City of Quebec, Marylebone, London   1 comment


A lot of things in Britain remind me of Atlanta and while I would expect a London gay bar to be more like the Cove (the toxic waste dump of a queer bar where kitchen staff all over Atlanta tested the capacity of new colleagues and the place where I drank a whiskey sour beneath RuPaul’s gyrating g-string on my first visit), the City of Quebec was a lot more like The Conference Room — a no-nonsense local bar that just happened to favour men who favour men (most of whom were in their late 60’s, hence its other names like The Departure Lounge and God’s Waiting Room).


Civilians…the pub is a pub, but the real denizens of this place each have haircuts that cost more than all the clothing, drinks, jewellery, and wallet contents of the folks in this shot.


This is alluded to in several online write-ups of this truly wonderful, old world pub and is also a fairly unfair assessment of the house.  The fellows I saw sitting around the pub were instantly recognisable as available older gay men (and by older, I freely admit to being older than a few of these guys) but you had to either be looking for it to be true or otherwise be really tuned in to what was displayed before you.  The pub was, at the end of regular business hours, as much populated by straights as gays and everyone better dressed than the middle-aged runner whose report you are currently reading.

The guys that are there as much as sign posts as a lascivious attraction — the regulars of the pub — were as perfectly drawn as any 50(+)-year-old men I have ever seen, by the way.  I could have included photos of them but for the way the circumstances, below, made me consider their feelings in that they might, on an outside chance, read this stupid post.  This dickhead tourist photographing them would have been insulting enough without the arrogant dismissal of their magnificence I am about to perpetrate.



But, perpetrate this, arrogantly, I shall: to be completely modest in this butt fuckingly bourgeois world of preening appearances, my arrival in this closed (and, weirdly and invitingly open) universe seemed to cause a (admittedly almost imperceptible)  stir.  I won’t suggest I was fresh — if well (even overly) aged — meat to these dentured and botoxed carnivores; no, not a quarry as much as an interloper in this world that has a reputation as a place for those interested in ‘the older man.’

This made me laugh to myself, a bit, until I caught a glimpse of myself in the bar mirror (ignoring the hair loss and with the jelly like torso blessedly cropped by the angle of view): yeah, hand tailored suits and perfect grooming and manners are always on the same bargaining table as rugged fitness and mysterious scarring (and, obviously, a sense of humour about the whole situation).  A few dozen sit-ups, daily, and some hair replacement and I’d be in the boy market.

And,  if I was just in the market, this could have been a fun evening to fuck with the locals.  “Lights go out, walls come tumbling down” as the music piped in suggest…I would have expected more disco but I really can’t fault the experience, overall.  And, the Manhattan they mixed was FABulous.


Posted September 29, 2016 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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One response to “City of Quebec, Marylebone, London

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  1. Pingback: London A to Z Runs : C | The Endless British Pub Crawl continues...

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