Archive for the ‘Shepherds Bush’ Tag

Shepherds Bush to Acton Tourism   1 comment

 

Friday after work run:  Started at the Shepherds Bush stop of the coach from Oxford and moseyed on up to the Queens Tavern.  As I have every other time I’ve tried to go here (this must be the sixth or seventh effort), I checked the opening times and found them to be from noon til 11 or midnight.  As it has been every other time, it was closed.  The website went down since last Friday and the WhatPub entry tells the story: the pub is only open on game days, now.  Shit.

Whilst grinding my teeth over this wasted choice of an urban route over much nicer ones, I noticed the Batman Dental Surgery.  I only hope that if you explore deeper in the estate you’ll find the Black Widow Marriage Counseling offices or the Swamp Thing Garden Centre.

 

 

 

This poor choice of font size resulted in an unfortunate and confusing presentation of the team slogan. It SHOULD, of course, read, “Come On Your Arses.”  Or, maybe it is as simple as bad spacing and should be, “Come On Your’s” (with a troublingly spurious apostrophe).  No one puts the effort into graphic design nor proofreading, anymore:

 

 

 

 

This Bed & Breakfast, not far from the stadium, is probably out of my price range:

 

 

 

 

I continued.  The other planned pub stop was also closed, I think.  I decided there wasn’t enough spring in the mattress to assist in clearing the hoarding, and ran on, eventually finding the Wishing Well pub near East Acton station (write-up soon).

I’ve had more (and less) successful runs.  At least it was hot and the start of the Early May Bank Holiday Weekend.

 

 

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The Eagle, Shepherd’s Bush, London   1 comment

 

Pub #2078:

Two pubs on my map opened later and a third gave me the same case of the willies that The Eagle did but The Eagle represented the last likely pub-ish kind of drinking venue I was likely to find in the next mile or so.  True to the signage’s symbolism, the gaff was packed with American decor (and customers) and attitudes about personal space (if the graduate students conspicuously — but not at all threateningly — either leaning against the bar or posing with a glass out in the aisle were anything by which to gauge the humour of the natives).   On the bright side, the pricing is completely London, so I managed to take a beating there.

 

 

American-styled, animatronic/comfortable-with-their-body-type sex dolls were planted around the pub spouting their recorded come-ons (and, why hasn’t this been, if not made illegal, regulated in some way?!?) in an exasperatingly grating Yank accent.  The Brits in the pub, however, all had an annoyingly superior middle class edge which makes me wonder what it is that goes on in their worlds … I mean, I would probably have become a Mason had it come up when I was still a Working Man, but even then I cannot imagine any ridiculous ritual, despite an informed openness — I have cousins that preach to snake-handling congregations — to that level of weirdness, what it is that drives these people to this sort of pitiably deranged behaviour and, if this fatty-robot-American-brothel is any indication then I only want to know for, you know, completion of the set.  I’ll be ashamed, later.

“You okay there sir?” asked the personal-trainer-deficient waitron that had spoored past me twice since I paid an outrageous sum for a pint of Old Rosie and was trying to drink it in solitude whilst making out the sadly (and also) American framed prints dotted around this weird little trap.  This inquiry from him (his-or-her androgynous lack of form forcing my 19th-century gender-binary hand in this pronomular pronunciation) — let us be completely clear — wasn’t out of any concern for me or my well-being but in the interest that I might be lingering by nursing my beverage (I was running, again, 13 minutes and 30 seconds after walking in the door) or in the as-likely-threat that I might grab the lime knife off the “bar chef’s” cocktail set-up tray an arm’s length away from me and use it to slice through the Suzy Sacramento sex doll’s neck revealing the ribbon cables that minimally render the illusion of life, as it manifests itself on the coast.

But I digress.  Don’t go out of your way.

 

Posted April 1, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Defector’s Weld, Shepherd’s Bush, London   Leave a comment

 

Pub #2071:

I didn’t think it could happen, but I found a bar that is worse than Brew Dog.  However, Shepherd’s Bush is such a mixed bag (see below) that the Defector’s Weld was an almost inevitable tragedy.  While Brew Dog is run by an American outfit to prefabricated American (let’s call them) “standards,” Defector’s Weld does the same job if you substitute “hipster millennials” for “American.”  Highly disappointing.

 

Here are my rankings for this pub and the 9 nearest ones written up so far.  The top 3 are far and away superior to any of the others (a hint if you are planning a Shepherd’s Bush pub crawl).  I would avoid the bottom 4 unless the White Horse or the Flock make you nervous (in which case, those shitholes are probably your sort of gaff).

1. The Shepherd and Flock (sublime)
2. The White Horse
3. The Stewart Arms
4. The Queen Adelaide (adequate, avoid QPR game days)
5. The Central Bar (a ‘Spoons, so you know what you’re getting)
6. The Pocket Watch
7. The Sindercombe Social (putrid)
8. The Green
9. Brew Dog (American)
10. The Defector’s Weld (dregs)

 

Posted March 10, 2018 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Green, Shepherd’s Bush, London   1 comment

 

Pub #1969:

The bar area of The Green is a bit conscientiously shabby, styled in that way that screams, “give us your hipster money and no one has to get hurt.”  But, I am saving Defector’s Weld for a visit with the wife and this one was available and what-the-hell, eh?

 

 

I reached down to put my backpack and jacket on the hook under the bar and found that all of them were broken off.  Still, it’s a good sign that it even exists (and one I had not expected in this sort of rube-shack) and I thought I should give the place a chance.

I stacked my belongings under the stool and started on my ale: I was the only person in the house that wasn’t either drinking a “craft beer” or an industrial lager.  Then, with no one who seemed willing to talk, I perused the drinks card on the bar and laughed out loud at the tasting notes for PBR (as much that they even exist as for the sheer stupidity of the contents):

 

 

But, despite this, at least PBR is an actual beer (and the official beverage of the Original 30 Pack Marathon) meant for people allowed out in public unchaperoned.

A yuppie confidently strode to the bar next to me and proudly proclaimed “JD and Coke” (as dickheads do, when they mistakenly think a. that Jack Daniels is a proper drink for a grown man and b. that calling it “JD” makes them sound sophisticated while they order the beginners’ liquor).  He then began impatiently waving his contactless money-card around while the child’s drink was prepared.

I would have been proud had I made up this scene; witnessing it in person left me depressed and a bit nauseous.

 

 

Posted November 12, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The Sindercombe Social, Shepherds Bush, London   1 comment

 

Pub #1963:

There’s usually security at the door of the Sindercombe but we usually are in Shepherd’s Bush on Saturdays and they are there to reject football hooligans (QPR’s field is a short walk toward White City).  Friday, I got there just ahead of rush hour and found it fairly empty save for a booth full of women at the front and another at the back.  A drum kit in the corner beckoned but I’m certain some form of security still lives here and opted to sit quietly and listen to the tannoy which piped in some Bruce Springsteen (mmmm, mmmm, growing up).

 

 

This would have been quite pleasant had not the asshole from the kitchen been playing rude video clips loud enough to hear on the street.  Looking around, the two other tables of paying guests had to stop their conversations for these 10-15 second bursts and a couple of dudes standing at the bar looked at me, obviously annoyed, and opted to leave when I pointed at the offending dickhead.  A little self-policing wouldn’t go amiss.

Fuck you

Posted October 28, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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The White Horse, Shepherd’s Bush, London   1 comment

 

Pub #1944:

I had a BCC surgery scheduled for 4pm, but it got postponed and I found myself at loose ends.  Needing a couple of items at Shepherd’s Bush Market, I ventured south and breezed through the crowds of ninjas and kaftan-klad blokes simultaneously boiling out of and rolling into the Shepherd’s Bush Mosque (did someone just comment on the Sunni day?).  Ready for a break before facing the trip home, I ducked into the White Horse and was immediately transported back to about 1974.

 

 

A long, dark room with a 45° bend to a busy pool table in the back, the first room was comfortable and lined with solitary drinkers all having a conversation shouted to one another across the vast expanses between their seating spots.  Instantly familiar and compelling house to waste a bit of time and try to flush the excess salt out of my body.

 

Posted October 7, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Pubs

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Fisherman’s Hut, Shepherd’s Bush, London   1 comment

“Small cod, please,” I request although the smallest on the menu the Fisherman’s Hut is “medium,” knowing that I’ll get the same piece if I ask for medium but will pay £1.50 more for it.
“Small fish and chips, yes, okay.”
“No, no chips. Just the fish.” He frowns at the failed upsale.

“Salt and vinegar?” I just want the vinegar but it is easier to just nod. He covers the fish in a desiccating layer of salt then shakes the vinegar so that no more than three droplets hit. He starts to wrap.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. More vinegar, please?”

“More?” he replies incredulously.
“You know, to cut the fat. And, also enough to taste.” He puts a second layer of salt on while I try to interrupt, “no no no…no more salt.” Looking at the white mound, “for fuck’s sake.” He wipes down the fish with some napkins that come off with a greasy paste of salty fat.  Yum.

“Vinegar?”
“Yes. Please.” He squirts a tiny stream.

“Can you wrap that open?” He nods yes then double wraps it,closed, and puts it in a bag.

I thank him, take it out of the bag, un- and re-wrap it open at one end and ask if I can borrow the vinegar shaker. He puts both salt and vinegar on the counter. I push the salt away and flood the fishy pillowcase with vinegar and walk down the road leaving an oil-acetate spoor.

 

 

Posted October 7, 2017 by Drunken Bunny in Fish and Chips, Food

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