I’m allergic to east London. I can venture as far as Brick Lane for Rough Trade East, but mention an event, gig or party anywhere beyond E8 and I feel a Covid variant coming on. I have a Hackney friend who feels exactly the same way about the west and north west of the city. Tony and I are different beings: he belongs with the bus people, and I am of the tube tribe.
Tony knows his bus numbers, routes, stops and Overground lines as much as I know my tube lines, stations and changes, each of us scholarly in how to get anywhere across London by our chosen modes. I remember once he came to do some work for a woman who lives at the top of Gladstone Park, NW2. Beautiful area, he said, but must be home before dark.
Two Saturdays ago, I had to get to the MOTH Club in distant E9 to see The Boo Radleys. Before heading off, I explored with Transport for London how to get there as far as possible by tube. The best option was the Jubilee line only as far as West Hampstead, where I would have to change to the Overground.
The prospect made me shift from foot to foot. It would mean entering the land of the unknown – using the Mildmay line. It looked like hell. I began to feel the fear. And was a terrible cold coming on?
But Andrew, my drummer friend, is in the band Keeley. They were supporting the Boo Radleys. And, come the night, Andrew’s wife Tanya kindly offered me a lift from their place in Notting Hill. Five of us jumped in the car and took a jolly drive to the unfamiliar streets of Dalston Lane and Lower Clapton Road.
***
The MOTH (Memorable Order of Tin Hats) was founded in 1927 in South Africa as a support network for ex-servicemen. The Hackney MOTH opened in 1972 and almost closed in 2015, until the owners of Dalston’s Shacklewell Arms pub came to its rescue.
They began hosting gigs, including by such as Lady Gaga and Rick Astley, as well as bingo nights and karaoke. It is still regularly used by MOTH members, with monthly meetings held in their private room.
We pull up outside and unpack the car (well, I don’t, but I do offer) into to a beautifully constructed Victorian brick building, entering through a very heavy door and a short corridor into a gold-ceilinged hall that has banquette bench seating at the side. The place feels familiar, and immediately I fall in love with the wood-panelled saloon bar, which reminds me of the Airdrie Workingmen’s Club I write about in my novels.
I take a look around, shoving a creaky door into a small bar decorated with a collection of military memorabilia. Bar staff are chopping limes and getting ready for the evening’s event. I head up the wooden stairs to a very large green room with a battered leather couch and kitchen area. The MOTH is brilliantly unpretentious old London, and I really, really like it.
Back downstairs for soundcheck, we are treated to Boo Radleys Lazarus (one of my faves of all time) and I meet the band, who are fantastic and friendly. After a successful run through by Keeley, Andrew realises he has forgotten his ear defenders, so three of us nip out to the local Tesco pharmacy to find a pair. (Incidentally, the venue provides spongy ear plugs for free – find them in a jar in the downstairs bar).
By this point, I am buzzing, this N-Dubz Westie has found a mecca in the east; my spiritual home from home. I can do East London. In fact, this club is the polar opposite of the exclusive snobby private members clubs I wrote about before. This is much more me, my flavour, how can I have been so ignorant?
I think again for a very, very, very fleeting moment that I should familiarise myself with east London’s buses and big trains, then I let the intention float out of my mind, probably deliberately.
In a good mood on the way out, I get to know the amiable doormen and we chat about how heavy the door is, and how you’d have to be a gym person to shove that open all night. They nod like I have 14 heads and I cringe at my own patter. Hey, I’m just small-talking here in an exciting new area. High-five me.
We step outside to see a huge queue has formed for the impending gig. I step down in mid-sentence with said doormen and I skid sideways on a wet manhole cover and fall straight on to my knees, landing hard on my wrists.
The queue gasps and I look up to see 50 shocked faces (none of them laughing – people don’t have evil bones in E9). My knees are stinging and I feel the cuts and bruises form, but I just stay down in a bow, accepting my punishment as the revenge of the east, wallowing in deservedness and shame, in full-view judgement of the bus people.
Andrew helps me up and I limp on as if it never really happened, style it out, wasn’t me, it was someone else that fell, until Andrew sees I’ve dropped a scarf, mentions it loudly, then picks it up.
Turning the corner, I’m utterly mortified and gladly out of sight, until we have to head back again and one of doormen nods at me as if to say “you’re her from north west London that fell” and I smile back at him in weak acknowledgment. We both know I deserved it.
Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots, lots more. Follow her on Bluesky. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE. Image from MOTH club X/Twitter.