The REAL Barbary Enema
So, I'm sitting currently at my desk in the Covent Garden Hotel. It's fairly early (9ish), and the ungodly amount of Guinness I've put in my body has returned to haunt me with an excrutiatingly dry mouth and a general light-headedness that forces me to hold on to corners as I traverse them. Goddamn, I celebrated my birthday in fucking STYLE! Wow. Anyway, I'm also getting ready to pack -- we're going back to Paris this afternoon, and I am going to have to leave this wonderful place ... I am so going to miss it. Miss it fiercely. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I absolutely ADORE London. I feel so comfortable here, almost as if there was a Thomas-shaped hole in this bloody City that only a Thomas-shaped peg would fit. Here are a couple notes before I leap in the shower and run downstairs for a last-minute genuflection of whether or not I wish to run silently into the mildly cloudy day and disappear somewhere in Soho -- kidding, but not really. I don't want to go. I felt like after all these freaking years and days, I've finally found HOME, the home with a capital "H."
1. Listening to Pulp on its own is a marvelous experience. Listening to Pulp whilst walking along the streets of London (especially on a somewhat cloudy day) is SUPERCOOL. "I Spy" and "Sorted for E's and Whiz" are two bona fide (that means Bono approves) examples.
2. Rugby is a shitload of fun to watch. Yesterday was the 6 Nations Playoff -- Wales, Scotland, Ireland, England, France, and Italy. Watched one of 'em yesterday at this pub down the street called The Crown. Ireland (Erin Ga Bragh!) beat the living FUCK out of Italy. I can almost imagine the scrummers in Italy thinking, "My God, man, do we really have to play the fucking IRISH on St. Pat's Day? Fuck." France snuffed Scotland by a large margin, and Wales edged out England. France is probably going to take the prize, because they scored the highest amount of combined points.
3. I found Fopp. Dangerous thing, that. I found some pretty nifty little musical treasures there. It's so refreshing that good music is not only revered here, but it's pervasive. I walked into a Soho restaurant called "Bar Soho" on Old Compton Street and Pulp was playing(!) followed by Gorillaz and then Blancmange. I yelled up the street to my old man and his woman and suggested that maybe we could eat lunch there ... The bangers and mash in the onion gravy was simply the best I've ever had.
4. Punted up a bar with a geezer named Pat and his daughter Dominique after the French had stomped the Scots, and had a lively conversation with them. He taught me a bit more about the Cockney rhyming slang. F'rinstance: Let's say your off to buy yourself some cigarettes. You say to yer mates, "Oi, I'm off for the Ari!" You know, as in "Ari Rags, Buy Some Fags." If you plan on ascending a staircase at some point, you can holler, "I'll be Apples," meaning of course, "Apples and Pears, Going up the stairs." Having a pint or going to buy a pint for one of yer mates is, you guessed it, "Gettin' a Pig," as in "Pig's Ear, Get a Beer." Answering the phone, are ye? You got a "Dog." As in, "Give the Dog a Bone, Telephone." Got a thing for curry? Then order a "Ruby." "Ruby Murray -- Curry." To go for a "Bowl" is to go for a walk -- you realise of course that that means "Bowl and Chalk, Take a Walk." To call for a taxi is to "Yell a Sherbert," as in "Sherbert Dab, Call a Cab." The only one he told me that doesn't rhyme was to run to the pisser. That one was "I'm going to fucking Dash." Isn't it obvious? "Jack Dash, the Toilet." I wonder what the rhyme is there.
5. "SMOKING KILLS." "SMOKERS DIE YOUNGER." "SMOKING SERIOUSLY HARMS YOU AND OTHERS AROUND YOU." "SMOKING DAMAGES YOUR SPERM AND CAN CAUSE IMPOTENCY." The warning labels on packets of Aris don't fuck around. None of this "y'know, the Surgeon General has concluded that smoking may be bad for you" bullshit. Cigarettes will MURDER you and everybody who comes in contact with you. Then, they will kill your parents, burn down your house, marry your spouse and treat your kids like shit. They'll kill your pets too, albeit slowly.
6. There are no clowns or elephants hanging about Picadilly Circus.
7. I really need to finish packing. There'll be more time for this in Paris. Until then, stay well, mes amis. God, I love this City. I'm moving here, that's all there is to it.
CIAO!
1. Listening to Pulp on its own is a marvelous experience. Listening to Pulp whilst walking along the streets of London (especially on a somewhat cloudy day) is SUPERCOOL. "I Spy" and "Sorted for E's and Whiz" are two bona fide (that means Bono approves) examples.
2. Rugby is a shitload of fun to watch. Yesterday was the 6 Nations Playoff -- Wales, Scotland, Ireland, England, France, and Italy. Watched one of 'em yesterday at this pub down the street called The Crown. Ireland (Erin Ga Bragh!) beat the living FUCK out of Italy. I can almost imagine the scrummers in Italy thinking, "My God, man, do we really have to play the fucking IRISH on St. Pat's Day? Fuck." France snuffed Scotland by a large margin, and Wales edged out England. France is probably going to take the prize, because they scored the highest amount of combined points.
3. I found Fopp. Dangerous thing, that. I found some pretty nifty little musical treasures there. It's so refreshing that good music is not only revered here, but it's pervasive. I walked into a Soho restaurant called "Bar Soho" on Old Compton Street and Pulp was playing(!) followed by Gorillaz and then Blancmange. I yelled up the street to my old man and his woman and suggested that maybe we could eat lunch there ... The bangers and mash in the onion gravy was simply the best I've ever had.
4. Punted up a bar with a geezer named Pat and his daughter Dominique after the French had stomped the Scots, and had a lively conversation with them. He taught me a bit more about the Cockney rhyming slang. F'rinstance: Let's say your off to buy yourself some cigarettes. You say to yer mates, "Oi, I'm off for the Ari!" You know, as in "Ari Rags, Buy Some Fags." If you plan on ascending a staircase at some point, you can holler, "I'll be Apples," meaning of course, "Apples and Pears, Going up the stairs." Having a pint or going to buy a pint for one of yer mates is, you guessed it, "Gettin' a Pig," as in "Pig's Ear, Get a Beer." Answering the phone, are ye? You got a "Dog." As in, "Give the Dog a Bone, Telephone." Got a thing for curry? Then order a "Ruby." "Ruby Murray -- Curry." To go for a "Bowl" is to go for a walk -- you realise of course that that means "Bowl and Chalk, Take a Walk." To call for a taxi is to "Yell a Sherbert," as in "Sherbert Dab, Call a Cab." The only one he told me that doesn't rhyme was to run to the pisser. That one was "I'm going to fucking Dash." Isn't it obvious? "Jack Dash, the Toilet." I wonder what the rhyme is there.
5. "SMOKING KILLS." "SMOKERS DIE YOUNGER." "SMOKING SERIOUSLY HARMS YOU AND OTHERS AROUND YOU." "SMOKING DAMAGES YOUR SPERM AND CAN CAUSE IMPOTENCY." The warning labels on packets of Aris don't fuck around. None of this "y'know, the Surgeon General has concluded that smoking may be bad for you" bullshit. Cigarettes will MURDER you and everybody who comes in contact with you. Then, they will kill your parents, burn down your house, marry your spouse and treat your kids like shit. They'll kill your pets too, albeit slowly.
6. There are no clowns or elephants hanging about Picadilly Circus.
7. I really need to finish packing. There'll be more time for this in Paris. Until then, stay well, mes amis. God, I love this City. I'm moving here, that's all there is to it.
CIAO!