly). The pattern is clear: fighting koi drift north, sad clowns congregate near coastal towns — presumably drawn to kindred spirits in the amusement arcades — and velvet tigers simply appear wherever the lighting is worst.
A Field Guide to Dating Your Local's Painting
You can estimate a painting's age by its subject matter, much like tree rings but with more regret:
- 1950s–60s: The Sad Clown. Oil on velvet, eyes that follow you to the bar and back. Acquired during a period when somebody, somewhere, thought clowns were comforting.
- 1970s: The Velvet Tiger. Maximum drama, minimum skill. The tiger is not roaring; the tiger is simply done.
- 1980s: The Fighting Koi. Two carp, mid-battle, in a frame that may well be a picture frame repurposed from a mirror. Nobody knows why they're fighting. Scholars suggest territory. We suggest koi drama.
- 1990s: The Abstract Squiggle. Someone's nephew did an art foundation. It hangs in the corner where the dartboard's shadow falls.
- 2000s–present: The Metal Wall Sculpture of a Wine Bottle. Not a painting, but it travels with the pack and deserves recognition.
The Removal Attempt That Broke a Nation
Ask around and you'll hear the stories. The landlord in Leeds who took the koi down for a refurb and found business dropped until it was rehung. The pub in Norfolk that sold its clown at auction, only for it to be returned by the buyer the following week, unexplained. The painting cannot be sold. It cannot be binned. It can only be inherited.
And honestly? We wouldn't have it any other way. In a country where the Tate has to put up signs explaining what art is, the velvet tiger requires no explanation, no plaque, no audio guide. It simply is. It has survived more landlords than most marriages, outlasted every redesign, and asked for nothing but a nail and the occasional dusting (never given).
Our Position, Formally
This is heritage art. Real heritage art. Not the sort behind glass in a gallery — the sort behind a pump clip, absorbing decades of second-hand smoke and one unforgettable Christmas Eve fight. It is uncredited, unsigned and unbothered, and it represents a prouder, dafter national tradition than anything Turner ever painted.
So next time you're at the bar, give the koi a nod. The clown a respectful glance. The tiger a moment of quiet solidarity, because that tiger has been done since 1974 and honestly, same.
And if you're a landlord thinking of redecorating? Put the painting back. You know exactly which one we mean. It came with the pub.
