BEGIN:VCARD
VERSION:2.1
N:The Telegraph
FN:The Telegraph
TEL;WORK;VOICE:020 8678 0777
ADR;WORK:;;228 Brixton Hill;SW2 1HE
URL:
NOTE:I was looking forward to returning to this pub after an absence of 12 years, and heading up Brixton Hill I was pleased to see that the side of the pub hadn't undergone any drastic renovation. After the earlier disappointments of Brixton, it felt like I was about to meet up with an old friend. Coming closer, however, it soon became apparent that the front of the building had been defaced by enormous letters in a wacky font, which is usually A Very Bad Sign. And indeed it was. I went inside, and quickly realised that my old friend had undergone a sex change, done botox, chopped a leg off and grown a second nose. Things have rather altered in this part of the world. The interior was a bad pastiche of a fin de siecle Parisian boudoir, steeped in shadow and strong colours, complete with faux Oriental curtains flopping down from the ceiling at random intervals, botched attempts at lush furnishings and, er, balloons. Great big bunches of balloons all over the place, like the prelude to a Happy Meal birthday party in MacDonalds. At the time we arrived (7pm on a Friday night) this whole effect seemed to be for the benefit of several White Van Men who had stopped for a crafty pint before heading home to the missus. Given a choice of lager or lager we opted for lager, and retired to a table to enjoy some nude pictures of David Hasselhoff that had been thoughtfully provided as promotional material for a club night here. It struck me that perhaps the Hoff would arrive later, naked, and perform an erotic balloon dance for our undoubted pleasure. Having to relieve my bladder, which had become over-excited at the thought, I found myself in a nightmare toilet environment that appeared to have been decorated by a four-year-old on acid, and upon exiting the loo it appeared the LSD had somehow contaminated my bloodstream, as an unearthly rhythmical grinding and shouting had suddenly started up, emanating from behind the sinister door at the back of the pub. Picturing an exotic hareem of dancing girls gyrating for some sinister drugs overlord, or maybe twelve Hasselhoff clones grooving making out like E17 whilst clad only in balloons, I was sent to investigate. I found a large room containing some sofas, a fake flaming brazier and a band onstage squawking disharmonically to an audience of two people. It was time to leave, before I grew a mullet, leather underpants and a thick rug of chest hair and started joining in.
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