The Lambent Whelk, the borough’s most self-consciously middle class pub, is introducing a new event to an already packed Dalston summer ‘season’.
Following the success of the Haggerston Flower and Marijuana Show and the dog racing at Royal Clapton, Lambent Whelk proprietor Mr Gideon Porter-Seabass is bringing Wimbledon fortnight to the Kingsland Road.
‘Yeah, y’know,’ he told the Mercury, ‘ever since my dad bought me this pub for passing my finals I’ve thought that we should offer a great sporting event for people, y’know, who really hate sport. So obviously we thought of tennis.’
‘I mean, yeah, in what other sport are people who have always been rubbish at games willing to pay through the nose to sit on a damp hill and shout ‘come on Tim!’ for no good reason, while waving a little flag?’
‘Quite apart from anything else,’ he went on as we glazed over, ‘the mark-ups are going to be absolutely extraordinary. £13.60 for a glass of tepid Cava? Amazing!’
‘We’ve built a little mound out of Astroturf in the yard, so we’re going to charge thirty quid to sit on that to watch the TV; Pimms is fifteen quid; Pimms with fruit and crap in it is £18.40; strawberries and cream are twenty-six quid! You can’t go wrong, can you? Although, naturally, because this is Dalston, we’re doing all this totally ironically, y’know?’
When we asked him what was ironic about twenty-six quid for some strawberries he thought for a minute and then said: ‘Well, they’re twenty-six quid for one thing. How bloody ironic do you want to get?’
‘Although, of course,’ continued Mr Porter-Seabass while fingering his dreadlocks, ‘we are totally opposed to competitive sports, yeah? Because sport is, like, a throwback to Imperial times? So, like, kicking a ball into a net is exactly the same as slaughtering a Kenyan tribesman and stealing his land, yeah? And we are so not down with that, here at the Whelk.’
Gullible hipsters will be able to immerse themselves in the Lambent Whelk Post-Irony, Non-competitive Wimbledon Experience from today until whenever the whole, loathsome business in west London is over and all those vacuous flag-waving girls from Surrey go back home to polish their bloody gymkhana trophies.