OUR FRIEND THE PUMPKIN

Friday night was all hallows eve, and London had more than it’s usual share of horrific sights. The three of us  - X, Matty and me have spent far to long applying our Goth slap, so original plans to go Shunt – the cavernous club tucked under the railway tunnels at London Bridge – are dashed by our tardiness. Emerging from the underground a colourful queue confronted us. In keeping with the party’s theme of the Wicker man; oak leaf headdresses, paisley scarves and sackcloth tunics were in abundance. A quick scan of the be-twigged people stretching from the incognito entrance door, we decide entrance will be unlikely .

Our outfits are in no way pagan, Matt has come as a zombie mod, X as Morticia Addam’s sister.

Walking out in to the night, we swing past the service road at the back of the club. Hearing the frantic folk music, we briefly entertain trying to bypass the back door bouncer, by mingling with the nicotine-addicted overspill. He clocked us a mile off - so on to the back up boozer. 

The approach to the Rose is quiet. Outside a few figures linger, and a dull light emanates - but does not confirm activity. We squeeze in to the steamy bar and instantly forget our Wickerman let down.  The Rose is a special pub, welcoming to outsiders, with an initiation of mockery on passing the door. Not being a regular or local, I let it slide.

 The Rose’s interior is quirky. The bar, lovingly moulded with centuries of beer soaked fingers and inlaid with a skin of leaf skeletons which glimmer under a glass pane. In a hidden corner, a Brain shaped lamp, by the hearth two-life size sausage dogs, cast in brass. Tonight a scattering of rib cages, spinal columns, cobwebs and carved pumpkins add to the jumble. Christopher Lee (again !) this time stretching his fanged face the large screen. Navy rum is ordered, and we settle in with our new friend the Pumpkin.