London: Like it Or Leave it
What gets me is the people who move to London and live an existence you could live on a trading estate in Devon. Why move to London, rent a mouldy room and suffer relentless damp if you aren’t going to embrace its social(ising) superiority?
In many ways London is the person you go on one date with, make a tenuous excuse to leave, shudder on the tube and regale (slightly exaggeratedly) negatively to your friends. So if you can’t look beneath the smoggy, grumpy, concentration camp ‘shower’ overcrowding, and capitalise on the capital’s vibrancy and agony of social choice, then go and diarise your social life in accordance with the Radio Times elsewhere; otherwise you are a habituating masochist.
My sister had a small cramped doll’s house whose residents included Malibu Barbie, Actor Barbie, Job Seeker’s Barbie and Glam Media Bitch Barbie. Regardless of the fact I’ve changed their titles no way would that many women cohabitate successfully in such a small place. So, in London, where space is harder to come by than pro-gay-adoption rednecks, your abode must play second fiddle (or even the instrument that comes after that -third fiddle?) in the scale of your priorities.
Barbies one through four may have resided in comfort if that doll’s house had been located in London rather than my sister’s native West Midlands, as there would have been a banging social scene to cater for all the women’s individual tastes. This plethora of enjoyment canapes may have stopped them all from ripping each other’s little plastic heads off and shitting down their plastic little necks.
Having cohabitated with everyone from Dirty Harry to Shit Stains Linda, and most recently Robert who insisted on keeping (nobody’s ever seen them so nobody knows how many) fish, who’s personal decorater used thick algi paint for the walls and a thick shit carpet for the floor, i’m no stranger to an expensive London cereal box that comes with free retarded housemate toys; collect all six and then blow your fucking head off.
A dear friend of mine who perpendicularises more effectively than the Ross/Brand team offends, now has the nesting pleasure of three sour-faced women in their twenties who look at you as if you’ve beheaded a box of kittens and pissed on the remains, just because you leave a cup on the side. If they look at me with the disdain usually reserved for sex offenders again I’m going to leave several cups with their boyfriends dicks in.
Long story dwarf, London is a cultural party animal whose engine runs on fun. So bores, stop putting diesel in the petrol engine and go choose a city, or coffin, that has better synergy with your lacklustre character.