Tonight marks the thrilling fixture of Barcelona versus Chelsea. No doubt every bar, pub and speakeasy in London will have their TVs tuned in to the game, hoping for goals, action and perhaps the odd streaker.
The art of streaking seems to have died down, thanks to increased security and lighter beer being served at sporting events. However, this hasn't stopped the football fan/exhibitionist, who now has to be more creative than ever. Which reminds of the last time Chelsea and Barcelona met in the Champions League.
I was working a bar in the City, which is the financial heart of the country, and up until not so long ago, the backbone of world economy. Needless to say the clientele consisted of suits, more suits and "orange" girls looking to bag a suit. People trusted with millions of pounds and incomes in the six figure bracket. Not the place you would expect to find a man sitting butt-naked having a beer, reading the paper.
It was towards the end of the evening, the game had just finished and the majority of customers were debating whether to have "one for the road" and I was just adding the flamed orange garnish to a cosmopolitan, which belonged to a middle-aged woman who's fake tan glowed in the soft light of the bar. A customer patiently waited his turn and on asking what he was drinking, he nonchalantly replied: "I'll have a bottle of Peroni, and you know there's a naked guy sitting over there"
His observation was correct, there was a completely naked man sipping a pint of beer, reading the paper, employment section to be exact. He appeared in his thirties, fair hair and by all accounts, pretty cold. We approached "naked-guy" and asked him to put on his clothes or leave. He didn't seem to know what all the fuss was about and mentioned in slurred speech that he had no idea where his clothes were.
Well the only option would be to get him out. We had a strict dress code: you need to be dressed to get in.
As we were walking this gentleman to the door, with no one wanting to physically usher him outside, lest they be caught on camera, hugging a naked guy in a bar, by one of the several "Mobile Phone Paparazzi", who were circling the "naked-guy".
We managed to get "naked-guy" outside, where he was met by a friendly policeman who seemed all to eager to grab him from us and get him in hand-cuffs. A little too eager to by most accounts.
After a swift peek at the best of the photos we returned inside, to find a pile of perfectly folded clothes on our bar counter. A crisp white shirt and tie, sat under a pair of polished, Italian leather shoes with a neatly folded suit placed under the shirt.
I raced outside, clutching the pile of clothes only to find "naked-guy" wearing 'cuffs and being marched down the street to the local "nick". Still naked, still cold.
The suit was donated to charity two months later as no one came in to claim it. Naked guy was apparently spotted at a Starbucks three weeks later, fully clothed and clutching the employment section of The Times.
www.londonbartender.com
The art of streaking seems to have died down, thanks to increased security and lighter beer being served at sporting events. However, this hasn't stopped the football fan/exhibitionist, who now has to be more creative than ever. Which reminds of the last time Chelsea and Barcelona met in the Champions League.
I was working a bar in the City, which is the financial heart of the country, and up until not so long ago, the backbone of world economy. Needless to say the clientele consisted of suits, more suits and "orange" girls looking to bag a suit. People trusted with millions of pounds and incomes in the six figure bracket. Not the place you would expect to find a man sitting butt-naked having a beer, reading the paper.
It was towards the end of the evening, the game had just finished and the majority of customers were debating whether to have "one for the road" and I was just adding the flamed orange garnish to a cosmopolitan, which belonged to a middle-aged woman who's fake tan glowed in the soft light of the bar. A customer patiently waited his turn and on asking what he was drinking, he nonchalantly replied: "I'll have a bottle of Peroni, and you know there's a naked guy sitting over there"
His observation was correct, there was a completely naked man sipping a pint of beer, reading the paper, employment section to be exact. He appeared in his thirties, fair hair and by all accounts, pretty cold. We approached "naked-guy" and asked him to put on his clothes or leave. He didn't seem to know what all the fuss was about and mentioned in slurred speech that he had no idea where his clothes were.
Well the only option would be to get him out. We had a strict dress code: you need to be dressed to get in.
As we were walking this gentleman to the door, with no one wanting to physically usher him outside, lest they be caught on camera, hugging a naked guy in a bar, by one of the several "Mobile Phone Paparazzi", who were circling the "naked-guy".
We managed to get "naked-guy" outside, where he was met by a friendly policeman who seemed all to eager to grab him from us and get him in hand-cuffs. A little too eager to by most accounts.
After a swift peek at the best of the photos we returned inside, to find a pile of perfectly folded clothes on our bar counter. A crisp white shirt and tie, sat under a pair of polished, Italian leather shoes with a neatly folded suit placed under the shirt.
I raced outside, clutching the pile of clothes only to find "naked-guy" wearing 'cuffs and being marched down the street to the local "nick". Still naked, still cold.
The suit was donated to charity two months later as no one came in to claim it. Naked guy was apparently spotted at a Starbucks three weeks later, fully clothed and clutching the employment section of The Times.
www.londonbartender.com
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