I ♥ London
Pictures by Danny Wood
During my anthropological escapade, the sights I behold, at times, make me stop and stare like a slack jawed yokel. I drink up every drop of Albion’s Londinium and can think of no better place to wear my splendiferous Nike heels down.
Firstly food. No long ting. Stratford Starbucks. Sugar rush. Cinnamon-swirl-and-signature-hot-chocolate. Grow up.
Deux: Funds. The council office. Filled to the brim with people, sweating under the weight of Morrison’s bags and Poundland purchases. I gaze around – savouring the sight of kids pushing their kids in buggies. A boy dressed top-to-toe in dEad Hardy is clutching a loaf of Mother’s Pride under one arm with the other pushed into a lint filled pocket. His faded cap has a broken peak. The security guard strolls through the lobby swinging the biggest bunch of keys I’ve ever seen. I mean, they look like the top of a palm tree. His proud-as-a-peacock stance let’s everyone know just how important he (thinks he) is. I marvel at the African woman walking by with two hands full of goods while she rocks a ‘baby rucksack’. I pay my council tax and exit stage left. The winter sun kisses my bearded cheeks and remind me I left my Wayfarers on the TV. Pissed.
Squinting, I head for the bus station. I meander through the multi – coloured throng. The Olympics soon come and building work on the new Westway is going harder than two day old dog shit. A family of Orthodox Jews pass me. The little boy’s ringlets poke out from under his kippah and I’m momentarily jealous of the serenity in his face, craving the childhood innocence he revels in. On to the next one: Brick Lane. Beyond Retro to be precise. I touch in with my Oyster on the migrant microcosm mobile that is the 25 bus.
No matter where you get on, no matter what time – there’s always a piss-soaked, drunk man. Always. The repetition I crave is being addressed. Also, I believe someone on here enjoyed a shit-shake and large onion rings before they got on. How lovely. The blonde man wearing the Burberry parka, stone-washed jeans and truly awful Nike Cortez shifts from foot to foot. I wonder where he’s going while I let my eyes wander. Mr Very Bad Toupè meets my gaze. I smile broadly and he looks away nervously. The ‘Cutest Little Girl In The World’ stares straight at me for what seems like a full eight minutes. Blink free. Her eyes are huge. Can’t stare back. Prison grey isn’t my colour and I’m too pretty. I love/hate this bus. The lady in the leather look gillet knits intently. Her tongue poking out, up and left of her mouth. She’s focussed man. Hopping off the bus outside the Royal London Hospital, I bop down Vallance Road. My big nose feels the full force of the car farts I’m immersed in. I flip a nonsensical but necessary Marlboro Light into my mouth and give it life. I puff-puff-puff my way to Cheshire Street’s treasure trove. The far too excited Aussie manager greets me like an old friend. She only wants me for my money. It’s a situation we’re both cool with. She shows me the cowigans just in.
I stick the biggest and sickest one I can find into the yellow bag, pay the bish and bounce. My belly tells me it’s bagel time. I fux with a turkey and cheese creation while window shopping. The sexy ass leathers call out to me but my pocket cock-blocks their advances. I pop my head into Rokit but their sizes are just silly. No XXLs in sight. I make like a tree and leave. Brick Lane is littered with faux Russel Brands – boys (and girls) with big hair and jeans that look painted on. Sad times when in such a creative hub, it seems originality is deader than a dozen dodos. At the end of Osborne Street I buss a left and dip into Starbucks. Again.
The bagel has soaked up all the Remy in my system so green tea is the next purchase. Along with another swirl. I have a sweet tooth. My poor pancreas.
From rancid buses and vintage stores to sucking at America’s caffeine-soaked green teat and Olympic sized tasks, this city – my beautiful bitch – gets it in. Who needs the green, green grass of home when you live in the Big Smoke?
No spray, no lay! The Scourge of the Toilet People
No spray, no lay. No Armani, no punani. No Gucci, no coochie. No soap, NO HOPE!
Image by TGKW
Picture the scene if you will; while frequenting a nameless inner city sweat box, the DJ has just finished a sublime set and you have partied like it was 1999. Again. Dressed to look hot but, alas, not for the heat, you hadn’t the foresight to bring a hanky to mop your now sopping brow. So, obviously you find yourself sweating like you’ve just eaten a plate of jerk jollof. You slide to the toilet only to be greeted by what is now, worryingly, the general consensus…
The toilet men/women prey on our collective guilty conscience. They harmlessly offer soap, scents and lollipops in return for some pocket shrapnel. We’re greeted with a smile and possibly some asinine, sycophantic chit-chat. This can be nice, but is often just off-putting when we’re only there to drop a hasty ‘one’ and ‘two’, like a mic check. What we really want is to be in and out just like a robbery and back on the dance floor allowing the Sailor Jerry’s and coke to help you forget your woes, and chase hoes. For goodness sake! I myself have been washing my own hands for over 20 years so I’m thinking I’ve got it just about licked by now. I’m not trying to hear about Olafemi’s accountancy degree or Vladimir’s mafia uncle. I just want some tissue, maybe a lollipop and silence.
Do these clubs not realise we’re already paying far too much to merely enter the premises? Exactly how much do we hand over to listen to tunes we already have (illegally downloaded) on CD/MP3 at home? What price do they put on sweating with numerous smelly strangers? The average door fee for non-guest list patrons is £15. Add to that extortionately priced drinks, plus at least two toilet trips and without thinking about it, you’re £50 worse off. And yes, still sweaty.
It has almost come to the point that we avoid eye contact with the ‘Men in Black’. Fair play, that is their hustle and rather than hate, I congratulate. I’ll even stretch to making a donation.
On three conditions:
- No conversation while I’m at the urinal. EVER. I get stage fright.
- Always stock plenty of Chupa Chups lollipops. Not the horrible ones that turn into bubble gum.
- Palmers Cocoa Butter is my grease of choice. Anything else is considered an insult.
The above instructions, followed to the letter, will lead to a generous reward of shiny gold and silver disks that can be exchanged for goods and services. One more thing – the rooms frequented by these men and women come equip with soap and running water. Therefore offensive bodily odour is totally and utterly unacceptable.
Short stories that rock, like big stones.
This site is updated daily with colourful and well written stories. ATCN family Femi Martin paints pictures beautifully with words and imagery. Check it out and get involved in the movement.
Fours.
