Why talk to people when an angry arms-length note posted on a lamp post will do. It involves that heady cocktail of angry neighbours, canine excrement and dumped rubbish. Let battle commence…

 

The nation’s shop-keepers run the occupational risk of late night party goers using their premises as an el fresco lavatory but for some it’s just too much.

I love the ‘thank you’ at the end. Very British.

 

The Whitechapel Art Gallery has got a faultless reputation for putting on consistently pretentious exhibitions come rain or shine. Check out this masterwork featuring string. A penetrating insight into the concept of time, linear distortion and the invisible cortex of social ties and customs that bind us in the social weave. Then again, it could just be balls of string.

 

What do you do if you are caught short in a public house and find there is no toilet paper?

My wife recounted several years after we met about how the landlady of a pub we used to drink in was telling her about the habits of what she described as a ‘filthy swine of a customer.’

And the source of her rage ? The indignity of having to fish an excrement covered sock out of the gents toilet that had caused it to overflow.

I listened with a small self-satisfied smirk of on my face.

“Yes, that was me.” I said matter-of-factly.

“There was no toilet paper, as usual, and I don’t prescribe to the Indian hand method.”

If the landlady had found the offending item that night, barred the doors, and ordered everyone to raise their trouser legs I would have been done for.

The moral of this tale – apart from the fact that I’m so fantastically rich that I afford to flush socks down the loo – is provide your customer with the basic amenities.

A toilet door is a good start followed by loo paper and a tap that works.

 

Tourist honey pot the London Dungeons promises its visitors a ‘horrible time.’

It certainly delivers with prohibitive ticket prices, one-and-half hour queuing times and exhibits that look like they haven’t been changed since the place opened.

A motley collection of drama students ham it up in various guises as our guides through London’s historical underbelly. Truly un-terrifying, witless mannequins who could be out-acted by a parrot.

A special thank you (not) to the miserable young lump who sullenly guarded the way to Traitor’s Gate.

If they are an indication of the new vanguard of thespians we can expect lean times indeed on the Oscar front.

The only thing that scared me was the entrance price and the fact that this sort of tosh is still being promoted as one of the capital’s must see attractions.

I also suffered the humiliation of being singled out in the torture chamber and made to sit in a chair while the ‘torturer’ displayed the use of various tools of the trade.

No water boarding or sleep deprivation here. Dick Cheney’s medieval relatives applied more subtle methods such as hooks driven into the buttocks, tongue rippers, hot irons and what looked like a Medieval cigar cutter for loping off your wedding tackle.

The last straw was staggering outside to find some skull-faced midget tottering up and down Tooley Street promoting the dungeons as the ultimate tourist experience. I felt like firing him out of the nearest circus canon into a brick wall.

 

Moved office today.  Our new pleasure zone has all the atmosphere and camaraderie of a morgue.

Have a window seat overlooking a scene of unremitting urban gloom.

A flyover buzzes over battleship grey.

If ever a view could inspire one to contemplate suicide then this is.

The fragrant eau du cologne of a London summer reaches my concrete eyrie. A heady cocktail of warm tarmac, dog shit and traffic fumes wafting up from London’s sweating carcass. Summer in the city. You can’t beat it.

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