The Mildmay Club on Newington Green in north London (“radical since 1888”) was opened with the aim of “social intercourse, rational recreation and the advancement of progress in political opinions”. It has been discovered by local hipsters who have joined stalwart members who have been coming for a lifetime. Last year, Taylor Swift, after hatching a plan on The Graham Norton Show, shot the video for her single Opalite at the Mildmay.
One of only three Grade II listed London men’s working clubs, it has nine snooker tables, a couple of dance halls with sprung floors, a theatre and every Friday night runs a traditional bingo night.
People are queuing on the stairs an hour before the first “eyes down”. I wait my turn, ascend into the bingo hall and pay £7 for my cards, £1 for a strip of five raffle tickets, and a further £1 for a new bingo dobber.
On my far right, a birthday party is in progress: four double vodkas on ice – no messing around with mixers. On my immediate left, the old pros. They have bought two cards for each game and have their own personalised dobbers. They have a pack of 10 Reese’s cups to share. They look a little weathered.
An organiser approaches the regulars: “The structural engineers have just been on Church Street – it’s fucked.”
“What exactly happened?” asks the ringleader.
“The water pump was gone and now outside Nando’s there is one of them sink holes.”
In front of me a group are tucking into a giant bag of chocolate buttons and a pack of Ritz crackers, with a chunky bag of Fruit Pastilles providing one of their five a day. Will anyone attempt a Pastille and Ritz sandwich? I price it up at 100/30 to small money. The trendier group next to them have posh crisps, hummus, sushi and… Ritz crackers. They must be on special offer at the Tesco express.
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It hadn’t crossed my mind to bring a picnic. I chat to my neighbour. She has bought EuroMillions tickets and if she wins is going to set up her own housing association which “will actually provide accommodation for those who need it”. Her niece shows me a picture of her standing next to Ben Shephard celebrating winning more than £3,000 on Tipping Point. “I blew a grand on a new settee and another on a holiday.”
The bingo begins. “If you stop the game when you haven’t won you get called a Lulu. And there are some very pedantic people here,” cautions my new friend. The caller is old-school and relaxed.
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“He looks like he’s had four pints already,” says a pro.
“I told him to be behave and no fucking around,” replies her friend.
This is traditional bingo. It is not like the games in Cricklewood where you can win a £25,000 car on the last Sunday of the month and everything is automated. Nor Bongo’s Bingo, where students hoover up four-litre jugs of Asda own-brand white for £80 and compete for a cardboard cut-out of Ian Beale and/or a dildo.
There is something almost church-like about the proceedings. The man in charge makes a pronouncement and we make our responses.
“Number two. One little duck.”
“Quack!”
“Number 88. Two fat ladies.”
“Wobble, wobble!”
“Number 28.”
“Quack wobble!”
Albeit a church presided over by the conjoined spirit of Kenneth Williams and Frankie Howerd. When, as it must, number 69 comes up, it is celebrated with some frantic tongue wriggling from one of the older players to the merriment of her pals. The younger members arch eyebrows. No one under 30 wants to see someone their mother’s age simulate oral sex, particularly when they are trying to concentrate on their dobbing.
Only encouraged, the caller ratchets up the innuendo. “Number one, Kelly’s Eye, spit on it… ohh la la ohh ah saveloy… pink to make you wink.”
“What does that mean?” asks a pro.
“I don’t want to know.”
“Just call ’em,” shouts out the pro again.
“Number 10,” announces the caller, “I’m not meant to say it but I don’t care if they sack me…” Crikey, what now? “Get Starmer out.”
“Starmer’s a wanker,” shouts the frantic tongue-wriggler.
Perhaps he is copping the blame for the sink hole outside Nando’s. It’s one battle after another for Sir Keir at the moment.
The £100 jackpot game is won by the leader of the Pastille and Ritz gang. Everyone is delighted. She immediately distributes the £20 notes among her friends. It has, all are agreed, been a grand night’s bingo.
Illustration by Oscar Ingham/Observer Design