London, what's going on in your parks?

Ohhhh, it was a rather glorious day on Wednesday in our fair Capitol. The sun was yellow and high and the sky was a crisp cobalt blue, fading to white down to the horizon. The ladies, large sunglasses and new shorts, the men, ties off and sleeves rolled up, swelling the pavements and laughing noisily on the chairs and benches outside of small, welcoming cafes and exclusive-looking bars, playing Sash or Ultimate Chillout, volumes 3 to 6.

I decided to lunch ('lunch' as a verb; deal with it) in Regent's Park whilst the sun was out; my vitamin D levels cripplingly low and my tan so pale you could see my heart beating through my chest. I put my packet of ham and a Pepsi Max into a small orange bag and I headed off to greens. Everyone along the way was in the best of spirits- more people smiling, laughing; more people walking in groups; more people sitting on curbs and doorways, smiling at text messages; people taking their time smoking, instead of sucking it hungrily down in one, like a hooker on their last customer of the shift.

Regent's Park, you are quite splendid!

Having walked past the ornate fountains and stunning flower beds- petals in colours I didn't even know existed- I found a nice grassy verge to park my derriere, the gradient leaning into the sun so I could get a bit of brown underneath my increasingly bold turkey neck. I rolled up my sleeves a couple of inches (pow pow, gunshow) and popped my clogs off to air out the trotters. Music on: let's start with 'Shuffle' by Bombay Bicycle Club, perhaps lining up 'Bloodbuzz Ohio' by The National afterwards. Yes, marvellous!

Best of all- better than the ham, or the Pepsi Max, or the music, or the smell of my own feet- the other people sharing our space in the park were having a spectacularly nice time, all in their own ways. There were children worrying pigeons, tourists pointing at the BT Tower, couples putting their hands in each other's back pockets and whispering the sweetest nothings, and joggers pausing in front of members of the opposite sex to catch their breath and flex.

My favourite, however, was two middle-aged gentlemen, silver haired and bespectacled, their brogues catching the glare of the sun. They sat on the grass together, pulling out frosty bottles of beer, and jostling eachother as neither had brought a bottle opener. They laughed as they tried to open the bottles with other bottles, pretended to use their teeth, and finally managed it with one of their belts. They looked like quintessential naughty schoolboys. They only needed a slingshot in the back pocket and their ties around their heads. Perhaps kicking a football at a smaller boy or feeding a girl spiders. Sitting there, legs out spread and likely telling each other bawdy jokes, it reminded me how important green spaces are in London and how the grass beneath your feet and the leaves rustling over head and take you away from the grey and the grim and grub and the grime of the Big Smoke's bustle.

London, [apart from the two embarrassingly simple twenty-somethings putting plastic bags over their heads] your parks in the sunshine, full of smiling people- you're doing it right!

London, what else is happening on the tube?

... Hammersmith & City tube line at 8:45am this morning...


... standing in the gangway near the doors...


... small man to the side of me...


... clipping his fucking fingernails! He even had a fucking nailclipper to do it!


London, you're doing it allllll wrong!

One of them could have flown into my mouth...

What's happening on the London Underground?

"Wait a second... just wait... *gulp* ... eurgghhhh... almost... *gulp-wretch-gulp*... Okay, yeh I'm done, let's go" [throws can in bin]

Finishing too much beer, too quickly, before you enter the tube station reeks of adolescence and the easy desperation of a man used to 'seeing it away'. Well, I wasn't going to take it on to the tube, was I? I'm a generally law abiding model citizen and I wouldn't like to make people feel uncomfortable by openly drinking around them. Indeed, I would rather struggle to keep down bubbles and bile outside the station, whilst trying to neck a lukewarm can of Red Stripe, than go against Big Bad Boris and quaff beer on our hallowed rail.

So my partner in crime Ricky and I hit the London Underground on our way to Clapham with beer in our bellies and the underlying groggy nausea one gets from a stomach frothed up to the size of a whale's chin. We made small talk in between moments of me burping eau de lager, my breath peeling the yellow paint from the handrail on the train. I can't remember the exact conversation but for some reason Slough came up and at that exact moment two young fellas jumped on and, without missing a heartbeat, loudly proclaimed: "SLOUGH, WHAT A SHIT-HOLE". Now, this is a bold opening statement in any case. There is not a situation, that I can think of, where loudly proclaiming "SLOUGH, WHAT A SHIT-HOLE" isn't a bold, bold social manouevre. Perhaps made even bolder for the fact that he was wearing a large pair of purple rimmed plastic sunglasses at 9:30pm on a Saturday night, dozens of feet below the surface of the earth.

So, "SLOUGH, WHAT A SHIT-HOLE,"  it could have gone two ways: we could have defended Slough's honour and integrity, taking a stand against the cruel rap it takes as the bum-stain of Britain; or we could have laughed along with them and discussed our experiences with Slough and how there used to be a Quasar there and that the cinema wasn't actually half bad but now the place is a derelict wasteland and that actually that was perhaps unfair as I hadn't been for more than a decade apart from that one time I went to the STI clinic for a check up... We happened the shit out of option two.

These two chaps were each carrying a 2 litre bottle of Coca Cola each and, having wrapped our discussion on what makes Slough a grubby nought, they offered us a drink. I said, rather astutely, "I don't believe that that's just cola, is it?" "Nah mate," he replied, "It's got some fucking JD in there, hasn't it?" Here's me, gut distended from guzzling body temperature lager-swill to make sure I finish it before boarding, and these yoots have their alcohol still to hand and no one is batting an eyelid! Touche, youthoftoday, touche!

I, of course, declined the invitation to drink his more-than-likely-half-saliva/half-cocktail mix and complimented him on his ingenuity. "You don't travel on the tube much, do you mate?" he said, accusingly. Well I almost spluttered out my marmalade right there and then, my posh flusterings indignantly manifesting themselves as haughty huffs-and-puffs and knee slapping...

Fortunately, to save this awkward situation [George vs The Peasantry] the other fella offered me a look through his purple sunglasses; they made all objects look like they were surrounded by a rainbow aura and I thought, this will be a good night.

With your bold conversational openers and jovial tube banter, London... you're doing it right! 

Dreadful. Just awful.

London, what's going on in your toilets?

"I'm enjoying this piss, certainly, but what I really need to enrich this experience it is a large man staring at the back of my head, a new fragrance, and a warm, soft lollipop in my mouth."

I can't bloody stand toilet attendants. I'm not a socially awkward man, as many know, but there are a handful of things in my life that I wish to remain as formal and private as possible: I don't like to see my girlfriend do a number 2; I don't like people seeing my hair before I've 'done it'; and I don't like people talking to me whilst I'm doing a piss. Pushing urine out my knob, for me, is a strictly biological event- I do it because I have to and not because I want to, and I go to the toilet because I have to and not because I want to. This adheres to the widely accepted ruling that toilets, for men, are toilets; contrary to the 'social lounge/catwalk/wrestling ring' environment that our lady friends enjoy it as. Thus, as a space designated purely for the practical dispelling of waste material, I really don't want to leave the toilets with anything other than a dry knob and a dqueaky clean ring piece.

The basics. These should be fucking instinctive. Except #3 when you're seven years old, and #8 and #9 when someone's filming.

So,on Saturday night at a comedy club in Piccadilly, I was viciously assaulted. Ooohhh, most viciously. I was minding my own business, making a squirt, when a man standing behind spoke directly at me and waited for an answer. I know, directly at me! As if I wasn't even having a piss! Of course, I was flabberghasted (my ghast was flabbering uncontrollably, like Harold Bishop's chins) and for a moment I was thrown. Then, after ignoring him utterly failed, he talked at me again. I turned round to see him wearing my trademark shit-eating grin- "I'm dealing with a professional," I realised! He said (and this is absolutely true, I saved it in my phone to make sure I remembered):

"Want some fragrances, my good man? A handsome chap like you, liking the ladies, yes? But remember, no Armani, no punani. No Calvin Klein, no sixty-nine. No Davidoff, no suck-you-off. No cologne, you go home alone!"

I don't need that kind of pressure, especially when I'm watering the porcelain! Sure, it's nice to have a round in the chamber when it comes to making excuses why you didn't pull: "You see my dear gentlemen, I hadn't the forethought to attire myself olfactorily in Armani, which certainly explains the horrific absence of punani in my chambers yesterday moontide," but ultimately my girlfriend is perfectly capable of not-shagging me without the need for an excuse like "He don't fuckin' smell rich, does he".

So, after shaking the venom off the snakes fangs, I put my old fella away and had to make the snap judgement of washing my hands and having his beaming face and large hands ready with a toilette in one hand and a bottle of watered-down Joop in the other, and making a pissy-handed head-down dash for the door. I smiled, I approached the sink and I washed my hands. I declined the offer of the Joop and the Armani and the Jean-Paul Gautier and the Boss. I declined the toilette, wiping my hands on my beige trousers. I said no the warm lollipop, yes, even the strawberry (which was his favourite flavour, apparently). And I didn't leave him a tip. His smile, though, never faltered- never diminished- burning a banana shaped hole into the back of my skull.

"Hello sir! You look like a man who wants something in his mouth, yes!"

Walking out of the toilets with no lollipop, damp pissy hands, completely odourless, my ghast still flabbering qutie menacingly, and with large damp finger-shaped smears cresting majestically across my groin where I 'dried' my hands, I thought...

London, you're doing it wrong...

London, what's going on in Tesco?

"Just doing my weekly shop" I say to the cashier, with my trademark shit-eating grin, as she scanned through two packets of reduced ham, a bottle of sparkling rose, and the poor man's Champers- Asti Spumante. She laughed politely. She asked whether I have anything special planned- I told her that tonight I'm pouring two bottles of fizz down my gullet and watching fillums with the Missus, and that we're going to do our St Valentine's Day treat (probably dinner someplace nice with a coupon) on any other day other than St Valentine's Day. She then told me that I was very clever and I agreed. She smiled politely again.

On my way out an old Jamaican man was talking to some teenagers who were huddled around him in awe, blocking the only exit out of the shop. Luckily I didn't have my earphones on as what I heard when I was squeezing through was: "I ain't gonna worship no man that eats fish like an apple. No way. I ain't gonna worship no bum like that". I have literally no idea what that was about, where it came from, or why he was saying it to young teenagers, but I absolutely fell in love with it. That's a philosophy I can get behind.

Not an apple; don't even try it.

London, you're doing it right!

Then it rained and I got wet. But that's okay because it's St Valentine's Day.

London, what are your shoppers doing?

To the gentleman in the over-sized red jumper with an Adam's apple like an elbow, doing your grocery shopping in Sainsbury's with a grapefruit-sized plastic orb balanced on your head...

... whatever you're doing, you're doing it right!

London, what are your cyclists doing?

This morning, whilst I was commuting the shit out of my Wednesday morning, I was listlessly watching the traffic below from my bus window (only forgot my bloody Kindle, didn't I!?) Suddenly there was a loud cracking noise and I saw that just ahead of the bus that a motorcyclist had come a cropper against the back of a pickup, smashing his windscreen and mirrors and leaving debris over the road and his bike on its side. The cars around the accident immediately started trying to sneak either side of the scene (like party-goers when a drunk girl is crying on the stairs) and merge into other lanes, leaving the dual carriage-way looking like a dropped box of Lego; the motorcyclist, oddly calm, set about righting his bike.

Just then a figure in organgey-pinky fluorescence stepped in front of the scene- arms spread against the traffic like like a neon Jesus in a pastel blue helmet- and commanded the cars to stop. He then left his bicycle as a barrier to prevent anyone driving over anything and started to pick up the debris whilst the motorcyclist finished rightinghis bike and started pushing it through the gaps in the traffic- not even stopping to talk to the  pickup driver, who was leaning out of his window without one single fuck to give about the whole thing [utterly fuckless.] Making a quiet exit and keepig his head down, he left the cyclist to stuff the debris into his jacket- INTO HIS JACKET- as he had no bag, and check to see if the truck driver was okay. I shit you not, there were shards of broken perspex and strips of metal that he had rattling against his chest: "Internal organs? Most of them come in pairs anyway- I'll be fine!" With the motocyclist gone he made one final sweep of the area for bits of motorcycle, apologised to the cars for the delay, and cycled off towards the city (WITH A JACKET FULL OF SHRAPNEL.)

Traffic started moving again, car windows rolled up, and the grind ground on- but that cyclist selflessly stopping to help certainly left an image on me.

London, this particular cyclist was doing it right! (The motorcyclist was arguably doing it wrong...)

London, what are your hipster tea houses doing?

Three double-vodka, lime & sodas done; bish bash bosh. What now? As if we're getting a cup of bloody tea on a Friday night! (NB: not bloody-tea)

Soho is quirky, all the way up to it's glittery mirkin- sometimes vaguely sticky or matted- but always vibrant and effervescent. I was meeting my old friend Gawaine, as unbearable as he is adorable, for some catch-up drinks and to have a stomp around. Despite both of us proudly declaring ourselves "all London, an that!" we are actually fairly rubbish at organising water-tight plans that include specific locations, as opposed to approximate geographical areas. Gawaine started off with "Seven at LS." Now, I haven't consulted others as to whether this acronym is real, let alone even viable, but apparently it stands for Leicester Square- or rather, "Leicester Square. Keep up Grandpa" the horrid little shit.

Quirk, not Quirke

So after running a jolly around various bars in Soho, merrily bish bash boshing double-vodka, lime & sodas (he's diabetic and I've gotten a bit fat) we decided our night was levelling out, we needed to quirk it up to 11. It was then that we found Foxcroft and Ginger [http://www.foxcroftandginger.com/] a brunch-type-place (not a nineteeth-century detective duo, like I'd hoped) for exotic teas and coffees-to-pretend-to-like and things which Gawaine recommended as he had recently dated the shit out of someone there. It looked like it was close to closing and we had to awkwardly consult two not-unattractive lady patrons smoking outside as to whether it was still open: "... yeh, yeh it probably is. Not sure. Try it." Textbook London citizenship.

As we rolled in, on the right side of tipsy and the wrong side of volume control, we had a butchers at what was on offer; various pastries, teas and boozes. Clocking an opportunity, our man Sanders exclaimed, loudly: "Do you do things like teas and boozes mixed together and stuff? Like tea-cocktails? Gawaine, want a tea-cocktail? Wait, let me find out if they do them first..." To which Tom, the gentleman behind the counter, responded "No."

But wait, as if that's the end of the story! Tom, the gentleman behind the counter, followed up by adding: "But I can mix one up for you chaps! Let's have a look at what we have!" Then, like Mr Jekyll, suddenly produced jars and bottles of curious stuffs and liquids for me to ram my schnozz in, quietly repeating "And this, yes? This one, hm? What do you think of this, eh? Do you like that one? Do you? Have another sniff..." In any other situation his tone and intensity would have come across as vaguely rapey, but I must say that I was enchanted!

Gawaine, the fruity champ, enjoying his gin and odd-tea.

I cannot for the life of me remember exactly what I picked, but it contained some kind of queer tea mixed with a not-insignificant amount of rum (loads of fucking rum) and Gawaine had a similarly curious tea but with gin mixed with it- because he's a bit like that. Both drinks, despite having been made up on the spot by our gentleman behind the bar, Tom, were absolutely marvellous! His magnificent nose (in power, rather than size) categorically hit the spot with both beverages- the olfactory wizard! The heart-cloggingly over-buttered croissant that I enjoyed the tea with was also incredibly apt.

Having put away the teas we made our way out all the drunker for hard spirits and all the richer for a new experience at a cracking venue.

London, with quirky brunch joints like Foxcroft and Ginger, you're doing it right!

London, what are your eccentrics doing?

Standing at a pedestrian crossing down Regent Street waiting for the lights to change when an old man with a big bushy beard and scraggly grey hair held back in a ponytail a couple of people away from me shouts at a passing cyclist: "Oi, that's my bike! Give me my bloody bike back!"

He then turns to the young woman next to him and, with a smile and wink, says: "It's not really my bike..."

London, you're doing it right!

London, what are your mothers doing?

Back in September my heart had a number done on it, didn't it?

Four rows from the front, left hand window seat (the crow's nest) on the top deck of the Number 12 bus, I was grudgingly being commuted into the Smoke- a hangover the size of a whale's face pushing my forehead against the glass. Eventually the bus pulled up at the Notre Dame R.C. Girls School and I watched a mother and her daughter step off and walk towards the school. The daughter was skipping along, bright pink lunchbox swinging dangerous arcs through the air, hair in pigtails- generous lashings of generic schoolgirl stereotypes aplomb. The mother was tottering along in her high heels, tiny clutch bag squeezed against her velour tracksuit, arguably grossly overdressed and/or under dressed for the morning school drop-off. or any other conceivable occasion. 

The daughter, having tired of fiercely pirouetting, skips back to her mum's side. Walking side by side the daughter reaches up to hold her mum's hand only to have it casually slapped away like a nuisance fly. Slowing her feet momentarily and letting her chin fall, the little girl then hugged her lunch box and then skipped onwards by herself. In the fug of mental melancholy, partially (wholly) brought on by the previous night's endeavours, the sight fucking broke my heart...

London, you're doing it all wrong...

I admit that I have been more than fairly rubbish at keeping this blog updated; I'm sure both readers have been devastated. However, following on from a delightful and flattering conversation that I had with two lovely friends (Charlie and Charlotte, this shout out is for you two) I shall be cobbling together a renewed effort in keeping this palsy dream alive.

George, you're doing it right.