The Half Moon Pub, Herne Hill, London   Leave a comment


Pub #2140:

A short walk from the Commercial sits the Half Moon, another gorgeous building, inside and out. I was swarmed by the staff both at the bar and by waiters prompting me to think they were expecting a much more important, sweaty, balding, middle-aged American. But, no, after sitting awhile I realized the house is just really overstaffed and the kids are just bored off their tits.



Case in point: a woman came in with a commercial video camera and was accosted by one of the staff. “Nice camera. I have a digital SLR.” She nodded politely while adjusting the shoulder grip and he continued, “what’s that set you back? A grand?” I succeeded in stifling a laugh.

“More like 10,” she replied.
“Wow, great deal.”
“Ten grand, not ten quid,” she corrected.
“Ten thousand?” he paraphrased doubtfully then continued on explaining features his camera has for, maybe, ten seconds.
“That’s great,” she cut him off, “but I’m working.” She headed toward the back. “I’ll stop by later,” she lied.



A family group (mum, dad, three stair-stepped kids all under 10-years-old) emerged from the dining area, so there were some other customers. From their outfits and the rainbow coloured afro wig the oldest boy wore I reckoned they were on their way to the Pride March and Festivities. Good for them.

BUT, that’s one of the reasons I never go to Pride anymore. It used to be transgressive and dangerous and, more to the point, I was about the straightest thing you could find for miles. Now, it’s full of families. Families! And, far more clothing than any homo party should have.¹

¹Re-reading that last line and thinking back to Atlanta in the 70’s and 80’s, that statement is by no means a blanket one (not written in Stonewall, as it were).




Posted July 11, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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