There is one table occupied when we arrive at Bloodsports shortly after noon. They have their suitcases with them ready to go back to Glasgow after the game. I know it’s Glasgow, not by the Rangers shirt, but by his accent that arrives at the ears dense and fast-moving, the manner of fucks thrown that at first sound like like verbal headbutts that slowly turn into something musical. He is nervously sipping a pint, eyes fixed on the altar of wall-to-wall televisions, ready to abuse the referee at a seconds notice, or dive off the chair arms aloft at a missed chance. He is a tactical savant and a moral philosopher. A man who five minutes earlier probably couldn’t locate Wolverhampton on a map is now suddenly delivering a lecture on defensive shape to his partner who doesn’t once look up from her phone. The goal comes and he erupts with the pleasure of the only man at an orgy. From our table at the opposite end of the room, I’m happy for him.
It is this man who makes me think that for the big games I wouldn’t enjoy Bloodsports. The communal roars and the spilled (or worse, thrown) lager aren’t really my thing. But here, under the LED red light, with a quite brilliant Bloody Mary in hand, I’m really quite loving it. Loving the screens that are showing football, curling, Halloween, ski jumping and other madness. Loving the rolling messages on the board above the bar that read like ‘dog friendly; people tolerant’ and ‘tell your cat we said we said “pspspsp”’. Loving the pinball machines, the pool table, and the slasher movie themed photobooth complete with plastic prop knife that they ask you not to steal. It’s all very visceral, very loud and in your face.
It’s owned by the chap who owns MEATliquor, so naturally, that is where the food is coming from. It’s a simple order from us; a burger, a hot dog, some chicken strips. Sophie’s over the moon about the idea of a hotdog she can eat given its beef and not pork, whilst I’m eager to give MEATliquor another go. I didn’t love my last one, but then again it was ten years ago and I was in the throes of a massive comedown. Back then I was indifferent about the Dead Hippie; today I loved it. It’s basically a Big Mac with the patties fried in American mustard and no weird middle bread. It eats like a messy dream, even more so under the low lights so that we don’t see our stained fingers until we leave. It has tang and an innate beefiness. Sophie thinks it’s far superior to the endless list of smashed burgers we’ve eaten of late.
Likewise she loves the hotdog – more than I do anyway – an all beef sausage that has the movement of someone waving a dildo in a fairly uncomical fashion. It’s a little dense and tight, but tasty enough, with the quite superb beef chilli doing all the heavy lifting. We finish up with giant strips of battered chicken drenched in buffalo sauce that is packed with vinegar and two of the cocktails from the slushy machines. £80 for the both of us, lovely and full and slightly pissed. Super Sunday is about to start including the north London derby. I imagine it will be a very different place in an hour’s time, equally fun, but probably more aligned for the drunk Glaswegian in the corner who has already started celebrating.
8/10
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