Orwell’s “ideal pub”, The Moon Under Water:

The architecture and fittings must be uncompromisingly Victorian.

Prettymuch; possibly older.

Games, such as darts, are only played in the public part of the bar.

Yep.

The pub is quiet enough to talk, with the house possessing neither a radio nor a piano.

There is a jukebox, but only in the public bar. The saloon is silent.

The barmaids know the customers by name and take an interest in everyone.

Yep, and Niall (the landlord) has an exceptional memory for detail.

It sells tobacco and cigarettes, aspirins and stamps, and lets you use the phone.

Can’t get fags – unless there’s a machine I’ve not noticed – but that’s pretty rare nowadays; not sure about stamps, but the phone was there last time I checked.

There is a snack counter where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches, mussels (a speciality of the house), cheese, pickles and […] large biscuits with caraway seeds.

Alas not. Best you can manage nowadays is the standard pub nibbles.

Upstairs, six days a week, you can get a good, solid lunch — for example, a cut off the joint, two vegetables and boiled jam roll—for about three shillings.

Five days a week, and in the Saloon.

[…] a creamy sort of draught stout […], and it goes better in a pewter pot.

Yep.

They are particular about their drinking vessels at “The Moon Under Water” and never, for example, make the mistake of serving a pint of beer in a handleless glass. Apart from glass and pewter mugs, they have some of those pleasant strawberry-pink china ones.

Straight glasses are the norm nowadays, but there are panelled tankards, and I think there may even be mugs.

[…] You go through a narrow passage leading out of the saloon, and find yourself in a fairly large garden.

Absolutely.

It’s a pity George is dead. I’d love to buy him a pint.