VIEWS FROM THE TOILETS ADJACENT | 21/09/24
I didn’t get to see The Hamlet’s last home game. But I have a belter of an excuse for not doing so.
Just shy of four weeks ago, on August bank holiday, I’d had myself a bit of a heavy Saturday and come early Sunday morning I found myself staggering, bleary-eyed, around the streets of North London.
Ever the sybarite, I was keen to make the most of the whole weekend mindful there was a workless Monday to recover. But there was it seemed bugger all opportunity to trip the light fantastick around Old Street at such a junior hour.
Indeed I was pretty close to calling it a day and had started to wearily finger my Bolt. But then, as if by magick, there appeared before me an oasis of luminosity, replete with flashing lights, repetitive noises and pure party pep.
It’s one of them fancy super-clubs I thought and, rejuvenated of spirit, glommed myself onto the raving rank making its way towards the rumpus. Entrance was free it transpired and I was greeted by a young woman who sat me down and started asking some rather personal questions. Age was fair enough, but my weight, allergies and drinking habits seemed a bit otiose.
New licence requirements I suppose. Once she’d tapped the details of my shame into a computer, she exclaimed “right, head back” and proceeded to drop a load of drugs into my eye. MDMA I guess because my pupils dilated and I was overcome with gnawing anxiety. Dazed and confused, I stood up and was guided to another small room.
The chill-out room I think because another woman there bid me lie down on an elevated chaise before declaring “small prick!” I was about to dispute this, but before I could she’d injected some more drugs straight into my bloody eyeball. This made my face and my assailed oculus completely numb and I started to drool a little. Horse tranquiliser I’m guessing.
This place was turning out to be pretty mental. In no position to protest, I was wheeled into the club itself, where a couple of DJs wearing face-masks were spinning some sort of Trance music. Into which I was quite getting, before suddenly they stuck a couple of tubes into my mince, sucked the jelly out of it, before replacing the void with a psychedelic gas that made everything look like an early Floyd light-show.
A couple of hours later, somewhat perplexed, I was kicked out onto the street, still reeling. I mean I’m pretty broad-minded, but that place was way too hardcore for me and I won’t be going back in a hurry.
If it sounds like your bag however then you might want to head to the Moorfields Vitreoretinal Emergency Clinic of a Sunday morning. The upshot of these frolics was that I couldn’t see much by the time the Leatherhead game came around and I had to give it a swerve.
I will be there today, however, as we welcome The Pride of the Low Weald to Champion Hill. My vision’s still not 100%, but I figure I’m used to watching The Pink and Blues with one eye shut a lot of the time, particularly when we’re defending our goal. Up The Hamlet.
