Memories of London

Thank fodder I’m not living in London anymore.

Like some huge magnet attracting people from all over (mostly young, educated and enegetic) pulling them like some sort of cultic vortex,
and taking their time, energy and attention.


I used to love hanging round by the river
___the dirty old river
Where you can feel the history and stories beneath the dirty waves.
The waves of invasions:
The welsh, romans, normans, saxons till the latest invasion:
An elaborate empire:
You loathe and love it
Good wages, frappacinos, post-work beers and
chasing hot foreign ass in hot pants that you’ll never get.

Still, it comes at a price:

I’ve often thought the state of your accomodation affects your state of mind – but nevermind.


And you need to get around
To compound that state of mind.

People crammed together and so intimate like possibly no other situation herding together for protection as if under attack.
No wonder people get stressed. Adrenaline excreted into the foul breathless air and absolutely no where to go, until you get to your office where the mounting stress continues.


Then you get bombarded by bright, sexualised images sending even more mixed messages to your overloaded, overworked, susceptible brain, your susceptible ego your and susceptible immune system

Meet your ideal partner!

Feeling tired?

Live here!


Can you believe they’re putting luxury apartments into a disused power station? And it’s sold as a statement, too! “I’m living in London” is a statement, as if I’ve made it (as long as you live in the right part when you get there). Some people say they live in the next neighbourhood.


I once had a feeling that “I’ve made it”. It was almost a feeling of power. I was drinking wine on the top floor of a bank at night. It was a view to remember. I was looking down on the entire city, crammed full of people drinking, commuting, paying rent, chasing totty – all completely unfulfilled. All unaware.

We’re all going to make it.