Don’t superglue drunk
Welcome to a world where the only way into the club on Saturday at 10pm is a £400 bottle of champagne.
Grime and glitter in the E1s
Today, alone, I zipped my black puffy jacket up the whole way, pulled up my hood and turned up Blink-182 on my iPod. Then I just wandered. Brick Lane on a Sunday is a marvellous place to be lost. Absolutely no one gives a damn.
If women didn’t exist all the money in the world would have no meaning
Perhaps I’ll take you through a typical few days, now that I’ve begun to have the luxury (?) of such things.
A prime site for dreams, the East’s exuberant vision of the West, the West’s uneasy hallucination of the East.
…and then we all felt brilliant the next morning and did heaps of really dedicated sightseeing and decided that that was way better than drinking anyway so stayed in the next night and played cards instead.
Lies.
#MyHiddenTreasureChest, a weekend in Budapest
We’re here for Chandler’s thirtieth birthday. He’s been given a big gaudy birthday badge and he isn’t shy about tapping it and issuing birthday commands. His first? Everyone must order a full litre of the local beer, Dreher at lunch. This, plus a Weiner schnitzel the size of birthday boy’s face apiece, costs each of us about 3000 Hungarian forent, the equivalent of less than ten quid. It’s a revelation. After being persistent paupers in London, we feel like emporers in Hungary.
Bohemian Like You.
At 4.45am the alarm went off and I was out the door by 5.15am, to make the very first Circle Line tube of the day from Kings Cross at 5.31am to make the 6am National Express bus from Liverpool St to make the 8.30am flight from London Stansted to Budapest. All going well.
And ixnay on the wishing for more wishes. That’s all. Three. Uno, dos, tres.
You knew the restaurant was going to be trendy because it was under a sex shop. I’d arrived first and was snuggled into the basement sex-den-come-Mexican-bodega with a tempranillo and the deliberately cryptic menu.
50 Ways To Die In The West
A handy guide for other London neophytes.
Fling flang flung: a very tartan Valentine
“The Virginia Reel!”
The emcee on the hall’s stage is, disappointingly, not kilted but is to be forgiven as he has a beautiful Scottish brogue, great lungs and a love of the dance.
“He…wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.”
An update on work + play in London.
An unsettlingly big place 