View from a Yorkshireman in London town: The North American expedition

A travelling poet

2010-05-03T04:13:00.011+01:00

So, I write this last entry while being thrown around thousands of feet up in the air. I'm on my final plane ride. The one which will take me back home to London.

I'm not going to lie to you, never have. I'm bordering on emotional. This could be related to the volume of complimentay alcohol I've knocked back, and the speed at which the charming cabin crew have been bringing it.

I'm drunk, and am reminiscing about my adventures. It's hard to think that just one month ago all this lay wide open in front of me. I had no idea how on earth it would turn out. Nor did I ever envisage how warm a welome I would get along the way.

Though it's not behind me, it has drawn to a close. That is something I care to build on - it'll fuel a thousand more poems.

Finishing my tenth glass, I think about all the places I've been, faces I've seen. I have crossed the mightiest bridges, and some of their more rickety, perilous counterparts. I drove through crumbling mountains - dodging rock slides. I have taken trains across borders, underneath cities, and through swamps. And I've never really known to where I was heading.

I've witnessed a whole spectrum of humanity. People who were broken, those that were breaking, and others on the mend. All the time receiving nothing but hospitality and open arms, even from those whose veins held train-track marks and other fresh scars. It would be a lie to say I hadn't felt a great sense of danger on a number of occasions. But each was overcome and added to the ride.

Overall, I've learnt to enjoy my own company becoming a much less impatient man. There is no other way when taking trains through North America. Otherwise you'd go mad. Talking of madness, I've bore witness to the most depraved characters there ever was - and they shared this with me. I've seen hobos of all sorts, colours and creeds. Locals, travellers and young pretenders. I've taken many a story from them all. These I intend to pass on someday.

But first, there is the small matter of getting back home in one piece. A sudden bout of turbulence has caused the plane's overhead storage to burst open sending bottles crashing down the aisles. It's raining drinks again. I guess I should order that eleventh gin!

California dreamin'

2010-04-29T17:31:00.006+01:00

California's typically hot; women are scantily clad and temperatures rising. San Francisco is slightly cooler but that doesn't put the brakes on. The hobos still boast a suntan that'd show up most of Spitalfield's hairdressers - and it is hot pants a-go-go.

There is also the small matter of the rich literary past, and present, that this city boasts. Despite the cool breeze brought over from the bay, the place certainly witnessed some of the hottest history if wordsmiths float your boat. First, there is the City Lights bookstore and publishers. This was a theatre of dreams to me. Wall to wall of the greatest writers that ever lived - and its all for sale.

Next door is Vesuvio. So you can drink a stiff one and pretend it is 50 years ago and all those great minds are at the table beside you. Unfortunately in my case, they had Premiership football on the TV. I'm not sure Jack and Allen had such distractions when their wandering eyes scanned the place but it was a nice reminder of home nonetheless. I was in danger of becoming nostalgic until I noticed the barmaid.

And if scanning the shelves at City Lights and Vesuvio isn't enough of a beat fix for you, then down the road amongst the neon-lit strip clubs is a museum celebrating the area's past.

San Francisco was kind to me. I was lucky enough to be shown round by a couple of local girls who introduced me to their neighbourhood, which went by the name of the Mission. This embodies everything Notting Hill did in the swinging sixties and East London did at the turn of the century - before they both went so tragically wrong!

Bars disguise themselves as members' clubs so you can smoke. Dave Eggers has a 'pirate shop' where you can barter down the price of his books. The place is still a ghetto and you have to look over your shoulder to ensure safety. But its worth it. There are endless treats awaiting you on every corner. Diners still look like diners but they are packed with bright young minds. Its worth letting your coffee go cold just to observe.

Frisco

2010-04-28T01:26:00.005+01:00

San Francisco was the last leg of the tour. There were no more poetry readings, this was a holiday. I'd be lying if I even tried to insinuate the rest of the journey was anything else, but standing in front of a blood-thirsty mob of literary types can sometimes feel like hard work.

Fortunately, I'm not sure who for, I didn't have to do a Ginsberg and strip down to 'stand naked in front of the world' in order to shut up a heckling audience. Maybe they actually liked me? In reality they were probably just drunk or didn't understand my accent.

Arriving smack bang in the middle of the city centre I expected banks, hotels and big stores. What I saw scared the living shit out of me. I walked through an area I would later find out is called the Tenderloin. Everybody was on crack - I am not exaggerating here! A half naked man stood talking to a wall, while a woman across the road pissed at a bus stop - it wasn't even a sheltered one!

Everybody looked gnarly as fuck, or like they were from another planet. They were certainly on another planet. There wasn't a full set of teeth in sight. But no one bothered me. It was as though I was invisible. Unfortunately this also included the taxis, which just sped on by.

Eventually a bus stopped and I jumped on. It was heading towards Haight. I was supposed to be staying there so I figured it was worth a try. As I reached an empty seat I saw the pissing woman from earlier. She was on the bus! I guess she must have just been caught short and wasn't even one of the crazy ones. San Francisco was very strange, but I liked it.

Haight appeared to be much the same as the Tenderloin. With the exception the hobos were on booze instead of the harder stuff. They were still good fun to watch though. A plethora of instruments were scattered among the street. All being played well.

The guys here would hassle you though, but not in an intimidating way. Every single hand would go up as you passed by, each one asking for a dollar or a smoke. I made the mistake of passing a beer to one. He was appreciative but must have told the whole block that I was a soft target. I soon learnt my lesson and began to just walk on by.

Santa Cruz and Cannery Row

2010-04-26T17:33:00.003+01:00

After the incredible scenes witnessed along the Big Sur I was exhausted. We opted against sleeping up there in the big old wilderness with the invisible bears and the stars, and instead decided to lay our heads in Santa Cruz. We pulled up in a trusty Super 8 motel and got some much needed rest.

That night I dreamt about what I had seen. My mind replaying back to me all the awesome and spectacular sights, which are etched on my retinas and my brain. Hopefully never to be forgotten. These sights were no less-impressive the second time 'round.

Santa Cruz was a nice place, just nice. The local art-house cinema still payed homage to the Lost Boys, which was filmed in the town. They screened it daily! Though we were not fighting a gang of teenage vampires, we did have a battle of our own. It transpired you cannot smoke on the streets there. And being heavy smokers we found ourselves being rashly informed of our wrongdoing by the local police force. Fortunately they showed none of the heavy-handedness their peers are so famous for down the road in LA. And we came out of the scrape with no visible wounds. We couldn't, however, have another smoke in town so decided to abruptly move on to Monterey, the scene of Steinbeck's masterpiece, Cannery Row.

My arrival in town was crushing. There was no sign of Doc, Mack and the gang. Not even of the cannery despite the seafront avenue being re-named after that great novel. The whole place had been moved on and replaced by five-star hotels and golf courses. Such is life, I guess.

Big Sur and the grapes of wrath

2010-04-25T22:51:00.007+01:00

I had read about the Big Sur. In fact, many of my favourite authors had taken refuge there in winter months. It sounded like a secluded spot away in the wilderness. From what I had learnt it was an inhospitable place with the most unforgiving terrain. Why on earth writers would chose such an area for refuge beat me. They didn't seem to be able to hack it as they all had the most disastrous breakdowns while out there. Maybe that was the point? I obviously had to go and check it out for myself.

On the way up to the Big Sur we would almost pass Solvang. This is a town created by Danish settlers who had a fondness for wine. It is littered with vineyards and wineries and was where the movie Sideways was shot. A little detour was agreed and we made our way inland to find it. The road was straightforward - America is built for motorists - and we soon drove through a picturesque town where the Danish flag flew aloft dozens of orderly, Scandinavian-looking wooden houses. We carried on until we reached a small village called Los Olivos. A local had tipped us off that this was where Californians chose to visit - in order to avoid the tourist trail created in the aftermath of the area's new found celebrity status. If it was good enough for them, then it was good enough for me.

And there we found a quaint, little vineyard. We were warmly welcomed and proceeded to pour a great variety of grapes down our throats. It wasn't long before we were stumbling back to the car. With the exception of Dan, our designated driver, who daren't touch a drop due to the fear of an American sheriff's sobriety test. Being a skater, the guy struggles to walk the line at the best of times.

We took the winding highway along California's central coast. It took a few hours to reach the beginning of the Morro Bay state park, from where we knew the landscape would take an even more-spectacular turn. We were not wrong.

We passed many signs for Hearst Castle yet never saw it and before long were cruising through a graveyard of extinct volcanoes. The ocean was on our left and devastating drops to our right. There were no other cars in sight and sand storms swarmed around our vehicle in a bizarrely peaceful and non-menacing manner. Then we were surrounded by thick forests. The road wound, ducked and dived through this lush vegetation. Still no other cars shared the route.

An hour or so later we hit the Santa Lucia mountain range. Words cannot describe how spectacular this was so I won't bother trying. It was big. Real big. Yet there was no sense of danger, that is, until rocks starting falling along the road side as we passed. Eventually one landed right in front of us, testing Dan's reactions, and the car's brakes. It was a lucky escape as the highway was narrow and there would have been no way to avoid the huge boulder beside taking off into the sea to a watery grave. Fortunately Dan then managed to manoeuvre his way around it and on we went. Slightly shaken but non-deterred.

Ironically as we continued we passed a dozen signs warning of rock slides but saw no more such activity. This was fortunate as we only just escaped the first bout. The sun was now setting and it was near impossible to make out the difference between the fiery red sky and the sea. The trees were now silhouettes and the path ascended up towards burning heavens. We were now above cloud level and still rising.

We passed many a closed road and soon empty cranes balanced precariously, tilting towards the sea - a thousand feet below. Nature seemed to have the upper hand as man appeared to have given up his pursuit of building a more substantial route through this wilderness. Despite this and the signs warning of a rough road, there was only a smooth ride ahead. Lonely rocks bobbed up and down in the sea between the mighty waves, while the big creek bridges looked tired beneath our tyres.

I wrote this with a trembling hand. Not through fear but from sheer excitement of what was around the next sharp bend.

We started to pass other cars. But they had all pulled over and given up. Peregrine falcons circled overhead, yet us humans were the endangered ones here. Trees wallowed on cliff edges alone as the sea's midst gracefully lingered on the top of forests ahead.

The terrain levelled out and the dust from the sand made for an even more heartbreaking sunset. If it wasn't before, the distinction between sea and sky was now impossible. A biker disrupted the peace by burning past us towards his certain leather death.

The Big Sur was mighty. More so than I had anticipated, despite what I'd read. There is nothing more liberating than being at the peril of something bigger than the Gods. It appeared to burn right before our very eyes. There were no signs of bears, only desolate log cabins and the odd axe. We pulled over and I stood on top of a great mound of sand for a better view. The Henry Miller library was closed though I peaked through its shutters. Inside there were no books, just empty bottles. Our next stop was Cannery Row.

Inglewood always up to no good/Santa Barbara hell

2010-04-25T16:08:00.018+01:00

So it was time to leave LA. But firstly we had to pick up a hire car in order to do so. By now my traveling team of one was bolstered by another two. One of which could drive. This made things easier. That was until we noticed the address of the car rental firm: Inglewood Terrace!!! For anyone unfamiliar with West Coast gangster rap, this is a place that brings together raging African-American and Hispanic gangs to pitch battle over drugs, bad attitudes and turf shootings. The colour of your handkerchief can even get you killed in South Central.

Anyway, a few wrong turns found us in the middle of this ghetto. People marauded the streets and hung menacingly on corners. Every time the car stopped at traffic lights my heart sunk a little further. Hooded figures bobbed in between the gridlocked cars. Trying doors, tapping on windows. Basically making it fairly obvious you were about to be jacked. Fortunately we had a relatively un-pimped Japanese motor so drew a cool reception from the would-be car jackers. Before long I spotted a sign for the Pacific Coast Highway and we were screeching towards safety. The smell of burning tyres the only thing left behind for our gangbanger friends back in Inglewood.

The drive was impressive. The highway shot past a number of LA's fine beaches - Santa Monica, Venice and Malibu. Cock rock blazed out of the car radio and I took long sips from a small bottle of Jim Beam. It was soon empty. The rental company's no smoking policy was abruptly scrapped and we headed north towards San Francisco, fags in mouth, as the sun began to set.

After a few hours drive it was apparent we would get nowhere near the Big Sur, let alone Frisco, that night. So we decided to stop off at Santa Barbara along the way. The place had a good enough reputation to drop by, and after calling around I managed to find us a room for the night.

This is where things started to go slightly wrong, after such an ideal drive. We stopped off in Ventura to pick up some inedible Mexican food. My burrito was dripping in plastic cheese and had stuck to the paper plate when reheated in the microwave. That was not a problem we were only a few miles away from Santa Barbara, which would offer us a respectable respite and somewhere wholesome to buy proper food. Or so I thought!

Upon arrival we discovered it was Spring break. Rioting teenagers ran pitched battles with each other along the seafront. While uptown things were no better. Our hotel was hell. Drunken kids charged down the corridors screaming. While others fucked as noisily as they could in the room next door - and above.

When I left the room to find someone to scream at, I was put off by a guy sat in a dark Internet booth wearing Oakley sunglasses and talking to himself. It seemed to exemplify everything that's wrong with American culture. Right there before my very own eyes. He slurped from a milkshake while his LSD-battered brain tried to make use of a computer.

I was no longer angry but more surprised, shaking my head in disbelief. This is a part of the Orange County where everyone's father is a judge, lawyer or banker. But you couldn't have guessed that from what I'd seen. I guess the invasion of university freshmen did its bit to spice things up a little on the annoying factor. But still, Santa Barbara was not what we had been led to believe. But then this is what happens when you don't let kids drink until they're 21! I finally did fall asleep only to be woken by a train passing by at 6am. It was time to get out of there.

Hollywood sucks, Bukowski doesn't

2010-04-25T05:32:00.010+01:00

LA was far from my favourite place. It gave off the most repelling stench that reeked of phoniness. People there really thought they were something. Even the shopkeepers!

Not far from where I was staying, in a former Mexican ghetto called Echo Park, in east Hollywood, I found a bookshop which also held young writers' workshops. It looked perfect and sounded very interesting.

But this was slept on by the people working there who seemed more occupied with their appearance. They had really taken there time on their look that morning. I was immeadiately sceptical. This type of person is too busy brushing their hair, to fuck. It's really a desperate existence and one that breeds little of anything and lots of nothing.

Nonetheless, I gave the benefit of the doubt and approached them to talk about the latest issue of McSweeneys. The store was hosting the launch party the day after I was to leave town (it was typical these trendies would have the pleasure and not I). And to my horror, but in line with my suspicions, they didn't even know who Dave Eggers was (if you don't either, google him, and let's pretend that never happened)!

That was infuriating. I couldn't stop my top lip from raising slightly and letting out a sneery snigger. But then walking away from that place after they'd refused to stock my book, apparently they only stock authors they have published, I felt deflated that people of their sort hold the enviable positions of power and have ample opportunities most can only dream of.

How could they be so retarded? My answer: it's in the city's ethos of 'style over substance'. And so I came to the conclusion that Hollywood sucks.

The following day I woke up with a stinking hangover. I had over done it the previous night due to the bookstore experience.

I caught a taxi to downtown LA to embark on a shameless act of tourism. I was going on a tour. A guided tour. But, before you write me off as a complete loser, it was a tour of Charles Bukowski's LA. Surely that's worth a little redemption?!

This was something I couldn't resist. He was one of my boyhood heroes. Still is. He taught me it was alright to be yourself despite the offence that might cause, and more importantly, raised the importance of holding others in contempt. Where necessary of course! And so I figured it would only be right for me to go and see where, those depressing but beautiful tales he so eloquently wrote about, occurred.

We met at Phillipe's sandwich joint. This is where he would go before, during, and after his shifts at the Post Office. The place still charged 20 cents a coffee. In fact very little had changed there. The staff were still crooked, old pensioners like they had been when Hank used to drop by. And the floor still had sawdust down to spare the frail staff from having to clean ash trays. However, you cannot smoke in there anymore so the sawdust was somewhat confusing and irrelevant, but a nice touch nonetheless.

We moved on to the Pink Flamingo liquor store where Bukowski met the infamous broad, Jane. I bought a beer and slugged it out of a brown paper bag beneath the petulant stares of LAPD officers cruising the neighbourhood looking for trouble.

Then we moved on to the apartment the angry-alcoholic couple shared together, which still had the most majestic ballroom space downstairs. Ironically this place is now a half-way house. The incumbent occupants found this stream of tourists traipsing through their door rather amusing - though I felt a little uncomfortable and ashamed.

Afterwards we saw how skid row had been raised to the ground to make way for multi-storey carparks. Even Bunker Hill, immortalised by John Fante, is now a procession of skyscrapers and tower blocks. This seemed outragousley wrong though very ironic, and I wondered what Bandini would make of it all.

The tour ended with a few poems and I left the city feeling revitalised. Bukowski had won me over despite yesterday's poor showing in hipsterville.

Hollywood and the big nothing

2010-04-25T05:32:00.009+01:00

So then, Los Angeles really does sprawl. For miles and miles and miles. It's really hot here also. So life as a pedestrian guest in L.A. really ain't all that. The US was built for motorists. And this metropolis is the most extreme example of that. You have to wait at least 15 minutes to cross the street. And you will be fined if you test the 'no crossing' rule - trust me.

I stayed on Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park. Basically as far away, as I could afford, from the Hollywood strip and all it's falsities. Or at least so I thought!

First stop was the wall of an electronics store immortalised by Elliott Smith. He had posed in front of it on the cover of his Figure 8 album. Being a tourist, and fan, I automatically gravitated toward the wall upon my arrival in town. I stood there like one of the Japanese by Big Ben, and smiled sweetly for the camera.

Afterwards, a procession of fake tits, underwhelming Mexican food, plastic signs, ghettos, white concrete buildings and steep hills followed.

I stayed in a Super 8 motel, which is the type of place where Yanks take their hookers. But I was that transfixed by the ice machine I hardly noticed the pounding coming from the four walls surrounding my room.

The following day I took a tour around the city and heard how people are struggling to preserve any culture there. I'd assumed the place was void of any remains of culture by now but heard some liberating tales of how a multimillion-dollar condo conplex was blocked because it would have tore down Charles Bukowski's old slum home. This was enlightening. The doomed never survive.

Unfortunately, I did have to witness where the skid row had been levelled and turned into parking lots. My guide described from memory what the old burlesque clubs looked like before they turned into asphalt and concrete. He told me a couple of pretty steamy stories about those places too. But then I had to pay a reasonable amount to hear them, so I won't be sharing them here for nowt.

Before long I had to leave town. I'd met my girl and a friend, who had flown in from Sydney. We picked up a car from the airport and headed for Santa Barbara. We fancied a little wine tasting and figured the location of the Sideways movie would be a good place for it.

Unfortunately we got lost the minute we left the airport and found ourselves stuck in the middle of Inglewood. Worse still we were heading deeper into South Central before we found the highway back towards civilisation, gentrification and safety. It's true what they say about South Central. But it was well worth a peek. I'm just glad the traffic signals never turned red on us.

As close as I'll get to Mehico

2010-04-23T16:38:00.004+01:00

I arrived heartbroken in San Diego. Portland was the one. But you have to move on. San Diego is a prosperous place. This seems unfair as it sits on the border with Mexico - a not so prosperous place.

It's ivory towers overshadow the shanty town huts across the invisible hand-drawn border line. I guess it acts as a reminder to those peasants what they could never aspire to. Thoughtful. It's downtown marina made me feel sick.

I was on the wong side of this divide and promptly took a cab ride over the border to be at one with the 'gringos' as my driver so affectionately called them. This was terrifically frightening despite the overwhelming police presence. The car passed the scene of no less than four homicides during a 15-minute whistlestop tour of the 'other side'. Before we sped back to the safety of Santa Fe station so I could jump on the Pacific Coast starlight express (only in America would a train line be called this) to LA

San Diego was brief. But I had already been warned the place was soulless.

Portland kisses

2010-04-21T21:48:00.004+01:00

Things happen in Portland. Portland is more than bohemian. It's something there is no word to describe. Bordering on the verge of insanity. Insanely wonderful. I guess that's the closest I can get.

Portland is insanely wonderful. You'd never begin to understand the time I've had in this town. But I'll try and explain a little.

So to begin with, I took a drive downtown. Looked to the right and a couple of hobos were hassling Jonny Rotten - he was in Portland for the night to play a show at the Ballroom.

Turn the corner and you are in Chinatown. There's the street Elliott Smith scored on. You also have the soup kitchens that fed him, from time to time, back then in the beginning.

Whereas New York City is a town full of damaged people. Portland draws in the misfits. The guys who got bullied at school. Those that put their angst and anger into art.

It's a real slacker's town. And has a suitable laid-back way of life to match. Leonard Cohen was wrong; Portland is the town of beautiful losers.

It's not without it's problems though. Most notably the two Hs: Heroin and Homelessness. But these don't overshadow or take anything away from the town. They merely highlight how brittle life is and show the efforts of the good-hearted who help those in strife. There are more soup kitchens in Portland than Starbucks. Bear in mind Seattle is only down the road!

The queues run around the corner and across several other blocks. Its a whole other world away from the Whole Foods, T Mobile and Fedex lines across the street.

There was this one guy. Called Ryan Coffee. A tough Irish-American that took me in and showed me 'round town. He had the James Dean-look going on and nowhere to sleep aside from his car and the bars. Coffee was an artist. He took me over to a commune in Alberta where I met a group of artists, musicians, writers and such like. He worked job-by-job, day-by-day.

Being in his company was liberating. He sure knew how to have a good time. His stories were regaled, while the whiskeys went down. A real-life Sal Paradise - if there ever could be one.

And while we are on the topic. I read a few poems at a place called the Buy and Buy Bar. I was immersed within the rowdiest group of redheads I'd ever seen, and perched above me, immortalised upon the wall was Jack Kerouac - so no pressure there then?!

In short, I don't ever want to leave this town. But I write this sat, hungover, in PDX airport about to board a flight to San Diego.

Death from above

2010-04-19T17:20:00.001+01:00

So I took a flight from Minneapolis to Portland, for more poetry readings. The former was the least impressive place I've ever been - even worse than Albany - but the crowd was receptive, which more than compensated for the lack of entertainment once I'd finished.

It was for that reason I decided to leave town early and managed to talk the airline into switching my flight. This was a relief and meant I was getting into Portland a day early and would be able to make it to Seattle for another show.

The flight took four hours of which I had a screaming baby sat behind me. My nerves were already shot from the previous night's festivities. I'd thrown up on my previous flight from New York City. It had been a long day, and this baby sure seemed to know about it.

It eventually stopped halfway through the journey. I intended to use this window of opportunity to get some sleep. Unfortunately a bout of turbulence unsettled the little bastard only minutes later and it continued to scream into my ear. I felt as though little razor blades were being scraped along the inside of my skull. It wasn't a pleasant moment.

I fantasised about throwing the child out of the emergency exit. We were flying over the fantastically-spectacular Rocky mountains, yet all I could think about was the child getting stuck at the top of the highest peak. Never to be found.

I eventually decided against such a plan, after careful consideration, only because it would affect the air pressure in the cabin. This would make it difficult to breathe. So instead, I turned up the music in my headphones, ordered a whiskey, and ignored my little Vietnam sitting behind me. I guess I was fortunate enough to be in the sky, as thousands were stranded back home.

That was a bad topic to think about. Paranoia set in as I started to wonder what else could cause aeroplane engines to fail? Not a great question to consider at 32,000 feet. Oh well, at least the noisey little shit would also die. That would be a bonus for mankind!

As I glanced to my right, a woman was reading from a book entitled: 'The language of God.' I let out a little snigger, shook my head and stopped thinking for a few moments. Before I knew it I was asleep, right up there in the clouds.

Drunken L-train jibberish

2010-04-18T19:11:00.001+01:00

Williamsburg, Brooklyn is a funny place. You kind of want to hate it. Because of the armies of early-twenty-something shop assistant/students prancing around in the latest American Apparel leotard and shiny new Doc Marten's boots.

These people roll like they're the big shots. I think, by Facebook-liking the 'latest' cool band they automatically assume they are immortal rock gods. And thus try to live a life straight out of a Larry Clark film. This is a lifestyle choice fully endorsed by Vice magazine - which acts as their bible.

But if I was to ignore the annoying hipster kids, and actually pay attention to the place Williamsburg itself, it's actually alright.

Not that I'd ever admit it though. Those little dickheads got too far under my skin. And its my life-long ambition to avoid being 'cool', of course, even if I do wear horn-rimmed spectacles. In my defence, some people are actually shortsighted and need glasses to see - and I don't mean metaphorically like the aforementioned.

I guess Williamsburg just suffers from the type of cliche crowd it draws. Very much like Shoreditch, and now Hackney, in east London.

Anyway, I found myself in a nice little bar called The Richardson. The bartenders are covered in tatoos and look like they've come from the set of a rockabilly music video. They also serve about a hundred whiskeys. And most importantly, the place is rid of hipster kids strutting around drinking their ironic cans of PBR.

Anyone not so keen on the Old Blue Last, in London, might wanna drop by if ever in town. Alternatively, if this post has riled you then you'd be better off visiting Union Pool 'round the corner.

The subway train is approaching my station so this drunken rant is over. I've now got about three hours to sober up and get some sleep before I take a taxi to the airport.

Goodbye East Coast.

Fuck you volcano

2010-04-16T18:01:00.005+01:00

Sitting in a New York airport, it is difficult not to get swept away in the hysteria.

A volcanic eruption in Iceland has prompted the closure of a hefty chunk of Europe's airspace. So not only has that country handed us a financial handicap in our later life through it's banks crash wiping out our savings and pension funds, it has now ruined a whole continent's spring holidays.

And as a result, the Americans are going mental. Fox News is superimposing pictures of Europeans sleeping on benches into it's footage of the airports. It's coverage has led New Yorkers to believe us European travellers are the latest victims in the 'war on terror'.

I'm not sure how but I saw a bulletin featuring the volcano and Bin Laden posing side by side. But hey I'm not complaining. I've received numerous handouts and free drinks since the eruption. My only complaint is that my girlfriend won't be joining me in Portland. And having not seen her for a few weeks I could really do with her company before I explode.

Meddling in an armed border patrol guard's business...isn't advised

2010-04-15T23:12:00.006+01:00

Ok so it's taken for granted that racism and ignorance is rife in the southern US states. However, it appears this might be the case a little closer to the coasts - supposedly the home of the less-fanatical.

The 'dirty south/middle America' rule didn't appear to be the case today when my train from Montreal was held at the border by police for two and a half hours. The only reason for the delay was the fact one passenger happened to be born in Kosovo. I'm not sure if the officer was aware of the troubles President Clinton went through to help liberate that tiny Balkan enclave. But all that hard work and diplomacy, not to mention the blood shed, will now be forgotten by this man who was treated with as much contempt you would expect be saved for an Al-Quaida operative - presumably because his home town was once featured daily on Fox News. This of course makes somewhere part of the axis of evil, according to the thinking of these KKK lowlives.

I've never seen a team of armed men, and one woman, sweat so much over a feeble 70-year-old man. There was no chance he was going anywhere but they still kept a pistol and a dog on him at all times in case he sneezed anthrax of something.

I made the huge error (debatable) of wading into the situation by asking - politely, may I add - what their worries were and why they felt so intimidated by the pensioner to give him the Guantanamo treatment. He was clearly under a lot of stress, while the rest of the passengers glared at him. Some even tutting under their breath.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, to sit down and shut up or I'd join him. Nice intelligent answer there guys.

Anyway, after hours of making frantic calls to their colleagues at the Federal Bureau and Interpol, it was confirmed he wasn't the second coming of Slobodan Milojevic, nor some other war criminal, and we were off.

The old guy joined me to say thanks for the solidarity. I kind of wished he hadn't as I then had no space to put my legs. But he did have some interesting tales to tell me about massacreing Serbs during the troubles.

Montreal Je t'aime

2010-04-14T14:45:00.002+01:00

It was the place Leonard Cohen found his voice. A place where the girls speak French. And a place where they eat chips and cheese for breakfast. Naturally me and Montreal were bound to get along fine - I just didn't quite realise how well.

The city is renowned for its gruelling cold winters. So much so that no building work can be completed from mid-autumn until spring. In fact not a lot can happen during winter. Until you step into the underground city which sprawls for kilometres beneath the actual city. Like a nuclear bunker, the place was designed to enable the Quebecois to lead normal lives while the temperatures above ground reached way below sub-zero.

I got lucky with the weather, however. The sun shone throughout my entire stay. Cranes hung above the city's skyline, girls wore hot pants, and I saw the parks being replanted (they die every winter).

I set off to see an architectural park I was told about. However, upon reaching the intersection of roads where I was informed it would be. There was nothing except a motorway. Fortunately, I was lucky enough to stumble across an exhibition of Leonard Cohen's artwork. Following this I decided to climb a mountain.

Mount Royal overlooks the city. Downtown sits in its shadow. Standing at the bottom of this mighty hill I found the path leading to the summit to be very winding, drawn out and monotonous. So inevitably I decided to take the cliff-edge route up.

This was easier said than done. I smoke too much. I also drink too much. And I haven't climbed in about 14 years. But it still seemed the best route to the top. There were a few hairy moments. Not least the last dash to the top, where I had convinced myself I was being chased by an army of grizzly bears, wolves and black widow spiders.

Upon reaching the summit I basked in all my rugged, manly glory. However, 100 metres down the path I stumbled across a visitor's centre and stairwell which led all the way down to the city. All of a sudden the summit felt less remote and I realised we were far from the great Canadian wilderness I had envisaged while nearly falling to my death several times earlier.

It still felt like a victory though. Being stood there caked in mood beside fat Americans sat on electric skooters, and Japanese tourists holding Nikon cameras

We walked home through the university. It was still sunny and people lay out in the park. This was also pleasing on the eye. A barbecue followed, washed down with wine, beers and whiskey. This topped off a wonderful time here in Montreal. My poems also received an intelligent, positive appraisal - which is always nice!

There are few cities in the world that I truly loved visiting. London, Paris and New York would probably the lot. But I can now comfortably add Montreal to that list.

Amtrak 479: part two (redemption)

2010-04-13T22:24:00.008+01:00

So I guess you heard how I wasn't so cool on the first half of this trip up to Montreal? Well, that being said, the journey did take twelve and a half hours. I could have probably cycled faster than the speed the train was going. So after five hours of fear came five hours of redemption. As in, the journey redeemed itself after the initial rocky start to our relationship.

The train pulled itself upright and stopped slouching (I sound like my mum). Soon it left the murky swamps behind and passed through the most amazing lakes I have ever seen in my entire life. They made the Lake District look like puddles in a Tesco's car park.

The sky was the brightest of blues and a flurry of clouds could be seen symmetrically in the sky as well as reflected below in the perfect water. By now the track appeared to have improved somewhat and everyone in the carriage was glued to the windows with their mouths ajar.

This incredible view lasted for hours. We passed small pockets of houses which had been built into the cliff edges. Overlooking tiny fishing ports which consisted of a handful of trawlers and only a miniature pier. The place was incredible. But the serenity was eventually shattered by the conductor's foghorn of a voice.

He notified us the Canadian border patrol cops would be boarding and everyone had to have their passports at the ready. Back to reality. Next stop Montreal!

Amtrak 479: part one (fear)

2010-04-13T22:23:00.003+01:00

So taking a trip up the east coast of America can be quite an ordeal. This is what I learnt today. In fact, the word ordeal might be an understatement for how I felt. Once the fear had kicked in I was convinced that death was a certainty. But we'll come to that in a moment.

First I better set the scene. I was making a journey from New York City's Penn Station to Montreal, Canada. This sounds fairly straight forward: two big cities separated by a few hundred miles.

Well it started pretty ordinarily. Having arrived during the morning rush hour I smoked a few cigarettes and watched the suits charging out of the station and scurrying to work. Meanwhile, a movie was being filmed outside the station's main doors. This separated the tourists from the New Yorkers - who didn't even batter an eyelid as Bullock and Clooney embraced each other just a few feet away. I guess it must happen all the time.

However, the minute the train pulled out of the city things began to change. Soon enough there were no tall buildings, let alone skyscrapers, on the skyline. Even roads became a rare sight. We were heading into the great American outdoors. This was initially very exciting. Houses appeared more like inhospitable shacks left ravished by some hurricane. And before long any sign of human life became incredibly scarce.

That's when they appeared. The swamps. Big-menacing lagoon-like swamps. And to make matters worse, the track ran right alongside them. At times it would even cut through. Nothing but a few planks of wood separated us from the great unknown fate beneath.

And then it happened. The fucking train tilted. My face was just a metre from the treacherous glowing blue death - I was so close I could smell the algae. I could even see how the metal components on the track had rusted. This further added to my fear - I immediately distrusted the track's durability.

My initial fear was of drowning. Until the thought of crocodiles kicked in. I wasn't just being hysterical. Something was causing ripples in the water. And I was sure it couldn't be a duck or a fish causing such waves.

My heart started racing. I looked to the French girl who sat beside me. My fear must have been somewhat obvious - it was written all over my face. But she just laughed. This calmed me down a little. I was two foot taller than her. If she wasn't worried then why was I? I thought about it a little. I guess Virgin trains tilt in the UK. Maybe not through swamps but they still tilt. So maybe this wasn't so dangerous after all.

But the crocodiles? Well she assured me there wasn't any around these parts. So I relaxed, reclined in my seat and enjoyed the rest of the journey.

Down but not out on Interstate 87

2010-04-12T17:16:00.003+01:00

A trip to upstate New York showed me how big this country really is. Passing the Appalachian mountains on a coach made Ben Nevis look like a mere pimple on the earth's surface.

The mountains were flanked by vast forestry and the occaisional small town. I was surrounded by a family that had been evicted and were literally moving everything they owned, or at least could carry, with them further north to where some friends had agreed to put them up.

The malls had long since disappeared and it was fairly obvious there was little work available to these people. Coupled with the downturn which had further turned the screw on them, they had no choice other than to join the exodus to a bigger city in order to take up a kind offer.

This made me feel lucky to be in a somewhat secure position. And at least not have an entourage of children to worry about.

In total there were four kids. All of whom had stuffed their favourite toys and clothes into a clear bin bag. The father and mother had also done the same. It seemed to be an awful predicament. But they were upbeat. It could be worse right? I was impressed by their outlook on the situation.

The kids found the whole situation incredibly exciting. They played, laughed and smiled. I was being used as a motorway for the youngest son's toy car. He sat beside me and had no inhibitions about being my friend.

His mother kept apologising to which I told her it was fine. Being an uncle I know my place when the toys are out.

Meanwhile, his baby sister spent the whole journey either sucking on a bottle or staring at my beard. She appeared incaptivated by it. Until I'd look at her that is. Then she'd hide her head in shame of being caught. Perhaps she was just shy. So I pretended not to notice her watching me out of the corner of her beady young eyes.

Soon we arrived at a downtown bus depot. I was reading at the Empire State literary festival. Upon arrival I noticed their hall of fame included no other than Walt Whitman and JD Salinger. I was in good company.

The auditorium seated 400. I felt like an ant sat up on stage. But was warmed by the heartfelt reception my poems received.

A narrow minded, global, multi-trillion dollar financial institution...

2010-04-12T14:55:00.004+01:00

Barclays Bank appear to have a problem carrying out remedial tasks. When preparing for a trip there are a number of things you must do alongside ensuring your passport is valid, and, in the case of the US, filling out a hundred visa application forms containing questions such as: are you a Russian spy?; have you ever been convicted of a terrorist offence?; do you bring $25,000 into the country with you? If so why? Etc.

One of these things you must do is notify your bank to let them know you will be abroad - apparently they can't envisage you ever having to use your cash card anywhere else but in a 25-mile radius of your branch, and therefore block such transactions. Yet they will provide you with the very latest balance update converted into foreign currency should you need to check while away.

What the fuck? Is that a deliberate attempt to wind me up? Teasing me with how many dollars I have, should I be able to access my own bank account to withdraw my own cash?

It must be. Because the second you dare do something as innocent as try to withdraw twenty bucks, the Barclays international fraud squad start investigating you. This happens the moment 'activity' occurs anywhere away from British soil - sounds very paranoid American doesn't it?! Well I was in America for fuck sake. Oh the irony!

Anyway, the basic gist of my gripe is that whichever retarded Barclays call centre employee I asked to note on their cutting-edge, multi-million pound computer system, that I was going away, in order to avoid this sort of thing from happening, had failed to do so. This resulted in me running around St Mark's square in Manhatten cursing every ATM in sight and accusing the poor machines of a whole heap of things - ranging from being stupid to rascist. In some instances a huge queue formed behind me while I tried to withdraw from my 'checking', 'savings', 'current' and 'credit card' accounts. I don't believe I have any such accounts but those complex machines had many options, which each offered a glimmer of hope that I might be able to access my own cash.

Eventually, well after about an hour or so, it dawned on me that my bank must not have followed my instructions. This annoyed me as I would have to call them.

So if you were a bank and had a phone line for customers calling from abroad, would you stick an automated voice on the line to ask a host of questions it will not understand the answers to? No nor would I. The pay-as-you-go American phone I am using cut out the moment I finally heard a human voice.

This presented a whole new raft of problems. I scoured downtown Manhatten for another two hours before finding a T-Mobile store to top it up. Once topped up I was told to go and buy an international calling card so it didn't cut out again. Once I had done so and finally managed to call the bank the line was closed. 'Sorry for any inconvenience caused,' the robot voice said. Are you fuck, I thought.

Don't go back to Albany

2010-04-10T12:13:00.003+01:00

Upon arrival in Albany, the weight of this mistake became glaringly obvious. No classical music played at it's bus station and lowlifes marauded the terminal sniffing out Englishmen. Or at least anyone with a buck they could bum.

The place suffered from a lack of anything making it remotely interesting. Perhaps with the exception of it's library and the fact it's the state capital of New York. But then this isn't enough when you are in town for a night and have hours to kill before a poetry reading.

We met another poet, who had edited an anthology of poetry we featured in, who checked us into a hotel. May I stress this was a strictly un-Ginsbergesque group (with the exception of the style of our poetry) and we remained fully clothed at all times.

We were advised by the hotel manager to visit a local Italian restaraunt, which came highly recommended. Apparently Bill and Hillary Clinton ate there.

At Lombardis, our supersized waiter looked like Uncle Fester from the Adams Family. However, with the added dimension he appeared to have come off the worse in a collision with a combine harvester.

Not that I'd ever let him hear such a thought as he towered over our table. He showcased an appallingly transparent faux friendliness. I guess he must have thought us to be stupid. We were sat in his restaraunt after all so perhaps that was true!

After opening the menu I was alarmed at it's prices. The place didn't look classy in the slightest - there were jars of dried pasta being used as decorations for fuck sake. However, it had come highly recommended and priced itself at the top end of the market. So we presumed it would be good. At least for Albany.

The place could seat at least 80 but less than five tables were occupied. The gluttonous giant told us before the troubles (I presumed he meant global recession unless we had stepped out into Northern Ireland) it used to be impossible to get a table even on a weeknight due to the place's popularity.

Placing my order I asked Lurch if the pasta was freshly made? I was only making polite conversation with the social cripple, but then I couldn't envisage paying $30 for some reheated dried shit. It would go against my Yorkshireman's sensibilities.

He laughed the question off saying nothing is made in house. I felt stupid for even asking. It had only meant to be idle chat. But I guessed it was an expensive restaraunt so of course the food was made freshly.

After a ten minute wait our food arrived at the table. It instantly dawned on me the vulgar cheery cunt had actually been telling the truth. I presumed he had responded sarcastically.

A chunk of pre-cooked lasagne was sat in front of me. I wished I was Italian as that would have been enough to warrant at least one punch. But I was starving so I decided to eat it, which is when the offence took a turn for the worse - the damn thing was cold!

I did something I never have done before in my life and sent it back. The waiter offered me some false apologies.

He didn't give a shit and it was taken back to the microwave and given another five minutes. I doubt the place even had an oven.

The insult was completed moments later when I was given it back. They hadn't even made efforts to remove the fresh herbs which they had scattered over the initial dish. So I had a weird slime-like substance stuck to the sides of my plate. I presumed the herbs didn't take to kindly to being microwaved.

As I didn't to having to eat it. But when in Albany you don't have much choice!

Howl

2010-04-10T04:39:00.003+01:00

In order to get to Albany for a poetry reading, I had to lose my Greyhound virginity. It was not as terrible as it sounds and involved no beastiality whatsoever.

Upon arrival at NYC's bus terminal in Times Square, it struck me how tranquil the place was. People moved quietly and slowly to where they were heading. I had heard horror stories about guys with no teeth, gammy eyes and violent robberies in the night.

But in reality it appeared to be the least fearsome of places in New York. I was later told by another poet, whom I was travelling with, the way they cleaned up the stations was through the use of classical music.

Apparently it has been scientifically proven, through tests nonetheless, that the music either keeps degenerates away or calms them down to prevent them committing any wrongdoing. Only in America hey!

The bus journey passed through a few small towns offering a glimpse of the rest of the US outside of the big cities. So these were the guys who vote Republican. And they didn't even look that stupid either!

I spent the journey sat between a Communist and a Trotsky. It felt like a scene out of Orwell's Homage to Catalunya. Only they were talking about health care and Fox News not Franco - but thats almost the same thing right?

Cubby's NY

2010-04-09T21:30:00.003+01:00

My second day in Brooklyn was coupled with the hottest day of the year.

I was flanked by hot-pants everywhere I went. You can only imagine how difficult that was for me.

I was taken on a trip to the north of the borough and inspected an array of disused warehouses littered with artists' studios.

The place was run down and echoed some of the no-go zones of east London. Only it had no menacing undertone whatsoever.

We walked over to the former naval base - the sight of Hubert Selby Jr's Last Exit to Brooklyn. This place was surreal. Swanky bars had popped up between luxury condos presumably built for the Wall St bankers across the river in Manhattan. Old Cubby would turn in his grave if he could have seen what they were doing to his world.

However, it still had an air of that 1950s New York about it, and there still wasn't a Starbucks in sight so maybe the battle was not lost afterall.

I spent the afternoon in Prospect Park. Words cannot do justice to this place.

Day one: Brooklyn

2010-04-09T12:48:00.001+01:00

My first day in Brooklyn was spent on the Subway. I rather cockily told my hosts I would be fine finding my way around it, having used it before. That might have been true should I have been staying in Manhattan, however the trains that serve the other boroughs weren't so crystal clear. I would go so far as calling them muddled.

Regardless, after a couple of hours of frustrating head-scratching, and an accidental trip to Queens later, I made my way to Coney Island.

It was like stepping out of a timewarp. The place has been left to rot since the 1980s. If not before that. Yet thousands of people still visited the beach.

Ghetto blasters kicked out Jay-Z, while scores of Japanese tourists made home videos in the sand as the bemused, disused themepark watched on.

The abandoned rollercoasters offered a strange backdrop to this lively affair. I took in the sights - it must have been some kind of college half-term - and made my way along the beach.

Eventually everything became Russian. Soviet Bloq signage replaced the tired, faded posters advertising the once famous, long-closed themepark.

Gangs of frail old men sat beside each other on benches playing chess. I sat with them and watched a game. I pretended to understand what they were saying by smiling and nodding as they spoke. But I played dumb by keeping quiet and chainsmoking cigarettes. They must have thought me to be a pretty strange character, I thought later on.

Making my way back to the Subway along Brighton Beach Avenue I saw the lamest attempt of counterfeiting Calvin Klein boxer shorts. The designer had got his C and K in the wrong order. Can it really be that hard when you're just copying it from somewhere else?

After Coney Island I joined my hosts for some drinks in Williamsburg. Hipsters sneered on every street corner. Only they weren't really hip. The coolest guys were sat at my table. And they didn't spend hours in front of the mirror doing their hair and pouting before they went out. At least the guys didn't anyway!

The barmaid was quite obviously trying to get me drunk. She overpoured each whiskey to the point it engulfed my stomach with flames every time time it went down. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact I still hadn't got used to the dollar bills and had been leaving five bucks behind after every drink I bought.

The bars in Williamsburg were cool. The one that particularly stood out was a metal bar we went to. Everyone was covered in tattoos and the beer was real cheap. Not only that but you were given a free pizza everytime you made a trip to the bar. And I'm not talking about just a slice of pizza - you got the whole pie!

A drunken poetry reading followed.

New York, New York

2010-04-09T12:14:00.002+01:00

Arriving at JFK airport I was initially overwhelmed by the heat. My sensible warm winter jacket was dropped into the bin immediately - there would be no need for it on this trip with such temperatures.

The machine-gun turrets appeared to snarl at me while I waited in line at passport control. The yanks are notorious for being strict jobsworths in this regard.

Only hours earlier I had been apprehended before boarding the plane at Heathrow. I believe it was related to the thick beard I am currently sporting. I was quick to point out I was just a poet, not a terrorist. But this didn't go down too well. I was probably a marked man after that performance.

However, the female security guards I was handed over to for a bag check, following the thorough body search, were more agreeable characters.

They chuckled between themselves as I asked if they stopped every handsome devil with a beard. They insisted not saying most people were stopped and not just those with large amounts of facial hair - such as myself, students and Arabs. Hmmm.

Anyway, I took a cab ride from JFK to Fort Hamilton Parkway in Brooklyn where I would be staying with a very kind Ukrainian-Jewish couple. Whom I'd never met!

View from a Yorkshireman in the United States and Canada

2010-04-09T11:45:00.003+01:00

So it was finally time to dust off my moleskin notebook. I was embarking on a month-long trip to the US and Canada. First stop New York City.

I dragged myself out of bed at an unearthly hour. It was still dark. And the days had been sunny of late - we were no longer in winter.

On the Tube, people had turned to zombies. Men snored, while ladies' eyes rolled into the back of their heads. This lot were tired.

Someone had left a copy of the Metro on the seat beside me. I found this most strange as I had caught the first Central Line train of the day.

Nonetheless I flicked through the pages, crammed with yesterday's news, and came across a piece about the place I would soon be.

'Gangs of New York run amok shooting up Manhattan,' it sternly read.

Great, I thought. Just what I need. My Mother will already be enjoying sleepless nights due to her son being away in the gun-toting states. Now her worries had been realised. People were attacking strangers in Times Square.

However, New York City mayor, Michael Bloomberg, spoke frankly about the problem saying it would not be tolerated. Using words not dissimilar to the rhetoric of President Bush towards Al Quaida, the mayor said the gangs would be 'crushed' should it re-occur. He pointed towards the fact dozens of the youths had to be hospitalised after clashes with the police. Most of them suffering gunshot wounds. 'The situation was not taken lightly,' he explained.

Great, thats just what Mum needs to hear. A shootout between police and marauding gangs awaits me on the streets of NYC.

I spent the majority of the eight-hour flight thinking about it (not that I'm scared, just worried about what mum will think). That and keeping my eye on the air stewardesses. Richard Branson sure knows how to pick 'em. And they don't strike!

An update

2010-03-03T08:51:00.002Z

It wouldn't have taken a genius to work out this blog is on a temporary hiatus. This is due to services to poetry.

The Yorkshireman is still indeed in London. Look out in the spring for the detailed chronicles as he attempts to tackle the U.S. via the means of a poetry tour.

Gentrification's gloom

2009-08-12T13:43:00.018+01:00

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

2009-08-04T15:44:00.001+01:00

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"

2009-07-10T16:31:00.007+01:00

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

2009-07-02T09:57:00.006+01:00

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

2009-06-26T16:22:00.007+01:00

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

2009-06-11T08:07:00.011+01:00

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

2009-05-21T17:57:00.004+01:00

...... 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

2009-05-20T15:08:00.001+01:00

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

2009-04-14T14:06:00.004+01:00

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

2009-04-03T14:37:00.005+01:00

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

2009-03-27T16:22:00.003Z

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?

2009-03-20T17:46:00.004Z

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

2009-03-16T22:58:00.003Z

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

2009-03-13T20:18:00.002Z

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

2009-03-11T19:12:00.004Z

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

2009-03-09T20:19:00.004Z

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

2009-03-02T19:08:00.007Z

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

2009-02-23T18:23:00.003Z

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

2009-02-21T13:08:00.004Z

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

2009-02-20T12:56:00.003Z

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!

2009-02-13T19:14:00.011Z

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"

2009-02-11T09:02:00.002Z

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

2009-02-08T12:45:00.010Z

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!

2009-02-05T14:51:00.012Z

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

2009-02-04T10:01:00.005Z

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

2009-02-03T16:43:00.012Z

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?

2009-02-03T08:59:00.009Z

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

2009-02-02T12:08:00.004Z

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 ...

2009-01-29T14:39:00.003Z

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

2009-01-27T12:15:00.006Z

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

2009-01-25T19:18:00.015Z

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

Youths on pedal cycles

2009-01-22T21:52:00.008Z

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

2009-01-20T20:12:00.006Z

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

2009-01-19T17:04:00.011Z

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

2009-01-16T19:37:00.009Z

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

2009-01-16T19:32:00.021Z

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

2009-01-12T19:34:00.006Z

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!

2009-01-10T18:48:00.013Z

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

2009-01-09T13:31:00.004Z

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

2009-01-08T18:21:00.003Z

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.

Tube? Or not to tube?

2009-01-07T22:00:00.007Z

It took less than a week for the novelty of London's underground network to wear off. Where once I used to take a tube at the first glimmer of a chance, I now understand Londoners' distaste for them.

Maybe it is knowing where they are going and sussing out the subterranean madness that finally kills off the appeal. Though I confess to being no local, when I was in town as a tourist I loved the sense of jumping on and off and never quite knowing if I had got it right. I could have amused myself for hours going the wrong way around the Circle line. Only now, I dread the thought of having to get on the Jubilee line and suffer its reliable delays.

There are a few benefits of countless underground trips; you do notice the little things down there. Like the occasional sign of humanity, such as, when a young man offers his seat up on a packed train to an elderly passenger or when someone holds the automatic doors open just long enough for you to jump on. But the real highlight down there in the pit of the capital is the army of remarkably clean white mice, who play a fearless game of chicken with incoming trains. They sure are tough little bastards those fellas.

View from a Yorkshireman in London town

2009-01-07T19:16:00.007Z

Following half a decade of umm-ing and argh-ing, I finally packed a rather Dick Whittington-esque bag and skipped along platform three with my hopes slightly high. These were soon dashed as the predictable unreliability of the national train network set in.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are sorry to announce that the 15.40 to London Kings Cross will be delayed by approximately 30 minutes," the robot voice systematically announced.

Shrugging my shoulders I tested the station's no smoking policy and lit a cigarette. In contrast, after only four drags, I was efficiently reminded of the rule and told to put it out before British Transport Police caught me and issued a £50 fine.

After a painfully cold wait, the train came hurtling down the line and the mob started pushing towards its doors. I let them, after all I had booked a seat. Once the madness had died down I jumped on and moved a family of four from my seat. 66F, a symbolic start. Fortunately I was leaving my demons behind.

In no time - well two hours and twenty minutes - I arrived in London town. With a pocketful of change and high hopes, I had finally done what had taken me five years to put off. I dragged my bag onto the number 55 bus to Hackney. Hoping to avoid the wicked witch of the east.

Without traffic, the bus shot through what should have been rush-hour Central London and before I knew it I was dumped in the multi-cultural knife-crime hotspot - home of countless stabbings and robbings of naive Northerners. I had no intention of becoming a statistic.

Instead, the cruel temperature cut through me like a knife as I made my way to a friend's house. Crazed Ethiopians screamed at each other nonsensically at bus stops outside countless fried chicken shops. Fearing a stray bullet my pace picked up and I was soon on Lower Clapton's Glenarm Road.

What ensued was bottles of wine and hours of catch-ups. It was soon tomorrow.

My first day in the big smoke happened to be New Year's eve, so it was a case of continuing where the following night had left off - with the added benefit of a headache. I caught up with the reason I am here over a bowl of noodles on the over-rated Brick Lane. After a couple of coffees my hangover had expired and I was met with a New Year's clinch. There was no need for mistletoe, we had three years between us.

With smiles, we went our separate ways to bid good riddance to 2008.

The beers were upon me and before long were replaced with wine and whiskey. Then came the white lines and pony tranquiliser. Everything became a blur. More so for some others.