Gentrification's gloom

Today I was greeted by the sight of future heartbreak. Beside my beloved local pub - the Salmon & Ball - a temporary plywood eyesore had been erected. In bright orange letters it read: 'Opening soon, your Local Sainsbury's store.'

At first, I rejoiced at the idea of no longer having to walk an extra hundred metres to the local Costcutter. I relished the thought of sun blushed tomatoes, 'Taste the Difference' pizzas and half-price bottles of wine. But then the wider picture came crashing down on top of me. The reason I moved to Bethnal Green was its quaintness. The fact that is had not been gentrified by the corporate caterpillar that bulldozed its way over from West London. It missed the draw by only a mile - a real close shave, but it still missed nonetheless.

Gentrification's border is still very visible. It runs in a straight line down from Shoreditch through Spitalfields, the City and over London Bridge into Borough. You must beware though because its inhabitants can't be trusted. They pretend to live over the border but can be easily foiled by one of a number of simple ways: their bank balance; not knowing a song by the band on their t-shirt; having 400 friends on Facebook and adding you after just glancing your way once in a pub; and other such vampire-like behaviour.

But if you look just one metre east of this line you will see an old familiar sight (unless you are dead young and were born in the 1990s). This is a sight from the pre-frappachino, Wi-Fi era. A place where Woolworths shined, and butcher's sold meat instead of supermarkets. A place where you could pick up an apple from a fruit shop and a loaf of bread from the bakers. A place where transactions did not happen under one roof.

In this no-firm's land, people interact with one another. All kinds of unsightly things occur, and it is dangerous, but this is all part of the charm. This is a place where you buy your coffee from a woman who is picking her nose, not wearing a fucking uniform. It is the last bastion if you wish. From the artists in Whitechapel to the whores of Hackney, the smackheads in Lower Clapton to the poets of Bethnal Green. These are lives that those just one metre across the line can only dream of living. A raw existence, yet decadent all the same.

Anyway long rant over. So my concern after seeing the said notification of impending arrival of local Sainsbury's store, is that all I like best about my beloved east 'of gentrification line' London will soon be bulldozed through. And worse still, transformed into a sparkling array of new Starbucks, Borders and Gap stores, chrome-interior bars, and swanky flats.

George Gallop-away

This morning as I walked to work along Bethnal Green’s cracked footpaths, I was struck by the most unusual of sights – my local MP.

I couldn’t help but notice how lost he seemed. Scratching his head at the crossroads of two of his constituency’s best-known streets, Mr Galloway looked rather puzzled. He was hundreds of miles away from his hometown of Glasgow, thousands of miles away from the US Senate where his most famous political moment occurred, and at least a couple of thousand miles away from Saddam’s palace (or what remains of it) where his most infamous moment occurred.

‘Oh George, are you lost.’ I thought to myself.

Perhaps he was just trying to conscientiously keep up appearances. Something he had failed to do in Parliament by representing the good people of Bethnal Green and Bow, like he was elected too. It would be no lie to suggest that the Scot has probably spent more time on T4 entertainment shows than he has on BBC2’s NewsNight, while his shady dealings with ‘friends’ have occupied more column inches than his work for London’s most-deprived borough.

However, I didn’t feel that bubbling sense of anger when faced with the man. After all, he had voted against the Iraq War, Trident and military exports to Israel. But the man is a mystery to me, what does he do with all his spare time? And where does he go? Perhaps most importantly, can I really trust him?

"Hungry & Homeless: Don't feed me"

She sat there, hunched into a crooked ball. A hood hid what I envisaged to be putrid strands of greasy hair. Only her Skeletor-esque face occasionally peered out of the darkness. Her slump was nonchalant and she didn't even bother to acknowledge those that threw her change.

This was her corner, her station, her street. Even extreme weather couldn't budge her, nor could torrents of abuse from the local kids. I was impressed they even dared - she looked like a ghost. At 12-years-old I would have probably shat myself at first glance.

I stood there gripped by the objectionable scene. It was as though she was a ghostly apparition. I had finished my cigarette yet remained outside the pub in order to keep my beady eyes on her. I was sure she must do something - unless she actually was dead?

While I watched slyly, along came a Jack Wills-wearing millionaire's daughter. She was undeterred by the smell of rotting flesh. Her gap-year work with lepers in India must have toughened her up. She skipped straight up to Mrs Death and dropped off a huge pile of fresh fruit and salad.

She hovered for a second, hoping her experience on the phones at the Samaritans could come in helpful, perhaps she could save this poor soul? But she was gravely mistaken. The hunched one remained in her tight crooked ball. She didn't even flinch at the sight of the aid package. A week's worth of food lay beside her. All in neat little Marks & Spencer's packages.

After a few more awkward moments, the girl walked away and I wasted no time in closing in. I offered Mrs Death a fiver for the food. She wasn't going to eat it, but the cash could certainly come in handy to help fill her arm.

I felt proud that I would enable her to maintain that crooked stance for another few hours. The deal was done and I was on my way back to the pub. No need for a takeaway this evening then. I had a "fabulous" little package to look forward to. We both did!

Herald the re-birth of the cowboy builder

While the world is building its way out of recession, it appears that any old Tom, Dick and Harry are having a go. The money is good, the hours pretty much dictated by your line manager's attention span, which I am told is pretty short, and you don't even need to know the first thing about construction.

For Mr Brown has a dream, and this entails recovery through infrastructure. But what happens when he realises that Tom, Dick and Harry can't build for shit? Is that when the little empire starts to crumble? Is the bottomless pit really without bottom?

I particularly recommend Patel Buildres of that famed Lomdom town. These guys certainly know how to put up signs, and are capable of producing the most fetching MDF doors. The minor details such as spelling don't matter, who would want to be able to read the architect's notes anyway? Surely health and safety manuals can't ever be as good a read as the Daily Star.

So there it is, or so my speculation says, that walking the hot coals out of the flames is a new breed of cowboy builder. I pray to god Panorama allows this beast to blossom, if only to see this fucking city come tumbling down.

Nothing common about this place

So I had to visit the House of Commons on an assignment for work. This task seemed like no big deal. Little did I know how much trouble I could have got into had I misbehaved?

I had to be there for early doors in order to take advantage of the free spread the event’s sponsors were putting on for breakfast. And following waking up rather late, after being somewhat distracted by the previous night’s trip to the pub, I faced a race against time. There was no way I wasn't getting a shower or ironing my shirt – for all I knew Caroline Flint could be welcomed back to Cabinet today. This meant I obviously had to look sharp, only yesterday had I been purveying her saucy snaps for the Observer.

Looking rather dashing, I sped out of the door and jumped on a train to Westminster. Upon my arrival, I wished I’d given myself more time. I had to navigate the anti car bomb fixtures that littered the pathway up to the heavily manned security post. I arrived at the Cromwell entrance, like I was told, at 8.30am. Japanese tourists were frantically snapping away at me – dumbly mistaking me for some politician, or so I presumed. I was then frisked down, while an officer pointed a sub-machine gun at my chest. I felt like an Iranian protester. They pointed me in the direction of another security post and told me to continue. So I was kind of in.

Queuing at the next guarded gate I managed to count 14 guns. It was eventually my turn to walk through the metal detector, while my possessions passed through the x-Ray machine. Flinching as I made my way through, it was to my surprise that the machine didn’t go off and I was finally inside the Commons.

The old place looked like a museum with the added presence of its small army of armed-guards. Oil paintings of past prime ministers occupied the wall space alongside display cabinets full of items, which seemed to be trying to be definitive of British culture. Little men stood quietly in all corners whispering. The lighting was fantastically dark which gave a slightly serious tone to the overall mood of the place.

I made it to the breakfast table just in time to cram my mouth full of salmon and dill bagels before they were taken away. I then gulped down a few cups of coffee before taking in the room full of politicians and lords. A few press officers started to make beelines for me so I figured it was time for a cigarette. I noticed another exit and sneaked out. Leaning against a fancy blacked-out jeep, down a secluded little sideroad, I lit my cigarette. Within seconds a team of little policemen emerged, as if from nowhere, and descended towards me.

It transpired that smoking anywhere on the premises was gravely illegal. Furthermore, any rule breaking on the grounds was an offence under the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act 2005. I almost laughed, but then realised that I was in danger of ‘disappearing’ like the Iranian opposition, so my resolve remained. I quickly made my way back into the press conference and shrugged down into my seat, nervously checking over my shoulder from time to time in case they were watching me. I felt like Guy fucking Fawkes. Incidentally, they weren’t watching me. Perhaps they had bigger fish to fry, like the gent who left the toilet seat up.

Strike season

It was strike season on the London Underground, people looked lost and transfixed by horror as they had to wait at bus stops (above ground).

Somehow the Mayor had managed to talk cabbies into providing a taxi-sharing service from the stations hardest hit by the industrial action. I was sceptical as to how on earth this could work. 'This ones going to Bishopgate boys.' 'No it isn't, I must get to the gherkin first before trading.' 'Sorry chaps Smithfield's far more important to me,' the city boys would squabble.

Walking along by a deluded Liverpool St Station, my invisibleness caused me to be struck on the knee by some pinstriped banker's suitcase. My initial reaction was to lash out at the case with a boot, but I missed. So I threw myself at the ignorant twat. Pinning him to a nearby wall, 'look where you're going next time, you prick,' I screamed into his empty plastic face. 'Forward thinking could have prevented a lot of the messes you lot have caused,' I continued balling at him, 'such as the loss of my father's pension, and my flatmate's job.'

I let go of his collar and left my shellshocked victim to consider his actions, victory smeared all over my face.

Who next I thought to myself, the picket lines or the Mayor? The capital city can change men - we were behaving like the French!

It's still a five and a half mile walk home

...... but it just got weirder! 

Today was the day London's beggars upgraded their tools. Or at least the moment there was a pretty impressive technological advancement. While walking through the underpass beneath Waterloo Bridge I came across a Romanian gypsy woman dressed in rags and sat in squalor. Nothing new here, or so I thought until I realised she was begging with a pretty swish mobile phone in her hand. I had to take another glance to make sure my eyes weren't deceiving me. But they weren't and to make things even more surreal was the fact she had enough credit to be gassing away while her hand remained outstretched, in hope of receiving a donation, I guess. Unsurprisingly it was empty.

I kinda knew from then on it was gonna be one of those weird, wonderful walks along the South Bank. As I walked back into the light from the revelations of the tunnel, I was greeted by the sight of 40, or so, 7 or 8-year-olds. It was some kind of school trip and they were all wearing fluorescent yellow bibs with 'Nottinghamshire County Council: Healthy, Active, Learning' written in bold black letters on the back. But were all eating Happy Meals. Hmm, a good old contradiction!

Then I saw some hippies hanging out their clothes on make-shift washing lines wrapped around trees outside the Tate Modern - I think it was meant in the name of some kind of ironic DIY art statement. They looked like spoilt middle-class art school pupils, so that was probably the case. 

Then some Chinese tourists started berating me because I walked in front of their camera shot. I was swift in telling them that they would find less people on the other side of the bridge if sharing the pavement was a problem. It wasn't meant as a threat, but they soon quietened down. 

Then I saw an ugly boy with a perm sat beside the prettiest redheaded girl. This I had a problem with. It was the last straw and I gave up observing my journey home and adopted blinkers like everyone else. The world had appeared to have gone mad, and probably not for the last time in this city, I fear.

Piggies still drinking from the trough

I’m sure you will all join me in extending a warm sigh of collective relief to see that The City’s piggy bankers can once again take time out from their hectic schedules to indulge in a mid-week guzzle from their gold-plated troughs. All beneath the menacing shadow of the so-called ‘iconic’ Gherkin building that acts as their status symbol towering over its impoverished neighbouring ghettos that span the rest of the east end.

They must be having a real tough time, knocking back those alpine lagers, fine scotches and glasses of bubbly, while the rest of us have to walk home in order to cut down on expenditures. So how exactly does a massive Thursday morning hangover help one to pull off a global economic recovery? That certainly is not a question for a mere mortal such as me. But, might need to be asked nonetheless.

What irritated me most about this spectacle of insensitive gloating, while I sweated out my eleventh mile of the day on foot, was the fact that those chubby little red-faced bastards were flanked by hot PR slags. Or assistants, or whatever you call them. These vultures clung onto the pinstriped wankers’ arms like scabs and, within my five-second gateway into their world, I could hear their false laughter (to probably very unfunny jokes) echo throughout the regal courtyard where they gorged.

I carried on none-the-less but the shadow of that ugly Gherkin seemed to be watching me all the way back to my humble Bethnal Green abode.

Introducing Charles

We found a mouse in our kitchen. This initially wasn't a problem to me, that was until I heard how mice have no bladder control. Meaning that when the little fella maraudes around the same room where we make our food, he does so while leaving a trail of his piss behind him. All of a sudden the cute little rodent guest we'd nicknamed Mr Jingles was a marked man.

In order to catch the mouse we got a kitten, however, upon the kitten's first trip to the kitchen it soon became clear this would be no shock and awe adventure. Visions of an over-excessive assault, like America's second trip to the Gulf, were far off the mark.

Charles, our hired feline assasin, found more joy in getting her head stuck in her feeding bowl than attempting to snare pissy-pants. I guess we must wait until she grows into a cat! 

Until then, I have a pretty smart looking set of scars across my arms and a hyperactive failed markswoman in my bed. I guess I could impress some young emo girls with the first, but I doubt my landlord is gonna be too keen on the latter.

Insubordinate container

Why are takeaway coffee cups so fucking useless? It doesn't matter what your preference of shop is, even the hallowed Cafe Nero can't get it right. Without fail, every single time I buy a coffee 'to go', I end up with half of it going all the way down my arm. This cuntish happening I can do without. 

I'm not so fussed about the brown stains on my jacket, its more the fact I have to pay an arm and a leg for the sacred stuff in the first place, so it hits me real hard when I see it adorning my arm like that. 

Anyway, as you might have guessed today on my way down Vauxhall Bridge Road, as I passed the loonies, the dangerous and the elderly, I once again ended up with an armful of Italian coffee. Even the group of frail pensioners, that sit at the bus stop each day pretending to be waiting for the bus to work, manage better than me. There is neither drop nor crumb on their well-presented selves. It is embarassing! I wonder if this just happens to me? Surely it would make sense to have a lid that didn't propel huge amounts of coffee out of the cup, while in transit. Shouldn't takeaway cups be built for taking-away? Apparently not.

Zero tolerance

Upon entering a watering hole on my lunch break, I was greeted by this sign. I was completely dumbfounded as to who it was addressing. Pimlico, as I've said on a number of occaisions, is a respectable neighborhood - laden with million-pound townhouses and all!

I'm quite familiar with the "no footy top" signs found in most city centre bars, and the trousers and shoes rule that came to prominence during the nineties when I was a debutant at the bar. But to be reminded not to enter a boozer after you've shit yourself just seemed plain stupid. Who are these people? Is that how they roll? I'm intrigued, vastly amused but probably more scared than anything else.

Anyway, that got me worrying about the state of my trousers as I still hadn't yet sent them to the drycleaners following January's plague incident on the tube. Uh-oh, I thought to myself. Fortunately I was undetected and enjoyed my lunchtime pint without any embarassing moments.

Who's that guy, where does he come from?

His convertible BMW cruised past me, top down. He nonchalantly held the wheel with one hand, gold Rolex reflecting the sun's light. Dressed head to toe in a white linen suit, his tortoiseshell Raybans perched halfway down his nose. He was the epitomy of cool.

Without a single midlife-crisis tie in sight, all the females present oogled him desirably. Watching this spectacle, I wanted to be him, while they wanted him to be in them.

He was as cock-sure as if he was reading the 7 o'clock news, yet this was The Snow driving home for the weekend from the Channel 4 offices - what a man!

RIP Chat-eu-Oeuf

One of the greatest things about living in Bethnal Green, for me, had to be the wine on sale at Costcutter's on Roman Road. 

It was some French stuff with a label that featured a little picture of a cat sat on top of an egg. Not only did the wine taste devine, but a donation was made from the vineyard to the RSPCA for every bottle sold. Despite not really being a strong advocate for animal rights, this still made me feel good about myself as I drank the stuff and got progressively pissed.

The best thing of all was that beside the wine on the shelf was a fluorescent green star with £3.99 marker-penned on it in scruffy slanted writing. The pound sign also looked more like a snail.

I managed to keep up a good habit of about a bottle a day of this stuff until last week, when I skipped into the store with my usual high-hopes and expectations. Upon arriving at the said wine's place on the shelf, I was struck by an overwhelming absence. Not only were there no bottles to greet me, which had happened from time to time after I had drank their supplies dry, but the DIY promo label had been removed. A little green stain was all that was left on the shelf from where the label had been hurriedly ripped off.

"Ere mate, you got any of that cat and egg stuff you normally have down here?" I beckoned to the shopkeeper.

"Oh no, I am afraid you will not be able to afford it now my friend," he answered me.

"The promotional offer has now finished and if you wanted to buy the wine it would cost you £6.99."

"£6.99? That's not out of the question, where is it then?"

"I am afraid I didn't order any more because of the price. Maybe you should try looking in another shop down the road?"

In a mere moment, Costcutter's had fallen from grace. Its place in my heart had been replaced with an absence - a painful longing. For that fine bottle of wine I used to enjoy for less than four quid had left my life. Rather abruptly. And worse of all some smug little shopkeeper had decided I was too poor to afford the stuff at its normal price. I wondered whether the RSPCA would miss my donations.

Down and out in London and London

I'm now seeing the flip-side to living in the capital. Residing somewhere with so much to do, yet being broke and a fortnight away from payday sucks! Come to think of it I have not received a pay-cheque yet this year.

I have no guitar to go out busking with, nor the guts to pickpocket piggy bankers on the tube. So i'm left to sit at home penniless and read. This was once my favourite past-time, still is, i think. Yet when you have no choice, even your favourite activities aren't so much fun. I want to be able to chose to read, not be left with no other alternative. 

Even the sun has started to shine, yet I cannot afford to leave the house. For to leave the house in London you need to be armed with at least a fiver - that's just the way it is. They'd charge us for the air we breath if they could think of a way to deprive us of it first.

It is an out-right lie to say the streets here are paved with gold. This feels more like California after the Gold Rush left town - i've found myself engaged in hard-rock mining.

Where are Morrisons' 7p noodles? Its only Waitrose down here I am afraid.

One hell of a crazy street

The above is no understatement. My office is based on a road boasting not only the City of Westminster's Mental Health residential care home, but a Salvation Army drop-in centre, Alcoholics Anonymous, a bustling nursing home, and a great number of all-girl schools. This should be a recipe for disastor ... only it isn't!

Armies of interestingly-unsettled people shuffle down the broken footpaths. They mutter the weirdest of things under their breath. Many stutter, while some twitch and others flinch. I can't help but love it. No place in the land feels quite as unsuitable as this.
And best of all, it is all to be found in London's swanky West End. I'm sure pressure bodies of well-to-do people are lobbying for this to change, but until they prevail, which they probably will, this place is madder than an ironic Dalston warehouse party - only miles more fun!

The little broad's watching

Today I noticed something rather unnerving. Or at least a little unsettling. Everywhere I turn along my rather-well-documented-if-I-do-say-so-myself walk home from work, I see the same pair of eyes staring at me. These eyes belong to Sue Lyon, better known as the under-age girl in Kubrick's big screen adaptation of Lolita. 

She is stalking my daily walk home. And the worse thing is I kinda like it. The little broad has almost led to countless bumps and scrapes as I nearly walk into lampposts and cyclists. 

It can't look good as I'm a tall, bearded man. And to a bystander the sight of me gawping open-mouthed at a billboard poster of a young girl, is probably an unsavourable thing to have to see.

View from my five-mile walk home

I have only spent a week behind the desk, and I'm already feeling a frustrating lack of movement in my life. Being confined to a seat is not for me, unless it is a wooden stool in a public house.

Therefore I decided to try walking home. The suggestion was laughed off as crazy talk by my colleagues, but this just enticed my further. A quick check on the net confirmed the distance: five and a half miles. This couldn't deter me either.

So at half past five off I went on my first five-mile walk home from work. Twice I crossed the Thames. The first time I nearly got run over by a speeding black cab, who had the nerve to pip at me as he burnt off in the direction of Victoria. I passed Westminster and Big Ben, who chimed at me as the clock struck quarter to six. On the South Bank I passed that big wheel thing, a couple of Dali statues, an aquarium and countless tourists. 

Going further I passed that round theatre, a couple of Tates, a number of Starbucks and a Pizza Express. Bikes whizzed past me while eastern European-looking men tried to sell me Spanish Choo Choo nuts.

The sun was setting. 

I eventually found myself in The City. This was a less-serene experience as all of a sudden the tourists were replaced with angry-looking bankers and little men in blue waterproof jackets waving free newspapers at me. I grin-and-beared it and charged on undeterred.

Back in the familiar surroundings of Bethnal Green I passed a man falling out of the Marquis of Cornwall pub. He was beat and I hadn't even begun. I liked his style. 

I finally returned home an hour and a half later to the familiar sight of the no spitting sign in the stairwell of my home. My feet were blistered and my shirt stunk of sweat. I can't wait to do this all again tomorrow, I thought to myself.

Day one

So I left the 1.92 million other unemployed Brits and began my job as an eco-reporter today. I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I'm sure come payday in about six weeks time it will appear the right thing to do.

My first rush-hour commute was hellish, yet I found it strangely exciting. Never before had my face been pressed up against a 70-year-old woman's chest quite like this, nor had ever I been sandwiched between two bankers.

Anyway, within two hours of being in the office I found myself making a trip to the pub with my new colleagues. Being a journalist hadn't ever quite lived up to its stereotype until now. I immediately liked it, my job, and my new colleagues. 

After a few pints of some Sussex beer, recommended to me by my editor, we made our way back to the office to make some calls. It was a good first day!

Right now, I am sneering down my nose on all 1.92 million of you. I get to drink in the mornings like you, and still get paid! This is a more lucrative version of signing on. Recession, what recession? 

London's burning

I awoke this morning to the smell of burning. I figured it wouldn't be anything so tried to go back to sleep. However, as the smell of smoke got more intense, I couldn't get back to sleep.

I checked my room and established it wasn't coming from there, so checked the kitchen. Nothing there either. So I figured it was nothing! 

But the fumes got stronger. 

Upon drawing open my curtains I was greeted with the sight of orange flames in the window opposite. Smoke billowed out of the building. Within minutes a fire engine skidded around the corner and pulled up outside. Please bear in mind the fire station is only across the road!

Making up for lost time, a fire crew jumped out of the engine and in a Jack Bauer-inspired fashion made their way to the building - with a few fly-kicks and forward rolls thrown in for effect. 

In no time another fire engine came screeching around the corner, I figured our local station must have a pretty bad reputation and a nearby crew thought they'd lend a hand. This was feasible considering it had took them about 20 minutes to attend.

Anyway to cut to the chase, the fire was put out in no time and the fire fighters came down in their soot-sodden uniforms to a little applause from an expectant crowd. It felt like 9/11 -  without the planes! 

I could see the look in the eyes of the youngsters gathered outside the previously burning down building, this was the day the London fire brigade recruited a number of potential future fire fighters. Gone were the ambitions of being the next dealer on the block, these lot had their own new heroes. 

Pebbles R.I.P

The sun was shining and London appeared a happier place than i'd ever seen it. It was half-term and kids played in the parks, while people shuffled to work wearing sunglasses. It was like I was on the continent, everybody looked more attractive. 

Enjoying my last week of unemployment before I join the great city's rat race, I decided to take myself on a tour of less-familiar parts of town. I took in Whitechapel, and decided to keep it short, as even the kind February sun didn't seem to want to shine upon that place. I made my way to the river and then decided to try and head towards town - a place that still overwhelmingly frightens me. 

Somewhere between London Bridge and Soho, my radiant day was shattered by a photograph left in a window. Inside a battered frame was a picture of a cat. Pebbles. Below him were the dates of his short feline life. Perhaps the dates of all nine of them merged into one. I kinda hoped it was just the first.

Pebbles had a good innings though, 14 years to be precise. He was pictured sat lording it up among sacks of cat litter. The image sat in a homage beside a collar, bowl and burning candle. 

I looked into the thrift store and saw an old shopkeeper. She looked like the kind of lady that once had a husband and a house full of cats. Only now, the spinster sat there motionless. She looked lonely. 

I wondered why she didn't get a new cat. Or husband for that matter - just to keep her company. But then I remembered it is often impossible to replace the special ones.

Portabella-ella ella!

Famously known for its reputation in the swinging sixties, and now for having the world's largest antiques market, Portobello Road found me upon it. It is flanked by street-upon-street full of Notting Hill townhouses. They were so lavish they made me blush. Gone were east London's ghetto estate warmongers, for I was now on the West side, in the Royal Borough of Kensington, where money was most clearly the name of the game. 

For the first time since childhood, when I would spend the summers in Spain with my Grandma, I found myself eating churros con chocolat for breakfast. No wonder all the local kids were smiling, if this is the type of diet they are allowed to enjoy. Perhaps Tower Hamlets council could use this kind of bribery to dissuade their youngsters from joining gangs. This scheme could also help tackle the recession as scores of new dentists would be needed to deal with the increase in demand. For anyone unaware, churros con chocolat is a Spanish doughnut that is traditionally served with a cup of rich hot chocolate for dipping at breakfast time.

My trusty guides then took me on a tour of the famous antiques market. Maps were selling for thousands of pounds and I fell in love with a battered old globe before turning the price tag over to reveal the number three followed by two zeros. My heart sunk, as I realised I belonged to the east side.

The local girls in the vintage shops had no arms, legs or heads. This struck me as ideal, you could get away with murder and not hear any grief. The local girls on the high street were wearing spandex leggings and Ugg boots, maybe this was why they eventually ended up limb-less in the vintage shops.

We sat down at a Moroccan fish stall on the street. An enthusiastic Arab was tossing whole fish and handfuls of prawns and calamari onto a hot grill. The smell was amazing and my mouth began to water. Before drool started to spill out, we ordered three plates of fish. 

In no time we were faced with huge clumps of bread and a fiery hot tomato dish as appetisers. I used the bread to soak up my watering mouth and before long the fish was served up. Despite being in the affluent area, the price of our meal cost no more than you would pay at a fish market restaurant in Morocco - I was impressed, maybe I did belong on the west side after all!

Covered in fish bones and the juices of prawns, man-handedly pulled from their shells, we moved on to take in some more of what the market had to offer. 

We passed a cupcake shop and I immediately thought of New York. The store smelt sweetly of sugar, yet it was not sickly or overpowering. There were hundreds of cakes, in all shapes, colours and sizes. We left with pink treats in our hands and big smiles to match. It was Valentine's day tomorrow and I had a heart-shaped cupcake in my hand. I found this funny for some reason.

"Idolise your friends"

These wise words were once uttered to me by a friend. I have now come to realise how prophetic the above statement is.

For it is true, the only people worth idolising in life are your friends, they should act as your inspirations, and if you don't like the ones you've got, get some new ones!

I'm more than happy with my band of merrymen, and women! And was reminded of this over the course of the past week. It was my birthday this week, and milking it, I have enjoyed a number of birthday treats and occasions. 

First of all, I was treated to dinner and stuff on my birthday eve. And given a little birthday Bukowksi book for my troubles. That was a great start. 

The following day, three bearded Yorkshiremen rolled into Kings Cross train station to lower the tone somewhat. I had been in their company no more than one hour before we were in the pub. A champagne lunch followed, with a few bottles of wine thrown in for good measure. Good wine, may I add! 

After this we proceeded to drag our rowdy selves to every worthwhile boozer in the east end. From Hackney to Bethnal Green, through Spitalfields to Shoreditch. And this was all before the sun went down. Tequilas were being gulped by 5pm and we barged our way through Liverpool St's commuting bankers on our way to see 'the man'.

Before long, we were back en route to my house with several tins of beer. And my room was trashed in no time. Even sooner it was full of a number of other bodies and we made our way to a famous east end boxing club to be treated to free drinks, a live fight and music. Not bad!

Unfortunatley, the party didn't last quite long enough so a gay bar followed. But this didn't stay open quite late enough either so a trip to a fruit shop entailed, and a bottle of whiskey bought.

Basically these are just details, and what i mean to say is thanks. For all those that featured, be it whoever gave me the five dollar bill, them that came down, and the rest. Being 27 no longer seems like a big deal - so far, so good!

Shoreditch scenesters part two

London isn't too dissimilar to Leeds. 

It's still the 'in thing' for middle-class boys to ride BMXs, or claim to be skaters, and wear new-era baseball caps like they're from the hood. And the prissy little girls still parade around in their faux-fur jackets and slag-lengthed skirts, while securing false friendships on facebook - don't forget to say "cheese for the camera". 

Cheese dick, more like!

Is this Hoxton or Hyde Park? There must be something else down here - because it's certainly not to be found in Shoreditch's Macbeth boozer on a weekend!

However, I do report some good news from the capital as the number of 'ironic' arseholes wearing fake specs seem to be on the decline. Maybe they realise that such 'accessories' steam up as you walk indoors when its real cold outside, and are easily broken when hit by a snowball. Or maybe they have just seen the error of their ways. Either way, long live the extreme weather as this will no doubt be troubling them! The chip on my shoulder may have just got a little lighter.

By no means do I mean to sound satirical, or typical for that matter, and I know these folk like nothing more than being noticed and talked about - yet I still insist on mocking their ironic cooler-than-thou attitude with air-borne speechmarks. And I know that this isn't new either. But it is the only way i've got to fight back! 

Why must you fight back? Or why don't you just fuck off back up north? I'm sure your thinking. Because i'm stubborn, bitter, or just boring? 

I'm not sure, maybe all of the above.

More than your average Seasick Steve!

There he was, catching up on months' worth of sleep. His head nestled against the window of the train, he was undisturbed as the carriage shook violently on the track. Despite his head repeatedly knocking against the window as the tube turned its corners, he was far from waking. In fact, I initially thought he was dead - the smell he was kicking out suggested this could be the case. Undeterred, I sat down beside him on the overflowing train's only empty seat.

Everyone else looked down their free papers at him. "How did a hobo get on the underground," I could hear them think. Yes, there are barriers to prevent his bearded sort boarding the tubes, but sometimes desperate times can break down even the mightiest of barriers. 

I immediately liked him, despite tears forming in the corner of my eyes due to his over-powering stench. He was the 21st-Century's answer to what was referred to as "a hobo doing the tracks", in those 20th-Century novels I like to read so much. 

I didn't like the college girls sniggering at him from the other side of the carriage, nor the contemptuous glares being flashed by others who should have known better.

Nonetheless, I left him there alone in his slumber. I wonder if he ever woke up? And if so, if he went back to sleep?

Breakfast at Kimberly's

This morning I awoke to a birthday tea party/breakfast bonanza! Upon my Freddie Mercury plate was a Prince William and Harry shot glass, and balanced on top of that was a dippy egg. This is a pretty good start to the day for me. 

It followed an evening of catch ups with old friends from back up north. Among the many stag's heads, stuffed foxes and other taxidermied wildlife, I was treated to a bowl of chipolatas in a potato and gravy soup. Do not underestimate this dish - it was something else! 

Things were going well until tragedy struck. The raspberry jelly complete with floating Haribo sweets, we were so looking forward to, hadn't set in time. So we embarked upon a trip to the shop to buy wine, which is where I was first introduced to a Malteaster bunny. These could possibly be the best development in the confectionary world since the Nestle Secret bar. Picture one great big Malteser but moulded into the shape of a rabbit. You get all the fun of biting its arms and legs off, as you did the gingerbread man when you were five-years old - only this is Malteser and therefore much tastier!

However, my little bunny bit off more than it could chew and faced a miserable demise at the claws of Diesel the weasel (see pic to left).

Despite the death of the tasty treat, this was London at its best. On my chauffeur-driven way home in the morning, I noticed a taxi driver reading a copy of the Evening Standard while cruising through town - you're not even aloud to use your phone at the wheel back up north!

My birthday week has officially started! 

A tale of two terribly tiresome trips

Today, I bit the bullet and went to buy a kettle for my flat. It was something that had been put off for some days, but waking with a terrible hangover and an innate need for coffee, I decided it must be done at once.

I had previously been boiling water in a wok, which had amused my guests to a degree until they had tired of waiting for it to finally boil. However, we had run out of gas so this was no longer an option. 

The walk to Whitechapel was an extremely inconvenient one due to the sloppy slush splashing my every step. My trainers managed to soak up every bit of defrosting snow I managed to step in along the way. The one highlight was a rather impressive snowman proudly left beside a tower block.

Sainsbury's had no budget kettles so I decided on trying Argos. This was a mistake. Upon walking into the store I was met by a mob of confused-looking shoppers. I would say retards but this wouldn't be fair to those with learning difficulties. This lot were something else!  

One woman was buying a £20 digi box on credit. I didn't know something so ridiculous was even possible. But there she was with her passport proving she was who she said and filling in a time-consuming form as a huge queue formed behind her. I say queue but it was really a scattering of people who were not bright enough to form one.

I spied a quick card-payment machine hidden away in the corner and was out in two minutes, while the others hadn't moved an inch.

On my way home I stopped into my local Tesco's store to buy a bag of ground coffee. This turned into an outrageous spectacle of equal idiocy. I patiently waited in line for the self-service tills for almost 20 minutes, while what can only be described as doppelgangers of the previous Argos's clientele struggled with the self-serve machines. These people scratched their heads as a number of instructions were uttered by the patient machines. I felt for the computers as they repeated the same thing over and over again. 

One woman even erupted into a hysteric fit screaming at the machine. The computer remained calm and didn't budge an inch. A group of 16-year-old girls started kicking off with a poor sales attendant accusing the machine of stealing a pound from them. 

Shaking my head I remained calm while quietly smirking in line. Eventually it was my turn and I was off. 

I enjoyed a cup of strong coffee about two and a half hours after i'd first needed one. By then my hangover was long gone, but it was nice nonetheless. 

Had we done Churchill proud?

We fought them on London Fields, we fought them on Victoria Park, we fought them on Broadway Market, and we fought them behind Bethnal Green Library. 

It was like a scene from La Haine, us versus east London's council estates. Taking on the offspring of a hooker's career was tough, those little bastards fought hard and dirty. I learnt this early on, and on my own, as I walked to meet my comrades in Hackney. 

I'd thought ahead when choosing my battle attire and donned a pair of Nikes, naively thinking this would deter the homeboys from shouting "indie kid" or "geek" and nailing me from point-blank range with a clump of ice. As you might have guessed my fatigues didn't help me blend in with the tracksuit-clad youth and I was set upon as soon as I strolled down Mare Street. 

First of all a grandfather and his six-year-old granddaughter went for me leaving me no other option than to take the weakest out - leaving her crying on the floor. A group of neutrals shot me mucky looks from a nearby bus stop. 

I ran off into the path of a group of local gang members who proceeded to attack me from every angle. After about five minutes they got bored and left me stood there shellshocked and looking like a snowman. I nervously made my way to the park expecting another onslaught at any minute. Fortunately it didn't come and my friends were waiting for me in a nearby pub. I was drinking pints of Old Speckled Hen in no time, while slowly thawing out.

Every time we went outside for a smoke it was back on, skirmishes were flaring up all the way along Broadway market. Stones disguised as snowballs rained down upon us as the council estates woke up smelling the chance to hurt those that feed them. 

We retaliated, and hit them back hard. A Greek man standing beside me charged at the scallies wielding an umbrella. Every time he got near one he'd lash out with the sharp metal point at the end of the brolley, but ducking and diving they still managed to hit him in the face with clumps of ice. I decided to go back into the pub before the knives were unleashed.

This continued for hours and deteriorated as more beers were drunk.

Bethnal White - the snowball effect

Another job interview, more drama. This time I wasn't hampered by busy tubes but a distinct lack of them. Or more to the point, a lack of any transport running at all. It snowed last night and the city has come to a standstill. There are no buses on the roads, nor trains on the tracks. How the snow made it to the tube line beats me. The radio is even declaring pandemonium at the city's airports too. Is this how a capital city should behave?

So instead of taking a trip to Chelsea to sell myself to an eco-editor, I will head to London Fields for a snowball fight - life isn't all that bad after all!

Looking out of my window I see it is still snowing, people are walking like penguins through more than a foot of the stuff - at least we wont run out of ammo! 

A vacation posted ...

My suspicious mind drew my attention to this probably honest notice posted in a cafe window this morning. The window belonged to a not-so traditional Italian cafe serving up traditionally-greasy English food in east London. It is a stones throw from where I live and is the closest thing I can get to heart attack food round these parts. 

I don't often go out of my way to eat heart attack food, but following an evening drinking with a few fellow Yorkshiremen, it was a necessity. 

The previous evening had entailed a local boozer called the Florist, several southern beers - which were obviously criticised for not being as good as those served in Leeds' Angel tavern - and some very Northern shouting. It was capped off by meeting an old naval officer who proceeded to regale me with his life story. He had caught me off guard while smoking outside in the rain. I listened intently as he had an impressive white beard and an honest smile. However, this intrigue soon wore off after I established he wouldn't let me go until I had heard it all. I did hear it all, and got very wet!

Courtesy don't cost a thing

One thing I learnt today was the overwhelming difference between bus drivers in the capital compared to those back home. There is a real north/south divide, which translates to those down here being as rude as fuck and actually making the grumpy bastards in God's own county seem like angels. 

After waiting about an hour this morning to catch the 149 from Stoke Newington, I was greeted by the buzzing red light as my Oyster hit the machine. Offering to pay, my proposal was knocked back so I quickly jumped off to buy a ticket from the machine. 

As I did so, the miserable cunt closed his doors on me, while the others boarded, and sped off down the high street leaving me high and dry. This wouldn't really be that bad, but I barely knew where I was so it left me in quite a predicament. 

Using my good-old Yorkshire nouse, I sniffed out an alternate route and made my way back to familiarity. However, for all he cared I could have been left out to dry - for them Dalston vultures to pick my bones clean.

So here's to the tubes! Or at least not the 149.

Picture postcard

After nearly a month down here, which has seen me occupy various sofas and beds, I decided it was time to send a picture postcard back home.

The choice of postcard was a toss up between a paparazzi-shot of Princess Di and one left in a Kings Cross phone box by Party Girl (pictured left). There is really no question which one it should be!

So here it goes ...

Dear my dearly-beloved North,

Since I left you, to chase my ambitions, dreams and love, I have yet to financially secure my experiment down here. 

I have, however, managed to secure a number of job interviews, a kitsch little flat in Bethnal Green, and some other more important things I care not mention here. 

One of my biggest achievements has to be commanding my own navigational sense in order to save vital pennies on the old Oyster card (to those unaware this is a little plastic thing that constantly eats your money in exchange to let you travel).

Another highlight would be shrugging off the dreaded London plague, which I liken to the dysentery Morocco left me with years before.  

Then there would be surviving a dinner party in a Clerkenwell warehouse, which saw more bottles of absinthe, cava, beer and wine, than guests.

I now intend on growing a nice selection of herbs in the flower bed up on my fourth-floor balcony. These will act as decorative accessories to the soon to be overflowing ash-tray plant pot, as well as useful additions to a plethora of credit crunch-busting dinners. 

Then I intend on sniffing out and visiting the vast array of poetry nights this fine city has to offer, before finally becoming a realist again and applying for some more jobs. 

Nick

x

Youths on pedal cycles

We are living in a time when knife crime and shootings are on the rise, yet one nervous London borough seems more concerned about the crimes committed by "youths often on pedal cycles". 

Bicycle bandits are only interested in pinching phones off the idiots that flash them while walking down the street. Yet these hoodlums are the focus of Police public service warnings.

I certainly advocate this type of crime as it could also deter such individuals from flashing their phones on the bus, thus protecting me from having to listen to the morons' calls while sitting behind them.

People, be vigilant, these youths could strike a footpath near you soon!

Buried among Barack

I decided I must bury this tale of stupidity on the same day as an event of global significance (wouldn't spin doctor Jo Moore be proud?!). So what better day than Obama's inauguration to tell the story of my failed attempt to mount a protest at the Israeli embassy. 

Since my childhood, I had always been drawn in by, and idolised, freedom fighters. Be it the Tamil Tigers, PLO or Tutsi rebels - I always rooted for the underdog. Maybe it had something to do with the romantic ideal of going against the odds, or perhaps, I just felt sorry for them. But they always seemed to have class and something worth fighting for. 

Hence the reason I rooted for Hamas this time round, as I did for Hezbollah in 2006. I don't care for bullies, nor those that commit mass atrocities. Never have done!

Anyway, this was irrelevant as to my inspiration why I had to vent my feelings upon the Israeli embassy in Kensington. It seemed like a good thing to do - sticking up for human rights - and I had heard a mass demonstration was due that very day.

I armed myself with a London A-Z, called up my soon-to-be flatmate who was easily talked into it and off we embarked upon our adventure. We decided to pay a trip to see the Queen en route in order to get her approval that we were about to do the right thing. Buckingham Palace was pretty dead that day - symbolic I thought. We noticed a signpost which pointed the direction to Kensington.

After walking for what must have been miles, Knightsbridge turned into Kensington Road, before finally turning into Kensington High Street. I instantly understood why the embassy was placed in the middle of this affluent area.  

Arriving at the embassy we were met by an army of riot police, vans and officers on horseback. Barriers had been set up along the pavement but there was no sight of any protesters. Deciding against throwing our shoes at the extravagant building, we instead visited a chain coffee shop and shrugged our way back home with blistered feet. We had let down the 1,300 Palestinian and 13 Israeli dead with our rather lacklustre performance. 

I was further reminded of this an hour later when I turned on the evening news to see Jon Snow commentating on a pitched battle between rioters and police. The closing pictures of his report showed those barriers we had leant against earlier being thrown through the window of a Starbucks store.

The day I got the plague

I awoke this morning after a difficult night's sleep. I had planned on getting an early night before my interview, but instead, spent the first three or four hours tossing and turning on the couch, while listening to the wind howling outside. When I finally dozed off I was rudely awoken by the rain ricocheting off the window beside my head. This clearly wasn't going to be my day.

Nonetheless, I got up bright and early when my alarm sang to me at 7 am. With a smile I picked up a shirt and found the iron. I had to be at the magazine's offices at 10 am, so decided to give myself a ridiculous two hours to make the 40-minute journey. Being this prepared surely nothing could go wrong, I thought to myself. 

However, upon making my way to Old Street station, alarm bells started ringing. There was an unusually-sized crowd waiting for a train - even for rush hour. A robot voice declared "severe delays" due to a previous signal failure in Camden Town. I remained optimistic due to my overly-cautious timeframe. That was until eight trains passed me. By the time the next one arrived I made sure I boarded with the nifty use of a few elbows and a stubborn jump into the already crammed carriage. It worked, but was a tight squeeze. 

After ten minutes on the cattle train, I started to feel a little sick. Maybe it was my nerves, but I'm never worried about things like interviews. I ignored these feelings and sprinted to the overground station. Upon arrival I noticed I had just caught the train by one minute. I dashed up the stairs and onto the platform. Which was where I was met with a sign that declared passengers couldn't use Oyster cards on the train and tickets had to be bought before boarding. 

An immediate panic set in and I darted back down the stairs to the ticket office. I bought a ticket and made my way back to the stairs, which is where I was met by a sea of people flooding down the narrow staircase. It was a pack of commuters making their way into the city from the south. I pushed my way through them and reached the top of the stairs only to see the train had left without me.

Not a great start to my first job interview. I waited in the cold station for the next train, which was delayed by 15 minutes. To my dismay this was not one of the faster ones and visited another 20 stops before pulling into my destination. I was 30 minutes late for my interview and nobody would answer my calls.

I ran into the offices to be greeted by an equally red-faced lady. My interviewer happened to live in Camden town and had suffered the same troubles as me making her way in this morning. A stroke of luck I thought, which filled me full of hope for the interview - maybe the gods were looking down favourably on me.

The interview seemed to go well and I began to make my way back to my temporary abode. While waiting for a train I felt a bubbling sensation in the pit of my stomach. I instantly felt sick. I started to panic for there are no toilets on the tube. I tried closing my eyes but that made me feel dizzier. Instead I slumped on a bench and stared at the ground. The train arrived and I got onboard. The second the doors closed I knew I was doomed. 

The tube zoomed off and my face went eerily cold. This sensation spread to my hands and then my feet. Convinced I was going to die, I lost all pride and pulled a Sainsbury's bag out of my satchel.

I then proceeded to fill the bag with the contents of my stomach. A small audience had formed, and staring at the window in order to avoid catching one of their eyes, I was greeted by a paler version of myself. I was clutching a bright orange shopping bag full of sick. Maybe the gods weren't so keen after all.

Today was Blue Monday. Supposedly the most depressing calender day of the year, and allegedly the one with the most suicides - and I had caught the plague!

Progress on the kitty

I have recently learned that my kitten, who goes by the name Betty Bukowski, has picked up a knack for gnawing her way through milk cartons before laying beneath the dripping containers and enjoying their contents. Like her namesake who also liked a drop, she is not content with just dairy produce and has moved onto harder stuff - a bottle of olive oil was her last victim as it came crashing to the ground at her grandparent's house.

Gone are the days when she used to sit on my knee and watch me eat my breakfast! And so has any kudos this blog might have earned as it now details what my cat is getting up to.

A considerate coffee shop

Today I fell deeply in love with what can only be described as the best place in the whole wide world. 

Monmouth coffee shop is the most considerate such establishment I have ever come across, even the benches outside warn you of the dangers overhead. Never will a punter, enjoying the capital's tastiest coffee, be shat on by pigeons up above. 

Without fail upon every visit to Monmouth's, I am greeted by the sight of dozens of people queuing outside the shop. The crowd spills well out onto the street and into the path of oncoming delivery drivers. These people will wait up to 15-minutes for their shot of caffeine and they do so because it is worth it. And in a rare sign of humanity for this city, conversations even break out between strangers joined together by one single belief - the shop in front of them. 

This place would rule, even if it was placed on Oxford Circus, but the fact it is tucked away next to Borough Market further strengthens its position in my heart. And is the reason I will only take you here if I really like you. 

I was first shown this oasis by a good Scotsman many years ago - and a flat white still costs £2! Which suggests to me that this place is credit crunch-proof and will stand tall and laugh in the face of the recession, while Brown and Darling shit themselves down the road in Westminster. 

I must confess that on every visit to this coffee shop, I always vow to sit in next time to enjoy their extensive selection of cakes. However, it is more likely that I will finally summon up the gaul to pinch one of the un-guarded truffles that sit at the end of the counter. I am aware pinching a truffle hardly sounds like a big deal - and you're probably thinking grow a pair - but to be barred from this place would be worse than the death penalty.

* Please note that this isn't an advertisement, this place really is that good! 

A smoker crossing the line

Due to my belligerence for the bread-line and the fact I would be picked on - for "being a Northerner" - by locals in the queue at the soup kitchen, I have taken it upon myself to become a mercenary for the National Health Service. 

Under the not-so-prosperous title of Tele-Marketer, I arm myself on a daily basis with a phone and headset. Then off I go on a viral rampage against the good honest smokers of the London borough of Barnet.

Brainwashing these honest folk with one-liners - such as: "Do you know it takes the average smoker 12 attempts to finally quit," or "With NHS support you are more than four times more likely to succeed." - my head hangs low upon the weight of the headset and lies' strain.

I hold my hands up, I am a total fraud. I have to sneak out between calls, to remain undetected by my colleagues, in order to have a smoke. While I have these indiscriminate fag breaks, I am graced by the efforts of local MCs in the recording studio across the yard. I say efforts, though I can barely make out their rhymes over the bass, however, they tell me they have some of South London's finest in there.

After a few calls I begin to wonder what on earth I am getting myself into. Ringing to speak to a 19-year-old, who evidently still lived with his parents,  I broke the news to his cigarette-fearing father that his beloved son was a smoker. If your parents do not know you smoke, you would imagine putting their home phone number on your Stop Smoking form would be a total No No. Well not for this young man. 

Before long I realised that the good people of Barnet weren't the sharpest tools in the box. I had a ten-minute conversation with a roofer called Dan before he asked if i could call back at a better time - as he was 120-feet up in the sky. Then there was Lynda who quit smoking 18-months ago and is now addicted to the lozengers she was given to help get her off the fags. A number of these lot listed their occupation as "disabled". I was unaware it was an occupation but after spending an afternoon speaking to them I wanted to know where to apply. They spend most of their time sitting around talking on the phone to idiots working for the NHS, and some can even afford habits of 40-a-day. One lady, who i presumed was speaking to me in a wind tunnel, fell off her bike during our chat and another answered the call while she was attending a fucking funeral. I spoke to translators, stutterers, gangsters and lisps, and when it was time to go home I just wanted to join the tramps outside Sainsbury's with their cans of Red Stripe. Red Stripe!!?? How did they get that? They had the right idea, bet they smoked 40-a-day too.

Borough Market - the oranges bleed its so good!

What could possibly be stranger and more exciting than a New York fruit stand? A plethora of them under one roof.

Welcome to Borough Market. The place has everything: free cheese; free sausage; free chocolate brownies; blood oranges and other alien-looking fruits; pints of mulled wine and home-made cider; an un-manned barrel that sells bunches of lavender from Provence; and the best coffee shop in the whole of the world.

It is even flanked by two stations, meaning you can attack the paradise from both its north and south entrances. It is the sort of place where you might find Gordon Ramsay whispering into the ear of his fancy piece, while Jamie Oliver walks hand-in-hand with his wife.  Even the armies of organic families can be excused thanks to the enthusiasm of Antonio who sells his family's olive oil, freshly shipped over from Crete. And, to top it all off the place was established by the Romans following their triumphantly bloody march into the city. 

The only drawback is that a piece of cheese on toast costs £5.50 - not the sort of money exchanging hands at Kirkgate Market, Leeds.

Shoreditch scenesters

For a short-sighted guy who doesn't like faux-spectacle wearing folk, I'm probably in the worst place in the world right now. Dwelling in the stomping ground of the Shoreditch scenester, I find myself on a constant collision course with these douche bags. 

The species appears as an incredibly complex creature on the outside. However, upon a closer inspection, it is a rather straightforward being and a predictable one at that. Striving to be noticed with a copy of its Vice mag-bible under its arm, it is a keen follower of the latest 'cutting edge' trends and can always be seen hanging out in the hippest of joints. It is likely to burrow in an edgy east London postcode, possibly between E2-4, and will listen to a type of music that scraps the need for lyrics, replacing them with high pitched beeps.  

These beasts are often found roaming in packs due to their need for social acceptance. Classing acquaintances as best friends, they confirm such life-affirming friendships with a photograph. I wonder if they have heard the proverb passed around indigenous cultures about a photograph taking away a piece of the soul - the irony!

Job hunt in the face of recession

The biggest task I currently face is to find work. The year is 2009 and this is certainly not the city that Orwell found when he stepped off the boat from Paris. There are no half-way houses offering rooms at 20 pence a night, nor are there any friendly prostitutes willing to take in a struggling writer. Believe me, I've looked. 

I'm not quite down and out, but I'm slowly slipping to the bottom of the pile. Every now and again someone speaks of a job, then goes off-radar while my hopes are raised. I dream of continuing my career in journalism but would happily take anything on offer. My ambitions are slowly dwindling, though I'm not complaining. Maybe a change will be good for me. It might even inspire me. 

However, being a Yorkshireman in London town, the odds seem stacked against me. Most of the locals cannot understand a word I say to them and the others aren't interested. So I remain unemployed in the face of a recession.