I am in a room at an hotel in the vicinity of Gatwick. I am not looking forward to dragging myself onto the mercilessly early flight in a few hours.

This hotel is gorily corporate and large-scale, as though every little detail had been decided in planning meetings a couple of decades ago by jaded yet experienced hotel designers.

The smells in the lobby, corridor and room are weirdly familiar. The cleaning staff must have administered some sort of essence of international hospitality venues: stale, clean, inhuman, reassuring.

I shudder to think how many escorts have plied their trade in this room. It feels like the sort of place.

Did the planners all agree on the strange and probably quite useful bathroom fixtures? Yes, that is a bottle opener on the door frame. And no, I did not find any poo on the khazi-phone.

The gutterpress launch another war, this time on violence. Will they never learn/give up/ realize the ironic madness of their ways?

I lean against the newsagent’s wall in dismay.

Stephen Gerrard is in the dock. He beat up a businessman in a bar called ‘Lounge Inn’ in Southport (north of Liverpool), because he wanted control of the cd player in the bar. The businessman did not like either being bossed around or being called ‘lad’ by a ruffian 5 years his inferior. Just the typical clash of antlers I suppose. Men – weekends – booze – mates – public houses – egos – disco – fists. I don’t know why we don’t just cut off a testicle and play conkers with them.

Anyway, I was curious to see what sort of a shithole it is that premiership footballers like to hang out in. The bar’s website is here if you are interested, but I wouldn’t bother visiting the place itself: the venue looks as bland  and soulless as its name suggests.

I was intrigued by the photographic diary on the site however. The proprietors have got themselves a camera and have, bless them, been having a go at some event photography, seemingly to enrich the ‘Lounge Inn experience’ for their patrons who are invited to download fullsize versions as keepsakes.

Many people take crap photos. It is when they use them professionally things get funny. I mean look at this cracker:

It looks like this rambunctious fellow is about to eructate a gobfull of manky steak into his ladyfriend’s cleavage. Also, I love that charming ‘under the stairs’ ambience. One for the mantlepiece.

I love candid photography, especially when the photographer is as unknowing as the subject. There is something gruesomely true about it.

Mind you, the only insight that I seem to have gained from this wee web adventure is that if you are a lady and wish to hang out in a footballer’s drinking den, you should get highlights and look like you want to get into ‘New’ magazine.