skip nav  

BITE user comments - FritzBlitzkrieg

Comments by FritzBlitzkrieg

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

I am moved to declare that the Moon has been re-carpeted and re is right as it all looks tremendously similar.

In either a nod/broken neck to posterity or a distressing lack of innovation, the style is very much as it was. The textile is surely new, although neither having seen the receipt or been present at the CARPETRIGHT purchase I cannot guarantee this as FACT, to quote Rafa. It is a dark red colour, according to my eyes, with an elaborate fleur-de-lis design that is reminiscent of Milady de WInter's telltale tattoo. She is surely the saint of the Moon's various thieves (my phone was nicked here c2005, a white and orange Nokia with a then innovative joystick-type feature. The police never bothered with the CCTV or indeed the BBC they were more EPISILON MINUS than JULIET BRAVO) although being a fictional character she cannot be the patron saint in the sense of being both a patron and a saint. More likely a drink cadger or swiper of unguarded pints.

The underlay is surely new, given the delightfully bouncing tread which raises the heel, much like BUZZ ALDRIN in his venture of 1969 upon another and less celebrated MOON, if indeed THAT occured (see CAPRICORN ONE with Elliot Gould and James Brolin with a winning cameo from TELLY SAVALAS as curmudgeonly crop dusting slaphead). It may be TREDAIRE or similar top quality item. I wonder if they used the old grippers (not STEBSON) or did they "[Oi!]leave it out [Gripper]"? It's a mystery for the ages.

Perhaps the original carpet has merely been vigorously washed with a VAX or similar electronic device like the ones you can trent from certain TESCO's? If so, I shudder to contemplate the dire, viscous, abortionate filth that needs must have been sucked from that much abused pile. Piles on piles - the ultimate horror. Ground, congealed MEXICAN MONDAY burritos and calcified chicken from CURRY THURSDAY when Wetherspoons claim to become the nation's biggest "CURRY 'OUSE" although the buildings do not transfigure from bricks and mortar into pitilessly hardened PITTA BREAD with JALFREZI paste.

9 Jul 2015 16:38

The Moon Under Water, Leicester Square

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.

Attenborough might claim there is life on earth, but a trip to this casa del crap would surely force an about face. One Dire Erection, or however you pronounce them, have more soul than this drowned world inn of grim.

The most charming feature is its beer garden, styled in the purest grey concrete, to the front elevation.

14 Jun 2014 10:24

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

As I wandered lonelier than WORDSWORTHS'S cloud past this celebrated liver killer, these eyes bore witness to various workmen buzzing and grafting both within and without, like Stakahnovite bees trapped in time and space.

One was painting the black iron railings a surprising shade of shadiest black. He used a small roller, and no, I don't reference a Carmargue or other short wheel-based Royce. His work was adequate. I tossed a coin of small denomination.

The doors of the esteemed establishment were open, despite it being closed. My mind reeled at the tempting paradox, like "the sun so hot, I froze to death" in the hit of yesteryear "Oh, Susanna" (before she quit BBC Breakfast, naturally). The Goat of Mendips, or whatever, he tempted me to enter and I took his challenge. The fact I was wrapped in a fluorescent tabard aided this misadventure for it is the ironic uniform of the blue collar worker and allows unusually free locomotion on many a site. Try it, dear reader, and you will stagger at its power.

I must say the Moon stank of more than the rank hopelessness and vile B.O that was its signature pre-closure. I waited at the bar and was not served: plus ca change, as they say in GAUL.

12 Jun 2014 16:51

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

The edifice of unbridled imbibing glory that is known only as the LORD MOON OF THE MALL has now been closed, for refitting purposes, a full five days. Who knew the interior of this palace of profundity could be improved? It didn't take the LORD much longer to create the world, so one can only speculate at the staggering metamorphosis the world will soon witness.

A banner that hangs above its potted plants (the likes of which have not been witnessed since the Babylonian Gardens) states it will re-open on Monday 16th June, or THE DAY OF BLISS CELESTIAL as the locals are already proclaiming it and thousands have pledged to carry their blubbering, oozing and sickly relatives (and broken watches) to this LORD MOON OF THE MALL on the 16th to benefit from its healing powers.

It is said that an army that carries a pint of the Moon's real ale before it is invincible (this offer does not include Greene King IPA, though).

6 Jun 2014 16:57

Robert Pocock, Gravesend

Sadly, it remains the pit of the most mortifying despair and a lasting monument to the expiration of humanity's hopes for any redemption.

Located opposite the library (presumably for the purposes of irony) neither the clientele nor the bar staff have any comprehension or interest in the alphabet. There are spirits behind the bar but those of the patrons are, of course long gone.

30 May 2014 16:58

The Copperfields, Gravesend

Loath as I am to belittle a drinking hole with no redeeming qualities, once more I am moved to slam the horrors I have witnessed in my earthly misadventures.

This festering pile would raise the ire of a zombie simply by dint of its contemptible Dickens referencing name. The bearded Victorian genius and sentimental social critiquer would have eviscerated this contemptible abortion had it existed in his time.

The selection of ales is laughable to the point (pint?) of lachrymosity, should that word exist. This pub is cited in divorce cases since men bring their families here in the hope they will desert him for patent lack of taste and decency.

30 May 2014 16:43

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

Fritz making reply to estimable punter-drinker "Horned Church of John" who make comment on 4 Juin that he ain't finding the £2.69 pint. That is the Greene King IPA pretend beer 3.6%. Proper beer is dearer. Poster saying "from £2.69" or using the asterix and then you apply bifocal to witness small print. THIS IS MODERN WORLD and you gotta bad, you gotta be bold, you gotta be wiser as Desiree advised.

In Fritz opinion this Lawd Moon is good dark hole like Calcutta back in the golden era.

13 Jun 2013 17:08

The Rum Puncheon, Gravesend

Inexplicable attempt to gentrify the drug-soaked pub clientele of Gravesend. Please! Sharp interiors, subtle lighting and feature walls will only enrage the degenerate populace of this circle of Kentish hell. They reject modernity and, indeed, pelt buses as the unacceptable face of progress.

9 Apr 2013 16:53

The Pembroke, Gravesend

Plenty of orange-faced, yo-yo knickered "ladies" displaying their citrus flesh and their drug-addled, hyper-aggressive, tattoed boyfriends looking to be offended. They are the same crowd who in their just-gone youth would sit outside McDonald's and shout "You lookin' at me?" to those that dare pay their council tax from privately procured funds (in an unconscious tribute to Travis Bickle in "Taxi Driver" no doubt).

Yes, a dive.

9 Apr 2013 16:44

The Elephants Head, Northfleet

Run by a Sikh family - but doesn't Sikhism prohibit the consumption of alcohol? Perhaps selling it is OK? If so, I doff my cap to this progressive religion. If not, I condemn the owners in the strongest of terms.

A rubbish pub, nonetheless.

9 Apr 2013 16:37

D:Ream Bar, Gravesend

In previous guise as "The Railway Tavern", this vile hole was notorious for its drunken fighting and general tawdriness.

Re-opened as "D:Ream", which I read as "D Colon Ream". It was an appropriate summation. Hasn't lasted long and hopefully will be razed to the ground soon. An awful shack.

9 Apr 2013 16:31

Robert Pocock, Gravesend

The non-disabled toilets are upstairs, and the case is extremely steep. This is neither family nor alcholic friendly.

The crowd of aged alchys sit or slump near the bar, their red and obscenely bulbous noses a beacon of welcome: like Amsterdam without the carnal appeal. Many are incomprehensible morons, their remaining grey cells raging against the dying of the light through yet further consumption of the lager soma.

Many a character in here: and yes, by character I mean degenerate, xenophobic slaphead.

3 Apr 2013 16:55

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

You may be aware of my previous posts. They feature below. I am become a name, it seems. As a seasoned drinker, I still "rate" this pub's selections of Real Ales, as the youth would say, but sure as hell not spell. The new boss man, I believe called Mark, is excellent. He is a throw back to the days of the departed and much missed Ashley. Yes, there a are problems, but spotting whose next to abuse his liver in this dim hive of desparados ain't no cake walk. Yes, the regular bogs are below ground and the headroom questionable, but these are barstaff not miners. Yes, the food is sometimes under heated but the microwave is not a Miele. Yes it's full of civil servants but they work close by and can't afford the other places. Yes there are many haltingly tongued tourists but it's central London and English is not their first language. What are these piffling complaints? Who are these complainants? Where are their lives? Where is teheir humanity? If only they'd have read Solzhenitsyn! Then there there would be no cause for such petty bitching.

22 Sep 2009 15:24

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

My dear fellow suppers (not meals), reports of my demise have been much exaggerated and that. I live. I speak. I create.

It is my melancholy duty to report that "the American" is soon to decamp, ship out, exit, vamoose (a tribute adjective) and exeunt. I am moved to comment on that solemn fact in a pre-valedictory style.

I have noted with distaste the various perjorative commentaries on her opinions and pitch. It seems the possession of a personality has become non grata in the once sceptred, now septic, isle. Do we demand a Stepford serving automaton? Bionic armed servility with fixed grin? A cowed, doe-eyed non-entity willing to roll on its back as the ancient desparado sprays his obscene musk o'er the wretched bar?

NO! And no again! I applaud the pond-hopping derring-do of this truncated yet spirited personage. May hyphens be upon her! The natural zeal of this young woman is a welcome balm to the strait-jacket of blandness that threatens to wrap us all in its blubbery arms. Let us be beguiled by the dance of life whilst we have the faculties to appreciate and indulge our senses. Pirouette mon petit, your wailing joie de vivre, for all its Scrappy-Do excess verve, is rare and precious.

31 Mar 2009 15:16

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

But soft! Something has happened. Something. I cannot place my finger nor any other part of this failing corporeal travesty upon it, but the facts speak for themselves. Res ipse loquitor.

It was a Friday. The drinkers were numerous. Yet the barstaff numbered more than three. Perhaps even five. FIVE! They were attentive and sharp eyed, yes, like the eagle eye of Cortez when he first perceived the Pacific, by a Darien peak. These staff were asking whether punters had yet been served. Their brows were care-worn and inquiring.

I can only speculate on the reasoning behind this staggering volte face. Could it be a parallel universe? Did I pass through a yawning rent in the very fabric of the space/time continuum? Has the dead hand of Philp K. Dick been visited upon this arena? Or has android technology finally achieved an apotheosis? (If so, I would suggest re-modelling the exteriors on the likes of Hedy Lamarr and Megan Fox (I cater for all ages of lechery)).

Whatever it may be, and casting aside the nebulous speculation, I tip my hat to this brave new world, that has such peoples in it. Lenina, the pneumatic one, she will be my muse.

13 Jun 2008 17:09

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

I am, with the regret of bellicose Sugar, compelled once more to launch my e-ballista at the low rent staffing. Low rent! The tale I will relate is the very Old Kent Road of Monopoly Moon. A tawdry shackville of rats' feet scuttling over broken slum glass.

I will tell all, without concealment. A culture starved American cousin asked certain barstaff, "Whats' the name of this pub?". I confess, I was taken aback since he didn't use the noun "joint" in a 70s homage of sorts. But this was as nothing. I staggered several further mental retro-steps at the reply, which was delivered by a gel smeared worker. His retort, "It's...what is it? Er...Moon in the Mall, sorry, Lord in the Moon, er..." etc ad infinitum.

A man may lack knowledge. He may struggle for introspection. He may lay supine, befuddled by the riddle of existence, of purpose, of his role in the grand scheme of the ceaseless void. But what being, of any sentience, is incapable of recalling his very place of work?

Is THIS the land fit for heroes? Has soma stained our youth to the core of the cortex? This is no country for old men.

30 May 2008 15:22

The Lord Moon Of The Mall, Whitehall

I have attended this establishment for the past half decade. My reasons are impecuniousness rather than for my sins. I should like to add I am not a vagrant, although my wages and appearance may belie that claim.

The Moon, as we afficienados refer to it, can be relied upon to provide a far broader selection of real ales than any of the non-Wetherspoon's pubs in the area. This is greatly to its credit. On the debit side, the ales are incongruously chilled. The blue neon signs dotting the interior, crowing the testical shrinking temperature, bear testimony to this questionable achievement. Nevertheless, it is a minor criticism. I have thirst and small funds, they have good beer.

It is my melancholy duty to report that many staff members have been, and continue to be, grossly inadequate. A common failure is the inability to distinguish those who've been waiting the longest to be served. Groans of anguished rejection are commonplace among wronged punters. Further, the pulchritude of the lady barstaff has long been in decline. Gone are the days of multiple Euro lovelies, lisping and giggling their delightfully confused English. But the ale is the true measure. If Red Rum must be replaced by a lurching, slouching mare, so be it. I have thirst and small funds, they have good beer.

Certain bar staff are outstanding, analogous to the lotus flower flourishing in the putrid filth. Ashley is highly efficient, alert and infallibly, infectiously, good humoured. The American girl may be deadly on decibels but she is also tirelessly industrious, attentive, and has a screwball charm. A gilded foghorn, she bears the acid breathed lecheries of ageing, desparate, hideously hollow men with unusual grace.

Salute, the Moon!

27 May 2008 17:07

Back to FritzBlitzkrieg's profile