Bingo Wings

Last night I went to Mecca Bingo hall in Islington. Having never ‘been to Bingo’ before, I had stereotypical views of old ladies with dobber pens, menthol superkings and hi-camp callers.

It was John’s birthday, and I think the premise was to make it as surreal an event as possible. After the short registration process, we enter the main hall to be met with a wall of silence – bar the solitary voice of the caller. It’s the pre-main game, where you put a quid in the slot, and play with the plastic card that forms part of your table top. Not being particularly well versed with bingo hall etiquitte, the 15(ish) of us stand out like a bunch of noisy retards. The locals, seemingly unimpressed with the new – albeit temporary – players, hiss, sshh and tut accordingly. At the moment, the stakes are Galaxy Easter eggs, distributed by the bored looking teenage floor assistants, but they’re promised to get higher soon.

Still, there’s 15 minutes till the main game starts, and it’s time to hit the bar and buy the books of playing sheets – £10 for two, each containing six sheets. Brett is tonight’s caller. He’s a middle aged, greying American, with a suitably granny endearing manner and a touch of the Dale Winton about him.

And so it begins. After briefly explaining the rules – almost certainly for our benifit – Brett’s off. “55. Two fives. 55″. It’s a sure sign of ott political correctness when the only fat ladies in a bingo hall, are the ones crossing off the numbers as they’re being read out. The lady to our right again takes issue with our (quiet) murmours, and promptly ssshs us, with a kind of venom that would put a cobra to shame. She then sparks up her first Superking of the evening which she fails to smoke, prefering instead to leave it dangling over the edge of the ashtray allowing everyone else to enjoy the aroma. A tactic that would seem to be employed by the majority of players here. We are indeed surrounded by a circle of smoking elderly ladies and gentlemen, each one seemlingly less impressed by our presence than the last. But we’re here now, and we’re playing…

It’s a bit hardcore. As the numbers roll by, I frantically scribble them out on my sheet. After a short time someone in the other corner of the room makes some kind of noise, and the floor assistant rushes over to check the barcode on her sheet. She is indeed a winner. £10 for the first line, and the stake raises to £20 for two lines. Again, the numbers pass by, another squeak, another winner. The jackpot for house rises to £60. Which is promptly one by someone else. It’s starting to become obvious that this is a losing game.

Play continues until the end of the first book, when a few special games are played using cards and sheets that I’d not signed up for. And then… then it is time for the big one. The national link up game – joining up with all the Mecca bingo halls in the country – for a jackpot of ‘up to’ £100,000. It’s big money, and the regulars are all in. Brett is replaced by an introductory jingle that sounds like it was made at the height of eighties disco-pop and the link up has started. 6 numbers in and the first line has gone. This is due to be a quick game. Eventually, someone in Huddersfield picks up the winnings. Well done Huddersfield. We can hear clapping coming accross the speakers, but the regulars here are struck dumb through bitter dissapointment.

Soon enough it’s back to the main game, and the stakes have raised to a jackpot of £300. This is duely won by the lady in pink nearby. Two books down, and the closest I get to a sniff is three short of house. With the main game over play promptly resumes of the table top game – our cue to escape this insanity and head to a bar outside of bingo land. It was a fun experience, but I don’t think it’s one I’ll be repeating anytime soon.