Archive for the ‘London’ Tag

Mabel’s Tavern, King’s Cross, London   Leave a comment


Pub #2136:

After a plate of hors d’oeuves at the lunch break of the mini-conference at the Crick Institute, the need to rinse the pasty nibbles from between one’s teeth was irresistible and a pub was sought out.  On the trip to the Rocket — the most obvious choice — Mabel’s appeared one street out-of-the-way and looked a bit quieter.  It was.  Mind, it was full of suits but my collared shirt served as enough camouflage to blend in.

It is relatively small and dark and, dare I say, classy and the lunch crowd all seemed there for lunch.  Perhaps as recently as a year ago the lunch crowd would ingest mostly fluids but the world has gone mad; so much so that Kim Jong-Un commented on it to Donald Trump earlier in the day (and, I hope this, on its own merit, never ceases to sound insane, either).



Posted June 13, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Mudlark, Borough, London   Leave a comment


Pub #2134:

The tide rolled in and the Thames Foreshore sank.  I left my mudlarking idyll for the Jubilee Line at London Bridge and was almost there when a pub called The Mudlark emerged.  Acknowledging serendipity, I stopped for a birthday beer — okay, I already had that at the Market Porter before the mudlarking, but this is “one to grow on.”  And, the beer has a bunny on a Space Hopper on the label … signs and symbolism are everywhere, today.

I was finished by 15 minutes past noon, and left as the first table of tourists showed up.  Lovely.



Posted May 30, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Market Porter, Borough, London   1 comment


“I woke up this morning and got myself a beer.”  (sung by some dead American in Paris; and, technically the bartender got me a beer)

Pub #2133:

I had the day off and, with my tenure in London growing shorter by the minute, I decided to indulge in one of the many distinct pleasures that Borough Market has to offer.  In this instance, it was the early doors at the Market Porter, a pub that opens at 6 am for the market traders to be able to get in a pint before the day begins.



Not that there were many market traders crowded in (about half the stalls are vendors of one sort or another of street- or ready-to-eat-food and, as such, would arrive with the tourists to whom they cater).  There was a large table of drunken Brummies apparently still in town from the Bank Holiday and who I believe had not been back to their hotel rooms at all last night.  Well done!



Time moves on and last call for the early beer is at 8:30 (drink up by 9).  I was under a little more pressure as the low tide was at 9:30 and, therefore, my window of opportunity for beach-combing along the Thames opened around 7:30 …

“No eternal reward will forgive us now for wasting the dawn.”  (that dead Yank, again).


Posted May 30, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Oyster Rooms, Fulham, London   Leave a comment


Pub #2132:

Sunday morning run took me through Hammersmith too early for a beverage there so I continued to Fulham Broadway, arriving in the Oyster Rooms at 08:58 am.  “Is the bar open?”

“In two minutes,” and I put in my order.  The beer was placed before me and the waitron stood poised before the register for the next 15 seconds before we could make our exchange.



I had beaten the rains and slipped past a bunch of singing football fans in front of the building.  The fack are they DOING here, I wondered.  The season is completed, surely.  Oh, well, at least they weren’t aware of the Wetherspoons upstairs; quite a civilised refuge this visit.



Posted May 29, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Hootananny, Brixton, London   Leave a comment

Pub #2131:

“Where you at?”
The Hoot.”
“I didn’t think they opened until 5.”
“Summer hours…3 on Friday from first of May. Come get a beverage on me, man.”




Eventually, my friend/root doctor showed up and we took up residence at an observation post I’d scouted out earlier, not too directly in the line of sight of the surveillance cameras. Not to be out-paranoid-ed, he took a long draw on the lager and popped his head toward another guy sitting outside; “he’s SOME kind of cop, I bet you.” We changed topics to crack heads (several of whom dropped by to chat in a crack-head-sort-of-way) and holiday destinations in the Med and North Africa.

A plumber friend showed up, not at all discretely smoking some herbal mixture you can readily find in the neighbourhood. “What’s up with the policeman down there? He looks lonely.” I still didn’t see what it was that they saw in him. A couple of rounds later and he was still nursing the half pint and I began to believe they were right but it was past time to head home for the night.




Posted May 29, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Market House, Brixton, London   Leave a comment


Pub #2128:

It was balmy Friday evening in Brixton and a brief run followed by a brief run-into with an acquaintance left me thirsty.  “You goin’ that way, mate?  I’m barred at all those.”  We agreed to meet closer to one of the not-in-central Brixton drinking establishments next time and I wandered through the market for supper fixings then spotted the Market House across the way.

A fellow former-American, he has lived in the neighbourhood the last four decades and, through a mutual friend, discovered some mutual interests…pints, music, livin’ life on the one.  And, through this occasional meeting of minds I’ve gotten to know more people in Brixton than I do in Ruislip.  And, I love this area; but, it is rapidly turning pale white as yuppie American kids move in, inured to much worse crime and rates of crime and happy to tough it out as settlers for a couple of years while their houses increase in value an order of magnitude and everything that made this a cool neighbourhood gets priced out.  I’m almost certainly a part of the problem, even though the only white guy I know down there is kind of exiled from Dulwich and has probably spent a viable portion of his life in HM’s prison system: despite my horrifying appearance in most of the northern suburbs where I live I am still good (perhaps “safe”) optics and blunt the edges of some of the more vivid street life.



It was with some trepidation, therefore, that I ventured into the lily-white and disturbingly American confines of the Market House.  There were a couple of black gents near the window seating I gravitated toward but they seemed to also be in the business of gentrifying the area (albeit in the trades). Okay, to be fair, if it is happening anyway then at least hire local.  And, I may be overstating the dangers of upscaling a bit.  I mean, the menu will at least be Caribbean food, I thought.

But, noooooooooooo … chicken wings and other American bar fare.  And, fries.  Fucking fries.  I am in Hell.



Posted May 17, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Wishing Well, Acton, London   Leave a comment


Pub #2127:

What would you wish for? About 2/3 through the run on a humid and quite warm afternoon, I had already been disappointed by the dearth of beer or, more to the point, open drinking establishments. I wanted a nice, cold beer and a continuation of the quality entertainment I had so far been granted.

I emerged from the urban decay around the Wormwood Scrubs buurts a little beyond East Acton Station along the A40.  Not that I was catching the Tube, yet, but I knew the Wishing Well sits there and, with any luck, Number Three would be the charm. And, it was.

Inside, it is fairly blokey in the way that some pubs can be: loud talk about tits and ass only muted when someone sporting tits and a cooter wandered within listening range at which point eyes averted to study the carpet patterns. Lovely carpet, by the way, but I didn’t point that out to the lads at the next table. Worth another visit when some sporting event is on the box, but I needed to get to Perivale for some groceries and the train home so I drank up and was back on the road.


Posted May 9, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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