That London, big isn't it?
My previous dribblings regarding London High Street and all that were simply so much jibber-jabber. In reality everything is miles apart and you have to go on the smelly, disorienting underground tube system or pay a taxi driver ten english pounds to take you to where you want to go, even if it is just round the corner.
What a disappointment our cabbies were, too. I had anticipated some high quality pig-ignorant shitwitted opinions that I could relate to you, but no. They just talk incessantly but quietly into their mobile phones and barely interact with the customer at all except to take their extravagant fares. It seems that Viz's "Cockney Wanker" strip has lied to us. I feel cheated.
A few words to any prospective groom or best man. A stag do is a fine old tradition, a heady mixture of male-bonding, putting aside childish things before settling down to life as a husband and provider, and a final blowout to remember as one slips into a contented groove of matching knitwear, nights in with a pizza and a DVD and dinner parties. With this in mind you need to go somewhere with lots of titty bars, strip clubs, sex shows, knocking shops and opium dens. Them's the rules, bub.
What you do not do is go to Old Compton Street.
A word to the wise here from an old soldier: It's a place for the gays. Now I'm all in favour of this type of thing. They seem to have things sorted out very well, you drop in, get a beer, get some cock, bish bosh, everyone's happy. All I'm saying is that there are better places for a couple of dozen lairy, booze-using geordies to go in search of a high old time in the big city. A special mention to the young Irish cousin of the groom, who, several scoops to the good, was showing off his muscles to a group of assorted pooves in the Admiral Duncan pub. That's the bright pink Admiral Duncan pub, filled to the rafters with gay fellows.
The incredulous "Wha'? Is this a gay pub then?" when the news was broken to him was a joy to behold.
Anyway, the stag was happy enough with his night. The next morning, struggling to get outside his gargantuan sunday breakfast and still warm from the embrace of the booze fairy, he told us how much he was looking forward to "a pretend saturday, some cans and a game of cards on the train and stopping out until last orders on a sunday".
Simple pleasures, my friends. That's what it's aal aboot.