Crap Match Report

Dulwich Hamlet 4, Hendon 2

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To Transpontine del Curva! …on a windswept South London Saturday afternoon to see Dulwich Hamlet at home to Hendon [I think?]

The weather couldn’t quite decide if it was going to be a Tuscany-esque flaming skyline, or a good ‘ol gawblimey South London DIRTY, DIRTY skies affair.

A bit like the football club right now.

If you believe Her Majesty’s Popular (ish) Prints then the pink ‘n’ blue boys are officially the ‘Sixth Hipster Football Club.’

In protest I actually had a shave on Saturday morning and insisted on drinking the piss poor Hamlet Lager all afternoon, rather than surrender to some wonky Guardianista view of South London.

I wasn’t alone either.

The queues just before kick off stretched all the way into the ACTUAL Sainsbury’s car park.

A final figure of 1,423 for a Hamlet home game suggests that something pretty special is happening at Champion Hill right now – or South London is full of chuffing hipsters.

Long gone are the days when a Dulwich turnstile queuing experience leads to you being spunked in the face by the Hamlet car wash.

I was almost nostalgic for the occasion, and so didn’t mind too much when the heavens opened just after kick off and released the contents of the DIRTY, DIRTY South London skies all over The Rabble.

Oooh. That got me right in me eye.

Faces were nodded at, positions were taken behind the goal.

But I didn’t have time for all the formalities.

Every cloud, etc.

As soon as the rain did a runner, so did I with my photo walk around the ground.

Local GP’s often recommend going for a run, or perhaps some nonsense aquatic aerobic class to overcome depression.

If I had letters in front of my name then I would prescribe a hasty circuit of Champion Hill on matchdays to lighten up the mood.

The Sixth Hipster Football Club claim was rubbished when I realised that all four sides of the ground were pretty much GRINNING.

Having an early 1-0 lead for the Hamlet certainly helped.

As ever – if you have come here for the irrelevance of tactics, formations, um, scorelines, then look away now.

What I can tell you is that the dirty North London bastards were soon down to ten men after a tackle that had more leg breaking potential that a stupid hipster fixed wheel bike.

OUCH.

That looked like it bloody hurt.

See ya, fella.

I made it back round to the Tuscany end more or less on the stroke of half time.

And so what do we do now?

Ah. We walk back to where I have just come from.

Bugger.

Hopes of spotting a late Transpontine radiant sunset were about as optimistic as spotting a late @OneEyeGrey sneaking in for free for the final 15 minutes.

Sadly both didn’t materialise.

What did happen though was a cheeky trip the bar, foolishly thinking that it would be empty at 4:30pm.

“I’ll have seven pints of Hamlet lager, please.”

Blimey, fella.

That’s either an ironic hipster attempt at bar room humour, or someone who isn’t quite feeling the happy, clappy Hamlet love in.

But chin, chin, all the same.

In the end we only managed one pint, and a view from the Dulwich Exec Box / bar.

A final score of 4-1 was rounded up to 4-2 on the 185 bus back to The Oval.

Whoops.

Edgar Kail in my heart…

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