Last week I went to London. It wasn’t for the first time; I had been the previous year to visit my housemate Sam. However, this time I did more Londony things, so I decided it warranted an article.
I don’t like London. There are far too many things to worry about and be scared of, and the whole constantly-fearing-for-my-life kinda thing really took it out of me. Also, it’s quite a long way away, and smelly, and people talk wrong, and I felt intimidated by just about everything.
You see in Newcastle, where I’m from, nothing really happens. The general routine is as follows: you get up, work, finish work, go to the pub, punch a horse and then spend money at the weekend on pubs, Newcastle United and Greggs. It’s a simple way of life and one that I excel in, although I’m yet to punch a horse. London is rather different.
I spent most of the three days there with two of my course mates. Neither of them had a penis, so naturally I expected a tough few days ahead. After checking into our hotel, they made a bee line for the nearest clothes shop. There, I endured over an hour of watching them pick up clothes, put down clothes, pick up the same clothes again, then down again, walk away from the clothes, then realise that another rival non-male was looking at those same clothes, then feel jealous, then go back to the original clothes and buy them despite not really wanting them at all.
It was painful to watch, but naturally I put on a brave face. Then, suddenly, a lady started walking towards me, making eye contact as she did so. The lady was probably about my age and was far too attractive so obviously I was suspicious. My scepticism was justified, because as she stopped in front of me and her beautiful brown eyes looked into mine, she asked whether or not I worked here. Rile. I told her no, she walked away, and my apocalyptic sex life remained.
In hindsight, I should have probably said yes and attempted to woo her with my extensive knowledge of strapless tops. Alas, I did not; I feared that even my unprecedented ability to talk fluent shit couldn’t cope with extremity of this particular situation.
Throughout my stay in London, we had to use a form of transport known as the tube. The tube. I found it odd that they referred to their underground train system as the tube, as most tubes that I had come across before weren’t filled with an eclectic mix of twats, arseholes and fuckwits. You see in Newcastle, we have what’s called the Metro, which is yellow. It’s also not claustrophobic, it doesn’t smell and the only dodgy people you’ll find on there are alcoholics, who are mostly friendly in the Northeast. The metro is also less noisy, and when it approaches a platform it doesn’t bring an uncomfortably warm mass of air consisting only of armpit odour.
As you may know from previous articles I’ve written, I don’t like heights. Now, the main purpose of our visit to London was to celebrate the birthday of Beth. For a birthday treat Charlotte, the other course mate with me, decided to book an activity called Climb the O2. When she first relayed this information via text the week prior to our visit, I didn’t feel that scared. In my mind, we’d be going up a tall building via a lift and looking at the views, a bit like the Empire State Building in New York. It had never occurred to me that the O2 was an enormous tent and that Climb literally meant climb.
As we slipped into some large blue overalls and harnessed to the tent, I felt quite ill. Charlotte knew I didn’t like heights, why would she do this? I thought about backing out and not doing it, but then I remembered that the tickets were pre-paid and more importantly, I’d never hear the end of it. Slowly, step-by-step I edged my way up the side of the O2. They told us that you can hear the acts playing from the outside of the tent, which I saw as a sign of comfort, until I realised 5 seconds of Summer were playing. Shame.
Upon reaching the top of the tent we were unharnessed, and left to roam on a platform. I decided not to roam too much just in case I unsteadied the tent, which would allow wind to billow underneath it, causing the tent to upturn into the Thames, which would in turn lead to my inevitable death. Unfortunately, Beth and Charlotte wanted to take approximately 16,432 selfies, so I feared the worst.
Luckily, the O2 arena did not fall into the Thames, so we made it down safely.
Over the few days we were in London, I saw a large Ben, an enormous vegetable-looking building, the Queen’s house and a Ferris wheel that was stupidly called the London Eye. The London Eye does not look like an eye. Eyes are not round, the London Anus would be more appropriate.
We also visited Oxford Street, which I thought was quite nice. Far too many people, but that’s what happens when you cram nearly 9 million people into a city. Inevitably, I was taken round many clothes shops that should have been painful, but at this point I was immune. I only bought one thing in London – a hat. But this wasn’t any old hat, it was a flat cap. I predict they will come back into fashion within the next 5 years. You heard it here first.
Would I come back to London again? Probably. But when I do, I will have to be a very rich and successful celebrity so that I don’t have to talk to anyone, or use public transport, or do my own shopping. So yeah, probably never. Nice place though. Preferred Budapest though… http://spiceukonline.com/henry-winter/henry-goes-to-budapest/