Sun, Sangria & Stockwell
| Saturday 11 June, 2004 |
There's only one place to watch Euro 2004 – and that's in yer own front room, lounging about in your Y-fronts, TV on, volume off, Alan Green on the radio and an industrial size supply of tea bags to get you through the month.
If there was an alternative then it would be Sunny Stockwell of course, home of London's Little Portugal. But this option would involve spending money, plus the Portos don't take too kindly to a PG Tips lover propping up the bar, hands down his shreddies and having a good old scratch.
If you're thinking of bellowing out the benefits of Beckham over the fancy footwork of Figo, here's the onionbagblog Guide to Euro 2004, Sunny Stockwell Style.
A good starting point would be the tube. Don't use it. You will have to maintain a sterner eye gaze than Pierluigi Collina to psyche out the Porto junkies, as they pester you for a travelcard. A cheapo £1 touted card of course has its benefits for the return journey and if you have no morals in propping up the local drug trade in return for stashing some cash, then do the dirty deal. Don't forget to wash your hands afterwards.
No surprises then that Porto junkie Travelcard touts are my best friends.
 Ole ole ole ole, Beckham is fucking gay |
What exactly do you want from your Sunny Stockwell Euro 2004 experience you have to ask yourself? An in depth and detailed analysis of the match shared within a union of European minds meeting in some symbol of shared continental unity, or simply a beered up finger of fudge with an Aussie slapper at The Swan as you ponder the physical deformity of Wayne Rooney?
If it's the latter then it's across the road for you to The Swan, officially the worst boozer in South London. An innocent blink of the eye can be misinterpreted for an invitation to exchange bodily fluids on the dancefloor. The Sheilas are of course all slags. The beer's a real bitch as well.
Which brings us on to The Priory, a short walks down South Lambeth Road, eyes right at Lansdowne Way and you will find the pub that has more CAMRA Pub of the Year awards than Stockwell has used condoms on the streets on a Saturday morning. Lovely staff, a free house (yes, confused me the first time as well I entered without my wallet) and probably the only place in South London where you can sip a glass of Turnip Wine, should that be your drink of fancy. We should invite Graham Taylor along actually.
If it's the true authentic Portuguese Euro 2004 experience that you harbour for then first you need to distinguish your rank. A well to do 'home in England, home in Portugal' gentleman or a Pikey Porto who jumped a plane and landed in Stockwell to feed his heroin habit? Yes, even assimilated Portuguese have adopted the English class system and the hierarchy is more or less laid out along South Lambeth Road with the selection of pubs and cafes.
The Duke of Cambridge on Lansdowne Way should cater for the comatosed crackhead end of the market; Karaoke nights in Portuguese seem to be a regular fixture, either with or without some shitty soundtrack accompaniment. The words always tend to follow the pattern of 'Ole ole ole ole, Beckham is fucking gay.' It's reassuring to find that the local English chavs have managed to put aside any tabloid xenophobic stereotyping and often join in at The Duke of Cambridge. Norman Tebbit would be proud of the shared cultural understanding.
Heading northwards further up South London Road and the choice is yours. Tapas Bars, which besides from being a good place to bag an MI6 laptop, also seem to be populated by pricks who would happily pay £3 plus for half a cup of coffee.
It all gets a bit more lively towards the Vauxhall end of South Lambeth Road with some full on terrace bars that seem to serve no other purpose than for highly desirable young Portuguese females to politely wolf whistle at the sight of short trousered onionbagblogger peddling past. Actually it could be some of the very camp gents also posing around but my vanity means that I'm too proud to take a proper look.
Any Euro 2004 trip Sunny Stockwell style of course has to end with the traditional drive up and down South Lambeth Road like a madman beeping your horn, waving a flag out of the window and generally getting up the nose of any killjoy local lad who can't understand exactly what is wrong with going out to your local friendly Porto pub with his own fresh flask of PG Tips.
Come on Portugal! Um, I mean England, I think...
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