Howdy-do Reeking Lums of Planet Earth,
Because the toffs in government are making intercity travel in the UK only something that can be enjoyed by Viscounts and Papal emissaries delivering bulls, I had to have another weekend away from the little lums in the North and remain down here in East London.
I have on occasion managed to get a return flight from Stansted, 36 miles North of London to 36 miles south of Glasgow for as little as £36, but usually somewhere between £50 and £60. But now Its hard to get anything under a ton.
The tax on a flight now is greater then the flight itself.
Now, you could perhaps swallow that if you were treated more like a passenger and less like an 88Kg sack of bovine marrow, so its back to letting the train take the strain. Still over a hundred quid but needs must.
I did get a little taste of the beating, more of a faint tap really, industrial heart of the nation this week, with a little business trip to Manchester. Eee, lad, it really is grim up North. Well, it was the day I was there, grey, cold, raining and to top it all, Manchester, with nothing of any note to look at and where everybody looks pissed off. Where I was visiting was right next door to the giant new Media City complex that the BBC is relocating too from Sheperds Bush in London. The luvvies at the Beeb are revolting apparently, the top earners are just refusing to go, like Dimbleby, now his production staff have to fly to London 3 times a week for meetings with the old dear. Can you blame him though, really?
Anyway, couldn't be bothered hanging around London kicking me heels so thought I'd take a trip to the sea-side and chose Brighton as my lovely day out destination of choice. Brighton as it turns up has quite a cool trendy vibe, must be all those gays I guess, they know how to dress something up.
I spent ages browsing around the vintage shops, which is gay speak for second hand clothes shops, in Manchester they would be called Sue Ryder or Barnardos, in Brighton its Red Mutha and Vintage Owl. I ended up in a place called Snoopers Paradise. Its just the Paradise, I just see Poopers Paradise when I see that written down, what is that, some kind of dyslexia?
Anyway, this place was big, and crammed full of at least one of everything ever made. I think the proprietor bought the first 25,000 available things on e-bay then crammed them in this shop, even a stuffed Zippy from Rainbow, in a dressing gown.
He made me laugh so I gathered him up, paid my tenner and as easy as that, like Madonna adopting an African, he was part of the family and joined me on the rest of my day in Brighton. Later that evening I was even made an offer for him, doubling my outlay, but I couldn't sell him after all our laughs so he came home and now sits in my room, with a blonde wig on and some US dollars stuffed in his belt, a bit like a Julia Roberts drag act between shows.
A lot of hen nights in Brighton, soon to be wedded young ladies, out enjoying a last night out as a singleton. Normally dressed with all her pals as complete tarts, which is agreeable to the casual observer, such as I ,but quite funny when you see the pie faced mother and her hag toothed pals trailing along behind, pretending to enjoy themselves in hot noisy pubs, where there Malibu and Cokes cost £6.50 and there are no seats to sit on to ease the swelling of their ankles and their squealing tortured feet, coerced into impossible shoes that they havent had on for 15 years. There faces getting redder and puffier with each pub trotted too and all the attention the younger, impossible them are getting from the blokes, though maybe not in Brighton right enough.
Lang May Yer Lum Reek.
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