Bunker Sport Night: undercover review

The Undercover Cynic is back and this time his targets are the football and sailing teams on a Wednesday night at Bunker


Football

Predominantly exports of North London or Essex, these excessively preened posers can be identified by any of the five senses at Bunker on a Wednesday. To the eyes they are inoffensive but distinct, often wearing expensive shirts a couple of sizes too small with eyebrows questionably well groomed and a complexion not dissimilar to that of Sunny Delight.

It’s that time of the week again for the football boys…

You can smell and taste them, as the overwhelming scent of their cologne and hair product clings to the squalid air, and catches in the back of the throat of anyone who ventures within a 20 yard radius of these impersonators of a Joey Essex/Danny Dyer hybrid. Note, I am comparing them to Danny Dyer not because they’re hard or even particularly likeable, but because of their loud and completely unconvincing profanity-riddled cockney bluster, that one can’t help but feel is a slight overcompensation. They try incredibly hard to rival the laddish rituals of rugby, but tragically and comically fall short. Perhaps their niggling awareness of this explains their abrasive and confrontational manner. They are probably the sports team that drinks the least on the night, but this is because the numerous photo opportunities that present themselves are too good  to potentially miss through drunken distraction.

Can you crop her out of the photo please she is stealing focus

If they do end up on the legendary Bunker pull-cam it is surely one last chance to get on Thursday mornings newsfeed, not out of any genuine interest in the person they are leaving with or in any other human beings for that matter.

Sailing

I feel guilty mocking sailors, as mocking and torment is probably why they ended up spending most of their youth sailing around on boat instead of doing normal teenage things. But through the sailing community they have at least found camaraderie. A bit silly and posh, they mill around Bunker, often having been for an expensive meal beforehand because they find the actual sports teams a bit childish, avoiding interacting with them until the last possible moment. For this reason they’re one of the latest arrivals to Bunker, nervously shuffling towards their corner in VIP, singing cute shanties and generally being a bit lame. One or two of the more insecure boys and girls will brashly strawpedo a bottle of wine, as their sheltered public school upbringing didn’t prepare them for the terrifying prospect of dancing or talking to members of the opposite sex whilst sober.

 

A stretch too far for many

A few alcopops later though they are up, fidgeting awkwardly along to their favourite pop song from that week. Soon though they have crossed the water to lounge, where the greater concentration of bodies, more moronic clientele and cheesier music allows them to more discretely conceal their lack of rhythm, confidence and general social aptitude.

A Sailor’s Paradise