Capital Madness

I've been to London for the weekend.
Any amount of time, no matter how short, out of Portsmouth is like a holiday.
Number Sixteen was booked at the very last minute and I was off Saturday morning.

As you can see, I began the trip on the train with the breakfast of champions.
It would have been churlish not to!

Number Sixteen had been booked because it had a cracking garden.
Or in other words, somewhere nice to smoke.
On arrival I was informed the garden was closed until 8pm that evening because of a wedding.
Mmmm.
Thought that was livable until I was taken to the room and the Harp player they had hired was about 18 inches from my window.
'All okay?' I was asked.
"Actually? No.
I was 'sold' this room because of the proximity to the garden but that Harp shit will drive me to fucking murder."
He looked afraid.
'Ah. I see. Would you like to see the Duty Manager?'
"Yes"
The Duty Manager arrived and asked what the problem was.
Problem?
I inquired after her hearing and asked for another room.
"There are no other rooms"
Opening the laptop I told her it was all cool as I would find another hotel.
"Give me a minute" she said and disappeared.
Five minutes later she was back.
She had phoned another hotel in the chain and sorted me a room there.
They lowered the price, gave me Champagne and a free breakfast.
The staff were absolutely superb and I will always stay with these people when I'm in London.
Brilliant. Totally Brilliant.

Saturday evening I had a mooch along Old Compton Street or 'Running the Gay Gauntlet' as I now call it.
What an utterly hideous experience.
As with all things, even if you are in a minority, it was dominated by men.
Honestly, I am not a 'man hater' kind of lesbian.
I have a father and brothers for fuck sake, but this was just horrible.
It may come as a surprise to many, but some gay men are as misogynistic as their straight counterparts.
In some ways worse, but that is just my opinion.
I deliberately sought out a 'straight' place and was immediately welcomed and joked with.

On the way back to the hotel I decided to buy some booze so I wasn't tempted by the Mini Bar, or 'Arse Rape Cupboard' as I call it.
£4 for a bag of crisps?
FUCK OFF!
In the Newsagent/Off License was some pissed up English wanker telling the Asian owner that,
"I've killed fuckin' 40 Muslims. You Hear me? Fuckin' 40 Muslims?"
I looked at the shop owner and shook my head and he smiled.
The Pride of English manhood continued until the Asian man said,
"Mate! I REALLY don't care. I'm Sikh"
After racist twat had taken his three cans of Stella and pissed off I was compelled to apologise to the shopkeeper.
'What a prick! I'm SO, SO sorry you have to deal with that shit. We don't all think like that you know?'
His rock set face broke into a smile and he said,
"You're not from London are you?"
I laughed and said,
'Ha! Not any more. How did you know?'
And I think he said the saddest thing I've heard this year...
"Because you give a toss how 'British' (He did the finger thing) people are thought of!"
How fucking unbelievably sad is that?

I'm sure I've said it before, but I think every piece of scum, arrested for racist crimes should have their family tree traced as part of their punishment.
If any of them can get back 4/5 generations without a relative coming from abroad; including Wales, Ireland and Scotland, I'd be fucking amazed!

After that shit, I found myself passing Boujis, where, as I put a cigarette out a tramp asked for one.
I took my foot off the butt I had just stamped on and said,
"Last one mate, but help yourself to that"
He looked disgusted.
'Go and buy some more' he said.
I was gob smacked.
"What? Buy more? So I can give you the 'spare' ones they tape to the front of a pack of 20 for work shy cunts like you?"
'There's no need for that' he muttered as he walked off.

Today I spent some time in the V&A before heading to Waterloo and home.



It was brutally hot today and I had a moment when I thought I was going to pass out.
I slumped down against the outside of Marks and Sparks, concentrating on the floor in front of me.
The smell of stale booze reached me before he did.
He put his face close to mine and I was immediately angry that he was coming anywhere me.
"I wonder if you....." was as far as he got when I looked up.
He jumped back, falling on his arse, hand out as if to ward me off.
"No problem! No problem! I'm going, I'm going..."
When I related the story to Housemates, they said show us the face you used.
I don't really know what it was so I set my face to how I was feeling at the time.
"Yep, you are truly, fucking scary!" they laughed.

Unrelated, and totally magic news; My beloved Spurs are top of the Premiership!