Archive for the ‘London Irish Bars’ Tag

Red Filly, Mill Hill, London   2 comments

Horse racing and the Irish go together like stout and the Irish.  In fact, I watched a few races with the assembled fellows at the Red Filly as I sipped my Guinness.  One guy was picking up everyone’s stake and running over to the betting shop; even though you can do this on the Interwebs, this is really how it should be.


Posted May 22, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Weaver’s, Barnett, London   1 comment


By pure coincidence, I was listening, on the mp3 player, to Automatic For The People by REM as I trundled up to Weaver’s.  I couldn’t contain my smile and couldn’t be asked to find a more appropriate pub for this stop on the N for Northern Line runs (read a bit about Weaver D’s in Athens, GA if none of this means anything to you).

The rain had been oppressive so I got a double Jameson and a coffee which came freshly made on a tray, in a cup the size of a Jacuzzi with a cookie on the side.  I had to drink down half the coffee before pouring the whiskey in, but it was a lovely way to take a short break and a wee walk down memory lane.


Posted May 22, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Office, Northolt, Middlesex   1 comment

I pushed my pace on the run to the Office largely because I had the substantial wind at my back but also because I had promised to be back from the run in an hour and a half.  Consequently, I arrived at the door breathing heavily and sweating even more heavily than usual.  I pushed my way to the bar and got dirty looks from most of the nearby punters (I think I was dripping on them) but a friendly reception from the bartender (and a pint of lager for £2.50).  Horseracing on tele, very much a local…good for a quick one, anyway.

Here’s a map.


Posted March 20, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Old Crown, Hayes, London   1 comment

I’ve run past the Old Crown a few times but have always been too loaded already to stop in. I had just finished the last stretch of Section 10 of the LOOP and was only 2 beers into the day so this seemed like an opportunity not to pass up.

The bar is essentially a long, railed counter and eventually leads to a darkened back lounge but I stuck close to the front. It’s a friendly crowd — a fair number of Irishmen on either side of the bar — and very much a locals hangout although almost directly across from the Hayes and Harlington rail station.



After some initial, welcoming niceties I was left to my own devices in a sunny seat near the front window. I spotted what is always a good sign — a childrens’ curfew — but not so good a sign as a blanket ban on the brats. There were none here, today, though.




I’m always pleased to see that bars are used for funerals. Not just wakes but actually taking the honoree for one last round. The photo of this announcement is a bit blurry but the sentiment warmed my heart as I bid the bar farewell and continued on my run home:

Tommy McDermot
Funeral Details
Monday 20th March 2017
12 PM at the Southwest
MIDDX Crematorium Hounslow
Road, Hanworth, Feltham
TW13 5JH

On to the Angler’s Pub in
Teddington 1PM

No flowers, please but if you
Wish to bring a single poppy
It’s the one flower Tommy

We are making donations to
The Princess Alice Trust as
They were a great support
To Tommy. Instead of flowers.

Godspeed, Mr McDermot. Here’s a map to the Crown, if you are planning to pay your respects.

Posted March 13, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Lavin’s Bar, Hanwell, London   Leave a comment


Walking back to my bus stop from the Dodo I decided to pop into Lavin’s because it looked like a real bar. It WAS a real bar, complete with a raging drunk dancing (well, let’s call it that, anyway) by sort of squatting repeatedly out of synch with the music (some surprisingly good choices considering they came from a digital jukebox so that any variety of aural horrors COULD have been chosen). As Green Onions was winding down he did the sweeping-arm point to the crowd (there were three of us besides the bartender), and a buddy of his emerged from the back hallway with bog paper stuffed in his ears.

About halfway through my beer and a couple of more songs into his performance, he went off toward the loo. On his return, he stopped to have a quiet chat.

“I LOVE LIVING IN LONDON!” he shouted.
I frowned and tucked a finger behind my ear. “Sorry, what was that?”
“IFUCKINGLOVELIVININLONDON, MATE!” He shoved a hand my way and I wondered what pestilence sheltered itself in the rough crags of this hale fellow’s meathooks especially since I was certain he wasn’t even the rudimentary-wash-after-pissing sort. I needn’t have worried, though, as his hands were as smooth and soft as a baby’s bottom (something that creeps me out in an adult of either sex, but this guy looked like a brickie and should have had palms like armor).



I tried to hide my disgust at his work-shy mitts and just smiled and nodded back. “Yeah, London rules.”
“NO. YOU DON’T UNNERSTAND! I GOT…” he looked around an imaginary sphere encapsulating him then mimed pushing his sleeves up and pointing at his back with his thumb; “…TATTOOS OF LONDON ALL OVER. I CANNY SHOW YOU HERE,” he said in a grand display of restraint, then burped and added, “but out back I can.”

“That’s alright, just describe ’em. I’ve seen a lot of ink; I can probably make it out.”
With that, his restraint evaporated and he slid one sleeve up to show some very old Chelsea FC design. I politely nodded and figured, ‘in for a penny,’ and did a little twirl of my finger and pointed over his shoulder. He started pulling his jumper over his head exposing far too much of his buttocks exposed above his belt line; above it, a crudely etched St George flag with script stating, “English by Birth, London by the Grace of God.”

He then pirouetted, smiling, and flipped me a Nazi salute before falling back to the bar stool nearest his beer. I don’t know WHAT that was all about but I suspect — no, hope — it was some commentary on the state of US politics now.

At the end of the bar, another guy had entered and drawn Mr Soft Hands’ attention. It was the guy from the Dodo that looks like Trigger from Only Fools and Horses. I drank up and left out past the nearby cemetery (which really looks worthy of a return trip).



I think it is always like that in there.  You should go.  Here’s a map.

Posted February 6, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Daly’s, Wealdstone, Middlesex   Leave a comment


Wealdstone reminds me of industrial towns in the US rust belt, built near — and for — a large factory (Kodak) that is now dormant and doomed to become a housing development. Meanwhile, the town struggles along with a variety of immigrant populations maintaining a psychic distance while sharing the streets, all of this informed by roughly equal amounts of respect and disdain for one another.  That’s the impression I got on the Indian, Pakistani, Polish, and Romanian filled street on my way to Daly’s.

“The door opens and what have we here?” one old fellow at the bar theatrically intoned as I came in a little more than 6 miles into a run through heavy, freezing rain. Maybe they were expecting someone else; as I pulled off the drenched hat and gloves and made my way to the bar, everyone turned away and went back to doing what ever they were doing before I turned their heads.

It is an Irish place, so I guess a pasty white guy like me — especially one with a native-English-speakers’ accent that isn’t English — is always a welcome addition, or at least a tolerated one. The barmaid slipped into Irish which would have made me a bit paranoid except that it might well be the lingua Franca in here.  I really should learn at least the niceties in Irish, so frequently do I find Irish beer shacks in this part of London.

The pour seemed to be about 2/3 lager (the usual choices) and the rest Guinness. I had a little over 5 miles to go to get home and the chill was starting to settle in so after a piss break (the back hall had three more conspiratorial sounding Celtic speakers huddling about), I set back off on the road.



Posted January 16, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Shepherd and Flock, Shepherds Bush, London   1 comment


Looking for my stout or porter of the day, Friday, I spotted the Shepherd and Flock and decided to give it a go.  Wonderful local, if I do say so meself.  The booths are like little snugs but open to the crowd at the bar who are as much an attraction as the gorgeous woodwork and the friendly bar keeper.



It isn’t an ale bar, but it is otherwise perfect.  I could go on about the American girl and the Brit from up north who, like me, just chose this place at random but I’m still days behind on these write-ups and I don’t remember a lot of the specifics (except that, at one point during her at least 2nd Stella, she proclaimed this her favourite pub).





Posted December 26, 2016 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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