London Calling, Francis Bacon and A Bit Of Ankle

London’s written to me: I got a note from him, just the other day. Obviously it all came as a bit of a shock, given as I thought everything was over between us and that he'd 'moved on'. But it seems I was wrong.  

You see, when I first left London – after all those years we'd had together – London was heartbroken, inconsolable even, and he let himself go. And quite frankly, London looked like a bit of a shit hole. Which got me thinking, that I'd made the right decision to leave him.

Hole de Shit. And not a pub in site.

But then, gradually, as London got to grips with the fact that I was gone for good, he began to focus on all the good times we’d had, and he started to feel a little better. And he started to do something about the god awful state he looked. But he looked so bad, and the project was so huge, that London couldn’t do it on his own. So he got half of Poland to come over to help him. And before long, London started getting his shit together.

Every day in every way, I'm getting better. 

And as London got better and stronger, he wanted to prove what a good time he was having without me and wanted me to feel jealous; so he decided to host the Olympics. And although it meant lots of hard work and a lot more Poles, London thought it would be worth it. Because really, and deep down, London hoped that the Olympics would make me go back to him.

 What, this old thing? Why, I just threw it on....

Naturally, word (eventually) filtered through to these parrrts that there was going to be something called the Olympics in London. And it made me think back to some of the good times I’d had with London….

Ooh, you can't whack a bit of Francis Bacon at the Tate.

Mind you, very different to the bacon in these parrrts (cue Basil Brush-style 'Boom! Boom!)..

And I'm dead partial to a Turner.

I'm all class, me. 

Ah, my old favourite, Kolossi in Roseberry Avenue. Top nosh.

If you ever see my old friend, London, try it out.

Or Efes in Great Titchfield Street...ooh, starting to feel a bit peckish now...

And lest I forget - the music! I've seen three of these bands.

And all we've had in these parrrts was Brotherhood of Man playing in the fields...

Phwoar! Soho pubs! Open all day and everyday.

Yak, Yak. Gargle, gargle. Bollocks, bollocks. Guzzle, guzzle. 

And just as I began to teeter and think that maybe, just maybe, these parrrts wasn’t ‘The One’ for me, London sent me this note. And I could tell by his writing that he was pissed when he wrote it.

Pick the bones out of that...

Now, I don’t like it when London gets pissed; he starts off okay, but then he can get a bit nasty and lairy, then he goes through his morose stage and then he starts singing. A bit like Edinburgh, really. Fiver says, that immediately after he penned this note, he broke into a dewy-eyed version of ‘My Way’. Nah, London’s not to be trusted when he’s been drinking.

            To placate him, I’m going to put my toes into Greater London tomorrow. After all, if I don’t play ball, he might get the arse and pull the plug on the Olympics. And we wouldn’t want that; a lot of people have been putting a lot of hard work and effort into getting it ready. Poles, namely. And I guess some of the athletes would have been having a bit of a limber up as well.

            So, I’m off to Twickenham, to see England play Wales in a warm-up game for the rugby world cup. And because I love my rugby so much, next Saturday I’m going to Cardiff to watch the return match. Only the problem is, Cardiff doesn’t like me at all. In fact, it appears that Cardiff doesn’t like anyone English. Look at what I saw them selling outside the Millennium Stadium last time I went.

Okay, I fess up, this isn't too bad.

 

Bit harsh.

 Blimey. Certainly seems that the England team of 1978 had a lot of extra

curricular activities. Hope it didn't affect their performance....

Alas, I got angrily shooed away when I tried to take a picture of a t-shirt emblazoned with ‘The Only Good Englishman Is A Dead One’ (or similar). Yes, Cardiff did seem very bitter towards the English. A statement best demonstrated by the fact that Wales weren’t even playing England that day – they were playing the Springboks.

Oh dear, and it appears they lost (to a second string scratch team). Shame.

There's no nasty racist t-shirts being sold outside Twickenham. No Siree. Which is big plus points for London, I guess. After all, London is all-embracing and all-seeing (what with his big Cyclops eye): he can spot a Pole from forty paces. Furthermore, London has theatres, museums, parks, markets, the Leyton Orient and a rather dysfunctional Royal family.  Mmmm. Tempting.

            But if only London handled his drinking better. He can be such a gob shite sometimes. Not like these parrrts. These parrrts is kind and gentle (despite the horse shit) and gives me Dartmouth, the moors, cream teas and Wally Dog.

Just look at Wally Dog. Seconds after this photo was taken, he entertained us all by crashing cymbals

between his knees and playing the comb and rice paper to 'I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy'. 

 Then some malicious bastard told Wally Dog that me and the old man were off to

London for good, sending Wally Dog into a frenzy and resulting in a pleading paw

being placed onto the old man's trainer.

So that’s it, I’m decided. I’m staying put. But to make sure that the Olympics goes ahead next year, I’ll do some day trips to London, just to keep him sweet, like. Maybe show him a bit of ankle and whisper some fruity tootiness in his ear. I know, I know, it’s a huge gesture (particulary given what a bunch of shysters SouthWest trains are), but I don’t want your gratitude or thanks – however, a steady flow of vodka vouchers would come in handy.

And remember children, the future of the London Olympics lies in my ankles…

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