Who is Mat Horne anyway?

There are certain things one can never be prepared for: the results of a tax return, a proposal, stale milk, an ex friending you on facebook... They're exciting, horrifying and even, sometimes, emotional. They can change a moment completely, or hardly leave an imprint.

While in London, I agreed to watch a football [soccer] match with Samir and his friends. We went to a pub not far from the stadium that was emptied out, for the team and fans were all in Rome. Those unable to afford a ticket and transportation were left in London, clinging to one another with high hopes and even higher fears. 

As we exited the tube station, we saw his friends Tom, Tom, and Lauren (yes, two Tom's and two Lauren's, counting me) waiting for us. It was there that Lauren informed me that at the pub we'd be a) standing, b) unable to see anything (due to being short) c) silenced by the chanting, and d) unable to get food. Not having a good meal all day, and still tired for walking around the city, I looked at Samir longingly. He looked back, worried, whispering, "I swear didn't know it would be like this. Please don't break up with me." 

The warnings were proved true; the pub was full of people wearing red and yellow shirts. I was warned earlier, the day we left to be exact, that I should wear something red, as that was the team's color (yellow being their away color), and something not too nice, as it would probably be drenched in beer by the end of the night. So, before leaving for the airport, I ran to Target to purchase a cheap red t-shirt. All of that for a match. We grabbed a spot on the slightly elevated stage which allowed us to see the many TVs decorating the walls of the pub. While Tom and Lauren held our spots, the rest of us ran outside to grab something to eat during the 20 minutes we had before the match started. The only place nearby was a small hamburger place, so we agreed on that. The food wasn't even that great. 

Back at the pub, the match started, but not before the chanting. Everyone, incredibly loudly, chanted these limericks and songs and phrases at the TV as if the players, not even pictured yet, could hear them. And somehow everyone knew the words. Sure, I knew my college's fight song, but it was simply spelling out the team's name. That was simple. Knowing all of the many unrhyming and completely strange chants just seemed daunting to me. Again, Samir apologized (that is, after he joined in on the cheers and jeers). 

45 minutes have never felt so long. The crowd was loud and rowdy due to the fact that the team wasn't doing well. People were screaming, spilling their drinks in anger. I stood steadily in spot staring stoically at the screen and trying to think of ways to escape. Not knowing the tube system that well got in the way. As did the fact that I forgot how we got to the pub. 

I wasn't the only one uncomfortable, though. We all were in one way or another. We couldn't talk, we couldn't catch up, we couldn't do anything. So, thankfully, during half time, we decided to change pubs. Making our way back to Camden, we wandered the streets until we found a pub playing the same match. It took a while (apparently pubs enjoy Manchester United much more than Arsenal), but we finally found a pub on a corner with a very small crowd also watching. We were able to sit, talk, and drink. My night instantly got better. The pub was lovely, we were laughing, life was good. I felt included. 

More friends joined and more drinks were had. A group of indie kids sat a few tables down and I was impressed with how vividly they spoke about a purse one of them had bought. A purse that was incredibly retro, according to them, because it had a cassette tape on it. 

Apparently I'm retro then. 

The match ended with no one scoring. After another 30 minutes of overtime, a shoot out was called for. Normally, I enjoy shoot outs. They're nerve wracking, but exciting, watching the players kick the ball with hopes of having the one point that matters. This time it was more stressful than fun, watching the guys, arms around one another's shoulders, standing by the TV with sweat pouring down their faces. I knew that if their team lost, the night, as well, would be lost. But if they won...

They won. By one point. But one point was all that was needed. 

A gaggle of guys walked in wearing an immense amount of tweed. For some reason I found that incredible funny because, when thinking of stereotypical London, both tweed and beer come to mind. One even had a pipe. 

As the night wore on, people grew tired and, apparently, angry. On the other side of a pub, a guy hit his girlfriend. 

Now, if that happened here, a security person would probably break them up and casually force the guy to leave. There might be some pressure, but that's it. In London, things are different. The owner, from what I gathered, forcefully grabbed the woman beater, threw him up, and strongly told him to leave, using some choice words. The guy, obviously intoxicated, either didn't care, or didn't hear him because he merely stood there looking at nothing in particular. This only made the owner more angry and more pushy, allowing him to shove the drunk man across the bar and state how he was not welcome in the pub. How activities like that were not tolerated. In the midst of the scuffle, my chair was tapped. Mid push, the owner politely apologized to me, acting as if he insulted me or actually hurt me. Surprised, I smiled and said I was okay. And with that, the owner went back to business and what evolved was a bit of a pub brawl. There was pushing, punching and, apparently, a kick to the face. The drunk guy, even when outside in the gutter, still tried to get back inside.

The silence that stole the night was lifted a bit, as the bartender came over to us, telling us that we didn't have to leave, even when the owner locked the doors. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, we thanks them for everything, gave the owner reassuring glances, letting him know that we thought what he did was right, and quietly left. We had a club to get to. 

Next door was the club Koko where we were on the guest list. No lines to wait in, no entrance fee to pay. Samir knew the DJ. We left our coats at the coat check and went over to the bar. Not having a chance to change between the match and the club left me feeling incredibly underdressed, and equally incredibly old. Samir went to the club's indie night (which we were at) often while he was still living in London. When he was in his late teens. Although we weren't the oldest ones there, we were far from the medium age. 

Making our way to the front of the dance floor, we waved at Samir's friend who was enthusiastically jumping around the stage and picking out songs. The music was good, stuff I'd listen to him my car, but not necessarily songs I would dance to. But, nonetheless, I did dance and did jump and did cheer. As the friend's shift ended, the main act came up. Originally it was going to be the lead singer from Bloc Party, but he bailed. Instead, it was Mat Horne. 

All week we had been seeing his name. Part of the popular TV show Gavin and Stacey, he was known in London. He also had a sketch show coming out. More importantly, he's also part of the upcoming film Lesbian Vampire Killers which was advertised on every bus stop. Every time we saw the sign i'd ask "But who IS Mat Horne?" I found out that night. 

We moved upstairs as he DJed. The club was huge, multiple floors, and beautiful. The ancient architecture showed, even when the lights were dimmed and the filtered spotlights took over. As Horne played, I noticed that most people watched him and moved to the beat rather than danced. As the night went on, I realized that's what we did as well. Leaning over the railing, we watched him move the records and watched the people stare at their actor. We didn't dance, we moved. Apparently, many clubs in London are like that. You're there for the atmosphere, not so much the dancing. 

As Samir walked us back to the hobbit hole of a place we were staying at, he apologized once again for the night, for where it went, for how it was. I told him not to apologize. Sure, it started out sour, but I was never spilled on and no one rioted. Sure there was a pub fight, but who doesn't want to have that story to tell when they leave a country? And sure there wasn't exactly dancing at the club, but there was Mat Horne. I could finally say that I knew who he was.