Since moving to Canada, I've been back and forth countless times. Those red eye flights across the pond are a bloody drag, but considering 100 years ago it would take months to cross, and you would have been lucky not to sink, I shouldn't complain. I must say, I don't find flying exhausting per se, you have little to no obligations other than to not be a cunt to the flight attendants, drink a cold one, and watch The Office (US version, always and forever). Admittedly though, traveling around others is the worst, and that's the exhausting portion of this miracle we call aviation. I've flown enough to notice that the very moment people enter an airport all common decency, sense and respect for a fellow human being goes straight out the window. My favourite part of the experience though is after landing and as soon as the seat belt sign is turned off, all hells breaks loose. Jump up, grab your carry on, put it on your seat, and now stand awkwardly for 20 minutes. Brilliant job people, no wonder aliens lock their doors when they fly by earth.
It's difficult to talk about my home town without first mentioning how bloody fantastic Camden Town is. It's without question my favourite area in London. It's a little loose, little derro and run down, but equally just a damn good time. After spending heaps of time here over the years jumping from one food truck to the next, walking around the markets, digging through crates of vinyl and drinking endless mugs of tea, you could have trotted down to The CroBar. Sadly, much like many other establishments around the world, Crobar closed mid pandi. Obviously, the less said about that portion of all of our lives the better, but when it was in the business of slinging gin, it was very, very good at it. This small but mighty dive in the heart of Soho was the local watering hole for all the guys and girls that choose the correct team to bat for in the days of the Mods & Rockers. If you're unfamiliar with the Mods & Rockers turf wars, there's a couple docos online about it all. The Mods were very preppy, dressed smart and listened to pop, the Rockers, were as they sounded. It really came to a head in May 1964 though, and it all blew up. A massive riot ensued in Brighton, I don't think anyone died, but it was full blown chaos. After that, it became a little more commercialized it died off for the most part but the folklore of it all lives on to this day.
Back to CroBar, occasionally this tiny, dingy, poorly lit dive would have gigs and much like my adventures in Reykjavik, you'd only need to flog 17 tickets to have a crowd in there. Which honestly, is the best. Those club gigs with 150 people packed like sardines into a tight room that are frothing over every note are the best. Far better than putting on a face to 3,000 who are too busy Instagramming. Theres a certain energy that can not be matched or explained. It's electric. I was lucky enough to grace this place with my presence on a number on occasions, and from the fantastic jukebox, the cigarette machines, bottled VB, and having Trooper Ale on tap, a night here couldn't be beaten. Interesting fact about jukeboxes though, they got that name because hookers used to solicit their services to blokes at "music boxes" but at the time in Americas referred to hookers as "Jukes", thus Jukebox became slang and here we are. I know some brilliant facts on the terms "hookers" & "fornication" too if you're interested, but that's enough smut and talk on prostitutes for the time being. This is a dumb blog on battle cruisers, not 50 Shades of Gray. Quick note worth mentioning though incase my mother reads this poorly written and grammatically incorrect drivel on prostitutes, it's a service I respect, but have never solicited. #sexworkisrealwork and all that bollocks.
If you were looking for a quiet night in, this wasn't the place to go.
6/6.
#RIPCroBar.
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