A Bridge too far: the end of the journey

4th Week – Monday and Thursday – #6 and #7

In fourth week I quizzed in the Smoking area – I did a survey mainly consisting of questions that you would really hope adults attending institutions of higher education would know the answer to. The questions were unbiased and the research carried out scientifically.

 

5th week – Monday – #8

I think MNB might be dying. There’s basically no one here. And when I say basically no one here, I mean, there are still hundreds of people, just less hundreds than you’d expect.

Objective for the night was to follow the photographer around and try and get in every photo. I managed maybe like two or three, but then started to get weird looks from the photographer, so I went in for tactically timed walk-bys. This worked for a bit till he cottoned on again and just straight up told me to fuck off. Which was fair enough. Totally worth it though, as my midriff is now immortalised in about seven photos in a row on the MNB Facebook page.

Thursday – #9

Slightly depleted crowd this Thursday as the Juggernaut that is Bloody Knuckles stormed its way into The Warehouse. I try to add a bit of interest and see if I can successfully navigate the social whirlpool of the smoking area, using only a mix of lyrics taken from both Basshunter’s almost eponymous debut album, Bass Generation, and Cannibal Corpse’s most critically acclaimed offering, Tomb of the Mutilated. Reactions were mixed:

“I will learn to love again, I will learn to trust. One of my sons died for your sins, Resurrect him so I can, drink his blood again”

“Do you want to come to the VIP area? I could get you in.”

“Lightning crashes, a new mother cries, her placenta falls to the floor. My sister and brother know I’m in love with you. Once this heart can start to mend, I will learn to, learn to love again.”

“The thing about getting with girls, is that lying is obviously crucial.”

“Lifeless body, slouching dead lecherous abscess, where you once had a head. You maybe think that I don’t care, but the tears are falling down; I can hardly breathe in this rain of sorrow”

“Happy Chinese Year to you too.”

6th week – Monday – #10

I think I’ve discovered a new language. I call it Bridgin English.

Thursday – #11

Chess in Bridge. This is the big one.

I arrive with my friend Dom, and two chess boards. We’re not just talking any old Dom here, we’re talking Dom Norcliffe-Brown, of having represented England for a certain age category at chess fame.

He has two bottles of wine inside his stomach, and sways gently from side to side, staring vacantly into the potted plants, as I set up the boards in the smoking area. But as soon as he’s sat behind those chess boards, his eyes light up and everything changes. The man’s a machine.

I’m the first to take him on. Within three moves, I can tell I’m fucked, four moves there’s no way out, seven moves, checkmate.

Playing two simultaneous games, he bats away floundering Bridger after floundering Bridger, until out of the crowd steps a mysterious man who (figuratively) slams a tenner down on the board and demands a game from the cerebral champion (it was actually more of a I bet I can beat you, how much?, drink?, how about ten quid?, yeah fine moment). Thus far almost no one has made it (moves-wise) into the double figures, so things aren’t looking good for our mystery challenger, but 15 minutes later the humidity’s rising, the thermometer’s getting low and they are still battling it out, neck and neck in a battle of wits, a battle to the death.

It was actually a draw, but still. Good night.

7th week – Monday – #12

Things are not looking good. I have two deadlines for Tuesday, and I’m still at the stage of trying to work out what the titles mean. I have no choice. Kafka’s coming with me to Monday Night Bridge.

Thursday – #13

As I walk in the husky voice of Bastille’s Dan Smith drifts over from the ground floor – “There are only so many times I can come a-running for you.” How right he is.

Thought it might be fun to eat a pizza on the dance-floor. It was just a bit weird though. I get the box out of my bag and open it so the moment can be photographically recorded, but before my hapless friend can get his head around the concept of flash photography I’ve been attacked. They come from all angles, falling at me like a pack of hungry house-monkeys, chomping through cold margarita to the sound of Waze & Odyssey.

8th Week – Monday

The dream is dead. It’s all over. It’s 11.30 and I’m sitting in my room in my pants. The article has to be wrapped up by tomorrow and I’m way off my target. And I’m fucking sick and tired of Bridge.

I’m just not man enough. There is this guy, and every time he sees me at Bridge he comes up to me and tells me how he went to Bridge 16 times last term. Of his own volition. How am I supposed to compete with that?! He’s a medic and he went twice a week every week without batting a fucking eyelid. I only had seven essays this term and I’m physically and mentally destroyed, and never want to hear the word Anuba for the rest of my life.

I’m sorry, dear reader, I have failed you.