Bromley. Fucking Bromley.
No one actually enjoys going there do they?! Least of all the frankly quite strange residents who live there. Which perhaps goes some way to explaining why they are currently opposing plans to extend the Wimbledon tram link through the town – presumably in a desperate attempt to resist shortening their commute home, thus ensuring they spend less time at home – in fucking Bromley.
One thing however that the place does have going for it – according to the South-East London residing Max – is a bloody good Waitrose. And given that a Waitrose is undeniably the hallmark of a good neighbourhood, perhaps our misgivings about the town were misplaced. (Dorchester, it should be pointed out has not one but two Waitrose’s, thus allaying any fears that the more cynical of readers may have had regarding the validity of the Waitrose effect.)
Waitrose or not though, Bromley is still a shite away trip but having just moved to nearby Gipsy Hill, yesterday’s trip was the perfect excuse to try out my local boozers.
We met at Westow House with three potential plans of attack: 1) Drink around Palace before jumping on the train to Bromley. 2) Pub crawl down towards Gipsy Hill station before jumping on the train to Bromley or 3) Pub crawl over to Penge before… jumping on the train to Bromley. Dorch being Dorch though, we decided on a forth option: Stay in Westow House for the entire time, just get pissed and get the far more convenient bus over to Bromley.
(Westow House: Frequented by Borussia Dortmund and Dorchester Town fans alike)
Convenient only, as it turned out, for those who had the vision and foresight to empty their bladders before embarking on a long, bumpy bus journey across south London. Fred unfortunately hadn’t been one of those people, and having spent the first half of the journey hopping around the back of the bus, decided enough was enough and ran off the bus at the first sight of a pub. (Fred wasn’t to be seen until midway through the first half. Hell of a piss.)
Having arrived at Hayes Lane, the now all too common sight of 90 minutes of football getting in the way of a good piss up reared its head once again. And to make matters worse, Bromley only allow drinks to be consumed in a small area of the ground. A technical area, pretty much. It meant that we had the pleasure of watching the home side stroll into a half time 2-0 lead alongside the home ‘fans’.
“Who scored that mate?” “I dunno, I’m a faacking West Ham fan fella.” Brilliant.
Game of football complete, we resumed with drinking and the childish, but massively entertaining practice of seeing how many Dorch stickers we could plaster around the bar unnoticed, before heading into town for a ‘few’ more.
Bromley isn’t exactly known for its nightlife. In fact, the high street made South Street feel like Las Ramblas, but one thing it does have (apart from a bloody good Waitrose) is a Weatherspoons that actually churns out half decent food for a Spoons – as perfectly illustrated by me spreading my burger pretty much all over the 8 man table. Having stuffed our faces, shot the breeze and downed even more obscure session ales for a good few hours, we headed up to the Fullers pub for more beers and a discussion on the rules of Spoof.
With the others heading back in to central London and my train a good twenty minutes away, I decided to learn the lesson from Fred’s earlier mistake and empty the bladder before jumping on public transport. Donning a black and white scarf, I ran back into ‘Spoons to use the urinals, where a Bromley fan had had similar, wise thoughts.
“I was a fucking ledge at Hayes Lane today” he quipped. [Because apparently attending a match makes you a legend in Bromley?!]
“That’s nice mate, I’m actually a Dorchester fan though”
“Oh right. Wow. Fucking hell! Fair play to you for coming all this way to support your club, that’s dedication” the little cunt said without a hint of irony.
“I live in Crystal Palace, mate. Like I’d come all this way from Dorset just to come to Bromley.”
Fucking Bromley.
CM.
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