Turn to the left, turn to the right…fashion   Leave a comment


This gave me a bit of comfort on my morning commute: two old guys wearing snapback caps on the Tube, one bearing the slogan, “I am King” and the other, “Obey.” Too. Fucking. Awesome.



Posted May 25, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in art, Made Me Laugh, Politics

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The Bull, Gerrard’s Cross, Buckinghamshire   Leave a comment


Pub #2130:

I found my way through the ancient lobby of the Bull and carefully weaved a path past taffeta dresses and mourning suits with lapel carnations. I was now another 1/2 mile farther along on the run from Hillingdon than I was during my pint stop at the now-much-more-modest-seeming Apple Tree.

“Wedding?” I asked without response. I tried again, “funeral?”

“What do you mean?” The bartender asked. I took my beer out to the far end of the expansive garden to minimise my offense to the celebrants/mourners.



Posted May 22, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Apple Tree, Gerrard’s Cross, Buckinghamshire   1 comment


Pub #2129:

I didn’t hold much hope for the Apple Tree based on its web focus on dining and, upon arrival, the decidedly upscale environs. But, as I dragged my sweaty ass up to the bar I realised that — at least late Friday afternoon — half the receipts are down to various members of the building trade.



I took a Doom Bar out to the shade of the eponym and surveyed the assembly. Yup. Mostly labourers and skilled tradesmen, a few locals in middle class drag, and a handful of Americans who I assume were in the area (Gerrard’s Cross is a few miles directly above Windsor) to watch the semi-successful actress marry the unemployed ex-squaddie who still lives in his mom’s house.


Posted May 22, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Meadow Next Door   Leave a comment


Our neighbours upstairs are loud.  They don’t tread the floors, they stomp and when they aren’t stomping they are dragging furniture and a vacuüm cleaner around.  Seriously, the fuckers will Hoover in the morning then come home and do it again at night.  They leave for holiday only after a two day-and-night cleaning frenzy and then don’t unpack, upon their return, until they’ve done it all again.

Well, at least SHE does.  He seems to have rebelled (the Bell-End Rebellion) and this leads to comic one-act-plays where she screams at him for ten minutes then they both somehow manage to walk like they aren’t the only people on Earth.  And, no, this isn’t when they are having make up sex because the membrane between our flats transmits sound quite efficiently and we are both certain they aren’t having sex at all.  Maybe if the got laid now and then…

Anyway, He used to go out to the garden every week or two and do painstakingly detailed edging and vine removal with hand snippers and attention to detail his only tools. Well, technically HE’S a tool, too.  The last time was just before the August Bank Holiday last year.  The photo above was from the early May Bank Holiday a couple of weeks ago.  Dickheads.


Posted May 22, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Made Me Laugh

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Off The Hook, Kidlington, Oxfordshire   Leave a comment


Last Thursday was another unseasonably warm and sunny one in Oxford so I headed up the canal path for a bit of a run.  The podcast I was listening to ended at about 40 minutes and I took the first road thereafter into Kidlington to find some nourishment and a bus back to the labs.  The piece of cod from Off The Hook with just a little more than a splash of vinegar and no additional salt was precisely the right answer to the quick lunch question.  Yum.


The Market House, Brixton, London   Leave a comment


Pub #2128:

It was balmy Friday evening in Brixton and a brief run followed by a brief run-into with an acquaintance left me thirsty.  “You goin’ that way, mate?  I’m barred at all those.”  We agreed to meet closer to one of the not-in-central Brixton drinking establishments next time and I wandered through the market for supper fixings then spotted the Market House across the way.

A fellow former-American, he has lived in the neighbourhood the last four decades and, through a mutual friend, discovered some mutual interests…pints, music, livin’ life on the one.  And, through this occasional meeting of minds I’ve gotten to know more people in Brixton than I do in Ruislip.  And, I love this area; but, it is rapidly turning pale white as yuppie American kids move in, inured to much worse crime and rates of crime and happy to tough it out as settlers for a couple of years while their houses increase in value an order of magnitude and everything that made this a cool neighbourhood gets priced out.  I’m almost certainly a part of the problem, even though the only white guy I know down there is kind of exiled from Dulwich and has probably spent a viable portion of his life in HM’s prison system: despite my horrifying appearance in most of the northern suburbs where I live I am still good (perhaps “safe”) optics and blunt the edges of some of the more vivid street life.



It was with some trepidation, therefore, that I ventured into the lily-white and disturbingly American confines of the Market House.  There were a couple of black gents near the window seating I gravitated toward but they seemed to also be in the business of gentrifying the area (albeit in the trades). Okay, to be fair, if it is happening anyway then at least hire local.  And, I may be overstating the dangers of upscaling a bit.  I mean, the menu will at least be Caribbean food, I thought.

But, noooooooooooo … chicken wings and other American bar fare.  And, fries.  Fucking fries.  I am in Hell.



Posted May 17, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Wishing Well, Acton, London   Leave a comment


Pub #2127:

What would you wish for? About 2/3 through the run on a humid and quite warm afternoon, I had already been disappointed by the dearth of beer or, more to the point, open drinking establishments. I wanted a nice, cold beer and a continuation of the quality entertainment I had so far been granted.

I emerged from the urban decay around the Wormwood Scrubs buurts a little beyond East Acton Station along the A40.  Not that I was catching the Tube, yet, but I knew the Wishing Well sits there and, with any luck, Number Three would be the charm. And, it was.

Inside, it is fairly blokey in the way that some pubs can be: loud talk about tits and ass only muted when someone sporting tits and a cooter wandered within listening range at which point eyes averted to study the carpet patterns. Lovely carpet, by the way, but I didn’t point that out to the lads at the next table. Worth another visit when some sporting event is on the box, but I needed to get to Perivale for some groceries and the train home so I drank up and was back on the road.


Posted May 9, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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