Archive for the ‘obituaries’ Tag

Hull-idiz In’t Sun Part 4: Old Boozers   Leave a comment

[Note: all the Hull-idiz tourism posts are linked here.]

If you are shocked at how much time this blog spends on bars, you should leave now.  On my trip to Hull, I even sought out ones I knew to be closed.  The White Hart (above) was not on the list but sadly should have been.  It doesn’t seem to have been closed long since most of the fixtures are still in place:



Not far away, I found Sharkey’s (which is up for auction).  I thought it was a notorious crime hangout but on reading up on it found that it was only crimes against fashion and good taste that went on here.



The Earl de Grey, on the other hand, was a notorious seafarers’ pub in the red light district.  I took the photo for that aspect and for a murder I read about when I first booked the holiday trip.  Re-reading the notes, it was the murder of a talking macaw which was stabbed to death during a botched burglary.  Rest in peace, Cha Cha.


Posted May 17, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Obits, Tourism

Tagged with , , , ,

Bruce Langhorne, RIP   Leave a comment

Bruce Langhorne died of kidney failure a couple of days ago at the age of 78.  In these pages, I refer to music he was, in part, responsible for all the time (like here, and here).  Also, he looks like my cousin, Chuck.  Godspeed, sir.

Posted April 17, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in music, Obits

Tagged with , , ,

Trumpageddon T Minus 1 Day: Trump Betting Odds   Leave a comment

British betting shops are ready to cover your Trump related wagers.  At Ladbrokes, we have:


The troubling one on that list is 2025 OR LATER….  Well, not as troubling as 2017 ever becoming an option in the first place.

The selection at Paddy Power is:



I have a lousy gambling record so I don’t want to read too much into this, but those seem like pretty good odds for the Wee-wee Tape coming out (yes, he puts the ‘P’ in POTUS).  And, if I understand the semantics of this slate of bets then he has slightly better odds of Splitting With His Soft Core Porn Star Wife than he has of Not Getting Inaugurated In The Next 24 Hours.  I keep saying, ill-advised though it is to do so out loud, that America really needs a patriot with good aim to step up (maybe a Secret Service Agent with inoperable cancer?) and get me that 20:1 payoff.

Stanhope’s ghoulish Celebrity Death Pool (fantasy football for the obituary obsessives) seems to have tapped into that same stream of consciousness.  The leading ‘picks’ as of yesterday were the easy to justify Charlie Manson and George HW Bush.  Number 3?  You don’t get that many votes from people expecting a fatal hairspray incident:





Sportsman, Croxley Green, Hertfordshire   1 comment


About a half mile from the Croxley Tube Station stands the Sportsman, an un-promising building from the outside but a wonderful pub within with a varied and enticing selection of real ales.  The house glasses are marked with full, ½, and 1/3 pint measures in the event you want to try everything on offer and still walk to the taxi at the end of the effort.




I just went for a pint of the Rebellion Brewery’s Roasted Nuts which had the oily consistency and furniture polish back notes I hope for in a dark brown beer.  One kid came up and couldn’t decide between two of the eight on the pumps so the barkeep pulled him tasters of each (about a third of a pint in total) … good trick to remember for my next visit.




There was steady traffic to the bar and everyone else seemed to know everyone else and, had I stayed for a second one they probably would remember my name as well (although they probably noted my oddities).  Somehow we got into the Topic: Recent Celebrity Deaths and I thought Lord Snowdon, whose title always makes me think of a quote from Catch-22, would win the prize; but, the old guys at the corner seemed fixated on Larry Steinbeck from the Bronski Beat.  This place is weird and wonderful.  As Yossarian queried:

Ou sont les Neigedens d’antan?



Enefeld London Porter: Advent Calendar 2016 Day 12   2 comments



Name: London Porter
Brewery: Enefeld
Rating (1-5): 3 out of 5 nativity scenes

Notes:  I first came to AA Gill via The Angry Island which I bought at a Thrift Store in Athens Georgia a few days before we drove off to a new job in Arizona — to read during Jackie’s shifts driving and in the hotels along the way.  I soon became convinced he was a spectacular asshole and one of the funniest writers and critics of Englishness and the English I have ever read.  The book turned me on to a number of landmarks around London that you simply shouldn’t miss (Royal Artillery Memorial at Hyde Park Corner for its horrific detail on each of the four sides or Charles Jagger’s statue of the soldier with a letter from home on the platform at Paddington Station for poignancy) and for years I was convinced he was actually an art critic; instead, Gill was a celebrated food writer and a raging alcoholic.

And, he was outrageously funny despite being wrong about so much and smugly, infuriatingly right about so much else.  I wanted to be English before reading him but even more so after reading the Angry Island: a lifetime spent observing the English, in one- or two-year stints — but fully embedded each time — had not turned me off my new countrymen and the recognition of them in his pages convinced me that this…musthappen.  Most Americans who call themselves {shudder} “Anglophiles” would be appalled by real English people and offended by every single [and perfectly acurate] thing he had to say about them.

I am sure I would have liked to meet Gill and that he would have been appalled by me, as well (most people are and fair play).

You don’t have to seek out this book, though.  Just go for the hyper-condensed version the Guardian published by way of contemporary commentary: it will tell you all you really need to know in less than 500 words. Everything, that is, except the title comes from the most quintessentially British of British characteristics: that repressed seething that comes from all the artificially imposed manners everywhere.  EVERYONE here is an asshole and every now and then one of them cracks and then is frightfully embarrassed by it all; except for hooliganism, closing time riots, knife crime, and on those blessed occasions when the Crown is at war and the utter cruelty this people is capable of shines through.

Ahhhh, Gill.  If I can find his grave, I shall definitely leave a single, sub-standard-pâté-smeared Tesco discount water cracker on the headstone.  And, weep a tear for a lost brother I never met.

By the way, the beer, today, was excellent.  The above rating, 3 out of 5 boozy Nativities, was only due to the overall experience (AA Gill is dead, but Trump walks the earth … where are those so-called “patriots” we hear so much about?  There is no God).


Guinness West Indies Porter: Advent Calendar 2016 Day 2   2 comments


Name: West Indies Porter
Brewery: Guinness
Rating (1-5): 4 out of 5 Bootsies (Santa Collins)…

Notes: My ratings system isn’t perfect so I convoluted Funk and Caribbean themes.  Deal with it, mofos.

Day 2 of 26, Friday, and reading the newspaper after work with a fine porter ahead of making a delicious fish pie for supper …  I love the weekends.

RIP, Manuel.

Barley Mow, Marylebone, London (& RIP Fidel, & Thanksgiving post-mortem)   2 comments



The Barley Mow looked festive, Wednesday, and while enjoying my pint I thought I might eventually put together a post something like:

‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving
And all through the pub….

The pub is on the national register of architecturally significant interiors, and it was a pretty place for the subsequent tragedy to unfold. The yuppies in the photo were the only non-social people there. I wish I remembered more of it but there were these vaguely familiar bursts of light that had been plaguing me all day.




Late in the night (or, more accurately, early Thursday morning) I realised that the aura I had been experiencing Wednesday were more than a little exhaustion — I was having my first, full-blown migraine in over 7 years. I spent the next 24 hours nauseous, unable to tolerate the dimmest light or noise above a whisper, and I was wracked with pain that made me wish I was dead. This was the first Thanksgiving I’ve missed since leaving home in 1978.

It wasn’t drink related, either — I only went to one other pub that night and only had a pint in each. As it is, though, I don’t remember a lot about either.





Here, I chatted briefly with a plasterer that was just off work from a building down the adjacent mews; in consideration of the bankers at the bar the conversation turned toward socialism and he told me that Fidel Castro was now dead.

So, for those that ask how my long weekend went: I started hallucinating just ahead of my worst migraine in a decade and 2016 claimed yet another of my childhood heroes. Fuck this year.






Posted November 28, 2016 by Drunken Bunny in Obits, Pubs

Tagged with , , , , ,