The Eagle, Shepherd’s Bush, London   1 comment


Pub #2078:

Two pubs on my map opened later and a third gave me the same case of the willies that The Eagle did but The Eagle represented the last likely pub-ish kind of drinking venue I was likely to find in the next mile or so.  True to the signage’s symbolism, the gaff was packed with American decor (and customers) and attitudes about personal space (if the graduate students conspicuously — but not at all threateningly — either leaning against the bar or posing with a glass out in the aisle were anything by which to gauge the humour of the natives).   On the bright side, the pricing is completely London, so I managed to take a beating there.



American-styled, animatronic/comfortable-with-their-body-type sex dolls were planted around the pub spouting their recorded come-ons (and, why hasn’t this been, if not made illegal, regulated in some way?!?) in an exasperatingly grating Yank accent.  The Brits in the pub, however, all had an annoyingly superior middle class edge which makes me wonder what it is that goes on in their worlds … I mean, I would probably have become a Mason had it come up when I was still a Working Man, but even then I cannot imagine any ridiculous ritual, despite an informed openness — I have cousins that preach to snake-handling congregations — to that level of weirdness, what it is that drives these people to this sort of pitiably deranged behaviour and, if this fatty-robot-American-brothel is any indication then I only want to know for, you know, completion of the set.  I’ll be ashamed, later.

“You okay there sir?” asked the personal-trainer-deficient waitron that had spoored past me twice since I paid an outrageous sum for a pint of Old Rosie and was trying to drink it in solitude whilst making out the sadly (and also) American framed prints dotted around this weird little trap.  This inquiry from him (his-or-her androgynous lack of form forcing my 19th-century gender-binary hand in this pronomular pronunciation) — let us be completely clear — wasn’t out of any concern for me or my well-being but in the interest that I might be lingering by nursing my beverage (I was running, again, 13 minutes and 30 seconds after walking in the door) or in the as-likely-threat that I might grab the lime knife off the “bar chef’s” cocktail set-up tray an arm’s length away from me and use it to slice through the Suzy Sacramento sex doll’s neck revealing the ribbon cables that minimally render the illusion of life, as it manifests itself on the coast.

But I digress.  Don’t go out of your way.



Posted April 1, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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One response to “The Eagle, Shepherd’s Bush, London

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  1. Pingback: The Stag, Acton, London | The Endless British Pub Crawl continues...

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