St. George’s, Ruislip, Middlesex ( #August2016PubPerDay number 18)   3 comments

St. George's Tavern Ruislip

 

Leaving St George’s, the old saw, “you can take the boy out of the South but you can’t take the South out of the boy” coursed through my head because, in particular and to no great credit to myself, I felt entirely comfortable amongst the folks in the bar.  You kind of reckon on some unapologetically racist commentary in a place that not only displays the George Cross but has it as a central theme; but, what I heard on my visit was much more subtle and coded and, thus, it reminded me for all the world of Atlanta in the 70’s: after all the changes had taken place but not everyone was happy about it.  My old neighbourhood in the 80’s was still filled with the broken old crackers that used to frequent the Pickrick just because The Governor had made a stand against desegregation by literally taking a stand in the doorway with an axe handle.  To be fair, Trumps campaign for the US Presidency seems to be tapping into that same sort of post-integration angst.

I know these people and, in a lot of ways, I am these people: I have worked (and, quite hard) for an honest living in a world that was leaving me behind and in the meantime that honest living became harder and harder to live on.  The only thing we really differ on is who deserves the blame.

It’s not entirely that, but I suspect there’s more than a modicum behind the comparison between Ruislip and Wembley my bar mate kept banging on about.  Ruislip is a bucolic little town on the farthest outskirts of the City while Wembley is more than halfway into Central London from here so the presence of zebra crossings and a traditional butcher and people who will treat you with respect (these indicated by a sweeping hand wave toward the street and the predominantly white and, for that matter, disproportionately ginger denizens) shouldn’t be so surprising.

I also think that underlying this fellows discomfort with what has become of Wembley is also very close to what makes it uncomfortable for me: neither of us really knows how to judge dangerous versus benign conditions there because it is so foreign to both of us.  I can guarantee that it is the same for me here in crime ridden, urban but white, native English populated neighborhoods.  Knowing when shit is about to go down is a necessary survival skill and something I can spot a mile away and while three sheets to the wind…in the States; it is a tribute to this skill developing, ever so slowly, that I chose not to vocalize these thoughts.

So, yeah, I like this bar and I think the guys there are alright.  I don’t think I’m going to be asking them where to get hummus or a Halal butchered goat, but I might be willing to point out just how badly they (and, for that matter, all of us) are getting fucked more by the Tories and their hyper-wealthy benefactors than by Arabs, Africans, and Pakistanis trying to survive in a strange land.  That’s probably going to happen about 30 seconds before I take a severe kicking — something a local boy would’ve seen coming.

No real ales, here, but there are beers from Ireland, Denmark, and Australia.  Not the best but definitely not the worst of the August 2016 Pub Per Day Challenge venues.

Note:  the next two pub write-ups at the Orchard (Ruislip) and more directly the Liquor Station (Wembley) are something resembling follow-ups to this one.

 

St. George's Tavern Ruislip Fosters

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