The Commercial, Herne Hill, London   3 comments


Pub #2141:

Saturday, I was in Herne Hill to catch up with a friend who had recently moved to the outskirts of the neighbourhood; but, I left his address and phone number at home (I only have Jackie, my brother-in-law, and a couple of [ahem] ‘vendors’ in my burner phone).  So that the trip wouldn’t be a total write-off, I reckoned I’d get a beverage before walking up to Brixton to visit another friend (whose number, indeed, I had with me).  I looked around outside the station and thought, “Fuckin’ ‘ell, ‘Erne ‘Ill is Yuppie Scum Central, so what is [name redacted] doing living here?”  My world doesn’t have firm foundations and this was a disturbing development that shook them severely.

The Commercial sits directly across from the station and inside is quite nice with a fine selection of refreshments. But, the weather has been so spectacular of late that it would be a shame to waste it sitting inside, alone with the hardwoods and soft jazz (was that Kenny G? Christ almighty…get out, now. OUT!).



England was battling Sweden for a World Cup Semifinal position later that afternoon and it was all anyone was willing to talk about. Of course, with this accent I couldn’t possibly know anything about football.  I coached kids in the 70’s, was a FIFA certified referee working at my local recreation department during high school, and had spent more time in Commonwealth and other football nations than in the US in my first 20 years, but of course I didn’t remember that in the ’74 WC England failed to qualify (living in Darwin, Northern Territory meant that Australia qualifying for the first time was seared into my memories but hey-ho).

I managed to work in facts about ‘Soccer’ into the chat (such as, “soccer” is short for Association Football the same way that “rugger” is short for Rugby Football and both are completely English in origin and the term, “soccer,” was only abandoned in the UK when the Americans started to get excited about the sport in the 70’s).  One guy in the red shorts with blue shirt yuppie scum uniform made a comment about the Americans not being very good at it so they imported all their talent; I agreed, but insisted that this is because Americans consider soccer a girls sport and men playing it are not really, y’know, men, in the classic sense.  This did not go over as well as the etymological portion of the convo.



I excused myself to phone the Brixton connection. Motherfucker…he was in Brighton until late evening so we agreed to meet up next time one of us was in the other’s territory. I figured I had an hour to beat the crowds on the Tube — or three, if I waited till after kick off — and wondered what else to do with my time.  Perhaps a second beverage in a more copacetic (and less coprophilic) location was in order, I thought, as I made a move toward central Herne Hill….



Posted July 11, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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