Travellers Rest, Kenton, Middlesex   2 comments

 

Pub #1955:

After the surprisingly unarousing trip to have my butt violated (while the NHS paid the costs!), I was surprisingly hungry and in need of fluid replacement therapy.  The Travellers’ Rest was only a short walk away and I decided to give it a go.

 

 

Unfortunately, I arrived before the kitchen opened and was forced to share this hotel lobby-cum-bar with the only other non-staff occupant … a decrepit old man working on his fourth Guinness of the morning.  This visit was kind of my past, present, and future condensed into a hoppy pint of ale and a discussion of the Jeremy Kyle show.

I moved on, soon after, to seek solid food and rest.  Ironic, considering the pub name.

 

 

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Posted October 18, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Five Fit Female Medical Professionals Stick Stuff Up My Butt   2 comments

 

I was wearing a hospital gown over pants with no bottom.  Inside the examination room were 4 medical techs and the endoscopist, all fit and relatively young, British women of a variety of ethnicities.  The plan for the day was for them to push a long device up my bum.  This was not just my imagination (this occurrence).

While not entirely unpleasant, I feel like I should have enjoyed this more … it really seemed less an NHS cancer screening visit and more of the sort of leaving present people imagine are given to departing colleagues from jobs in Amsterdam (trust me: that, too is a misconception).

At 18, I doubt I would’ve been able to contain my joy; but, in my mid-50s I felt like the scene was somehow incomplete.

Life is funny, that way.

 

Posted October 18, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Uncategorized

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Captain Morgan’s, Hayes, London (and Sunday 13.5 mile loop)   Leave a comment

 

Pub #1954:

A fall-back week for running finished with a 13½ mile loop out to Hayes via the canal paths, an event-free and visually uninteresting run through the industrial and residential landscape of northwest London:

At the midpoint of the journey, Captain Morgan beckoned and I answered his call.  Inside, I found a packed but fairly standard London Irish bar where I’m sure I was the first stranger to show up in ages.  Eventually, the shock of not-just-an-outsider but one drenched with sweat in a Beatholes t-shirt and {gasp!} and an England Cricket cap.  In fact, I’m not sure which was the bigger offense: England or cricket.  I took my Bad Apple cider to a seat near the billiards table and watched as the crowd reanimated after my disturbing entrance.

 

WhatPub is usually effusive about the history behind a pub.  Here’s the Captain’s  listing (as of 15 October 2017):

About the Pub:

A pub since at least 1992, possibly even 1985.

So, it isn’t just me.  The professionals at this game have fuck all to say.  Decent boozer, but I bet it takes a few visits (or a later one in less of a state of decrepitude on the visitor’s part) to feel welcome.

Posted October 16, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Fisherman’s Arms, Harlesden, London   Leave a comment

Pub #1953:

Busy day, Saturday.  Edie has been a bit ill and, since he’s taken such good care of me in the past, I took the ailing kitty to the vet (his first trips on the Tube since it was nice out and I didn’t want to spring for a taxi) then got him started on a course of treatment ahead of some tests next week.  He always wants to go out but when we get home he clings close to me as if to say, “is that the sort of indignity you go through every time you go out…the poking, the prodding, the lubricated glass tube up your bum?”  Hard to tell him that sometimes it isn’t lubricated.

 

 

Then we went to Shepherd’s Bush to an Arab shop that has a lot of Middle Eastern stuff we crave.  Our favourite butcher is there, too, so we stocked up then Jackie headed home on the Tube and I ran out to the canal path and worked my way back with a stop for a pint in Harlesden at the Fisherman’s Arms.

The pub visit was a bit odd.  The neighbourhood is kind of Portuguese-heavy and except for taking my order and asking if it is really hot out, not a word of English was spoken.  Just the barmaid and, I suspect, the landlord and someone else who works there but just in to booze her afternoon away.  It’s a lovely house, though, and I’m guessing the food is delightful (and if it isn’t, there are a number of Portuguese cafes and restaurants within a short hike).

So, essentially, this was a box-ticking exercise but not just a matter of duty.  The Fosters (no real ale or anything more interesting than Sagres) was cold and the selection of tequila was dangerously tempting.  Remote from the house, I probably won’t visit again unless with someone walking that section of the tow path; but, that’s definitely not because of avoidance.

Posted October 14, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Hillgate, Notting Hill, London   Leave a comment

 

Pub #1952:

I entered the high-ceilinged Hillgate, spotted the ale pumps, was met by the young bartender, and ordered.

Naked Ladies.”
“Of course.” She started to pull, looking my way with squinted eyes.
“I’m very immature,” I confessed. “I just like saying, ‘naked ladies.'”

She laughed a bit more than just politely and a delightful story in a not-Welsh but more European accent that sounds like me trying to do a Welsh accent. Something about a fellow being offered a Naked Ladies pizza and responding that he would like to start with the food, thank you. I laughed politely and paid.

I bring up the accent only because the “what’s on” sign says “what’s occurring” in the English-spoken-in-Wales vernacular.

Album covers framed around the bar. Very local crowd, being off the main drag; mind you, this is a remarkably posh buurt despite the charred framework of Grenfell sitting within eyeshot. Still, it was a much more civilised experience than the shithole I had just come from.

 

Posted October 14, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Prince Albert, Notting Hill, London   1 comment

 

Pub #1951:

Prince Albert, indeed. I feel like they pierced my dick, anyway. But, let’s not mince words. This is a shit hole full of upper middle class American tourists.

One of them, a woman in a 200 quid shirt and equally expensive haircut meant to look elegantly slovenly, was loudly — and incoherently — proclaiming the Harvey Weinstein revelations were the start of the women’s revolution that would lead to the proletarian uprising. I hope she’s serious and right because she and everyone else in this turd shack-cum-pub will precede me as motherfuckers up-against-the-wall.

 

 

And, the fucker posing as a bartender refused my round pound even though they were still legal tender until midnight.

Oh, the Jaipur Pale Ale was sublime. Assholes.

Posted October 14, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Unfortunate Business Name   Leave a comment

 

Not at all interested in what’s going on inside this lorry.  And, it’s not just for the dreadful spelling.

Posted October 13, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Made Me Laugh

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