the funny going on's of london (Part 1)

I was walking casually around the grand old modern city of London when I just felt inspired to write my own personal review of what this place entails and, by golly, what we can really do here to educate ourselves. (I have included the liberty of incorporating my own personal etchings here and there. Those emotional jolts are to be overruled: please to be focusing on the facts in hand!)


How to board public transport for free.
I don't mean the underground folks. They most probably have secret police and agents everywhere dressed as 'tourists' while we go about our daily lives entering the abyss of the those 3284237 year old trains. I cannot nip over the barriors with my cape and soar down the escalators like Batman returning oh no. I'm not the smooth operator that you may think I am (If you think I am). Instead I'd most probably attempt the jump, invariably catch my leg or arm on something or other (or if not, fall over a small child or a terrior dog of some sort), fall awkwardly, turn and be loomed over by six or six dozen London underground staff. All eyes staring, let's get hauled off to a police station, shall we not!
Ever heard of the 'Bendy buses?'. Me neither until about three weeks ago when I actually witnessed one, thereby associating the name with it's imagery: It's a bus with three compartments, each attached together by some sort of (what I can only describe as a) 'rubbery thing'.
Directions as to how to not pay for bus fare:
1) Board 'bendy bus' at the second or third entrance. (If you board at the front you have to pay. For God sake the bus driver is directly in your face!
2) Act natural. Do not be shifty.
3) Pretend to be grossly involved in looking in your bag or of similar nature.
4) Be distracted. Keep looking in the bag and sit down casually.
5) Cross legs professionally.
6) End.
Yes it is that easy. Remember folks, with inflation rising, the credit crunch...crunching. Petrol prices going up so high (send the oil companies a postcard won't you. Be nice to them, pay for the stamp) we might as well take advantage of anything free we are offered. Even if it is a bit devious. Go ahead, take your cake and eat it!

How to be a tourist guide without trying:
Tottenham Court Road Underground Station. I was casually strolling by today squinting behind the suns ray, catching the atmosphere, soaking in the pollution through my skin. (Oh so healthy and human-like). A sweet little Chinese (or Japanese. How do I tell?!) girl came up to me softly and enquired 'Where is Oxford Circus?'
'Oxford Circus station?' (She nods)
'Oh it's just down this road. Just keep walking all the way down and you'll see it'
She thanks me and trundles off. I did my bit for tourist society again and my, am I proud for answering the question rightly. Indeed I have found that if I stand by Lloyds Tsb bank (by far the bank that really uses unecessary floor space - as in the next seeable 'chair, desk, customer service advisor apparatus' is approximately 7,000 yards away) I seem to undoubtedly attract tourists of all nationalities. Since I starting standing by my particular bus stop, heards of tourists run towards me with maps in their hands and compasses around thier necks. Pleading eyes questioning me, tears welling up in their faces, sweaty hands grasping mine as they desperately tell me how they are trying to locate Wimbledon Centre Court or 'That place that sells all those watches'.
I do feel that it is my spot. It is designated for my attention and I am just drawn to it. My bit for international society is expanding and I thank the forces of fate for offering to me.
'Now let me just get my fucking bus love, awwright.'

Please do not do this at all.
I shan't tell you my whole story. I shan't bore you with the literal details. It's 5am in the morning isn't it guys, and you have nothing else to do right? So you go on Facebook, you notice that I have imported a blog entry and you think ' What the fuck, I'll just read it. Got nothing else better to do with my time'.
I moved to London, so I'm here now. London is just so full of wonder and delight is it not. Ignore the pollution and crowds folks, let us be positive. You can come to London and pursue many things: promoter, taxi driver (yes they get a lot of money..or so), uniformed individual looking important, hobo, graffiti artist, assistant of anything, actor, musician, prostitute with own room overlooking central city in Soho, barworker, limo driver, glass collector in clubs, freelance artist, refuse collector, debt collector, Avon lady, chav, ghetto diva etc etc. You could virtually be something exciting.
So don't do what I have done... What have I done: Charity telephone fundraiser. God must love me right now: I guide confused tourists in Tottenham Court Road voluntarily because I am a nice person and I work for charity on a full time basis. Glamorous? No. No wide floor plans, dial tones make me have withdrawal symptoms, credit crunch causes everyone to exclaim 'sorry lav, I can't GIVE!' or as I had today 'Sorry darl, I just paid a £45,000 gas bill' (Where did she go, day trip to hell? Does she co-own hell with the Devil? Did she sign a tenancy agreement there? Does she live in ovens?'), interesting psychological hierachies in worker's given titles.
I must say the people are fantastic, the air conditioning can be a nuisance (especially if you are the unfortunate fool who happens to sit right underneath it with just a t-shirt and nipple clamps), but as a whole can I simply advise: Treat it as a second job.
I'm treating sleeping as my first. This as my second. I am surviving and as Gloria Gaynor once sang 'I will survive'.
Indeed.

A whole host of *sighs*
I was walking around in London today and one rather tall man got in my way. He seemed to believe I got in his way. Perhaps I did, I mean, who was walking quicker? Who was walking with more ease? What were our objectives to getting to whereever we were to get to? We dodged casually: Left, right, left, right ('What the fuck are you doing man, trying to create a Russian dance with me?! I'm not Russian!), left and then the:
*sigh*
He won the Netball game. We dodged with the invisible ball. He tried to pass, I challenged his attempt. He tried again, I actioned in the same way. He tried again, then psychologically smacked me in the face and moved on forward.
Why *sigh*? This is London.
Don't sigh man: Go to your broker job. Eat your biscuits and tea. Have meetings about when the next meeting should be scheduled. Flirt with that girl, yeah you know the one: the one with the pencil skirt. Her yeah'
Sighing in London means you are destined to live in a shack with one cow...and perhaps a Cockatoo or maybe a few sheep.


Annoying the newspaper promoters
We have 'The London Newspaper' and 'The Lite Newspaper'. The Lite is apparently printed with ink that does not rub onto your hands. These guys are clever because no one wants inked up hands on their way to their meeting in which they hope they get that promotion. (I personally don't give two flying bazooka's about the ink. I just want to read it)
Old Street is a fine example. It's central London and many cool businessmen and women are out for their lunches. You have both newspaper companies right next to each other and there are two guys standing with a pile of newpapers perched on their arms.
I look to the one on the left and he looks back. We squint at each other before he tilts his neck and eyes his rival. Smoothly I direct my eyes to the other. The same action is repeated and I'm sensing the tension between them. I get my knife and yes, I cut it straight down the middle. I coolly run my hands through my hair before sliding both hands into the pockets of my jeans.
The tension builds and the suspense is killing them...
The question begs: 'What newspaper do I choose?'.
Cliffhanger galore...

The British Library:
I have the fortunate luck to be temporarily living in Kings Cross. (No that does not mean I live with the King and his cross, or that the King is cross, or that I am living in some sort of cross shaped house or apartment in which I share with a King). It's a London location for all ye folk who are not so knowledgeable. In King's Cross is 'The British Library'.
The British Library ladies and gentlemen (may I just say) is one of the most famous one in the world. Every English publication across the world is situated in there and it is one of the few libraries in which every publication company is obliged by law to send every new English title to The British Library. It has over a million books and historical so forths. It even has a train track underneath it to transport a whole range of books inside it's vaults every year. It has original trans/manuscripts of books/written recording some from thousands of years back.
It's truly amazing!
and I have not been arsed to visit it.
Please point and call me a giddy, uneducated, disestablished, young whippersnapper who has nothing better to do then to stare at this screen and eat Ben & Jerrys' cookie dough.
My, my do I like that icecream.
I'm a fucking idiot. Go and see that place. Tell me what's it's like in detail. Enlighten me beautifully.

The end is nigh for now.

I love you all like I love staring at hot chicks behind my sunglasses.