Sir Julian Huxley, Selsdon, Surrey   3 comments


Another 3 miles along from the Sandrock, the fourth pub of the day was also the fourth one I had planned to go to (although the first of the planned ones that was ready to serve when I arrived).  The Sir Julian Huxley, named for the eminent evolutionary biologist and brother of Aldous Huxley, is a pretty standard Wetherspoons but since this was a Tuesday I knew I could get a pint and a decent steak with sides for £7.50.  Since this was the first food of the day, it was long overdue (at least 17 miles overdue, in fact, and my legs were feeling the depletion).



I didn’t realise, at the time, that the sore throat and congestion I awoke with would dog me into the next weekend and I now think the profuse sweating I exhibited after quickly downing a graciously proffered pint of tap water was due to the fever that has raged for the last several days.  I chose a seat, therefore, not too far from these two old ladies that appeared to have finished up all but the last few sips of a bottle of wine thinking that they would probably be leaving soon and I would have the cubby hole we shared to my offensive self.  Their coffee arrived.

When I get sucked into a politics conversation in a Tory neighbourhood — like mine — that the Tories don’t really give a shit about (again, like mine), I usually try to steer things around, gently, to such a place that I can say about one gripe or another: “and do you know why that is?  It’s because the Conservatives are fucking you, and you’re not only taking it but your asking them how to make it better for them.”

Initially, I was a bit concerned that our conversation that developed — between me and these older women watching in horror as I wolfed down the chips, peas and beef whilst wielding my knife and fork incorrectly — was going to go that way (sometimes I have less self-control than at others), but early on one of them said, “do you know … I’ve voted Tory all my life, but Theresa May has sold us up the river.  Never again.  NEVER.”

So, this was one for me to just happily listen to, asking just enough to keep them chatty.  When they left, the other one stopped a moment to ask if I was eligible to vote.
“Yes, first time since Citizenship.  It’s pretty exciting.”
“And, who is your MP, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Boris,” I said since everyone in the country would know him from the single name.
“Johnson?” she completed, then, “Boris Fucking Johnson?” I was shocked and pleased at her filthy tongue. “Hear,” she called to her friend, “this one is represented by Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Fucking Johnson.”
“Oh, you poor man,” her friend called back. “Come along, dear, our minicab is here.”



Posted June 2, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

Tagged with , , , , , ,

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