Well I haaave and it’s become nigh on inconceivable to ‘do’ a full-on largin’ it propa BANGinyaface weekender bender on under 100 smackers. You’d have more chance of getting Fred ‘The Shred’ Goodwin to fork out on repaying your overdraft (Wahey that wins my ‘Joke of the Moment’ award which shall already make this piece look outdated by next week).
One very effective secret weapon against excessive blowout in that there Nodnol is the glory of Samuel Smith pubs (Creamy bland John’s more credible brother). Ironically although Sam always did the far superior bitter whether Old Brewery or Sovereign, it must’ve been his bro who felt the most bitter about his shortcomings in their vast gulf of difference in brewing tradition. High Holborn holds two gems right round the corner from its underground station; Princess Louise & Cittie of Yorke (if you LOVED Princess Louise then you’re bound to love etc). Even the Gents in the Princess are grade II listed along with the rest of its ornately decorated glass interior – not sure how comfortable I was taking a leak on a Victorian landmark. The general pub decor resembles the Hall in Return to Oz minus detachable heads screeching ‘Dorothy’ at you – this only serves to magnify the wonder. Knowing my dad’s appreciation of the standard of public house facilities he’d probably have been suitably in awe enough to contract stage-fright were it not for his overactive prostate. I would’ve taken a photo were there not common laws of decency through fear of being misunderstood (as George Michael said to that policeman).
The opening statement about the cost to ensure your continued existence in Londinium is mostly due to ever rising train fares now that I’m over 26 (as the least hedonistic member of the 27 club) & therefore no longer qualify for a ‘young’ person’s railcard. If only applicants were based on their youthful behaviour in preference of age – why just the other day I chortled myself into a coughing fit over a phallic shaped snow rocket with gonad-shaped cylinders by the friend’s porch I was visiting in Holloway. Sadly the government/national transport network chooses not the recognise people who’d still rather ‘go public’ between the ages of 27-60. Presumably to MPs & national rail companies that whole midsection of life (though not for me if I keep inflicting a London lifestyle upon myself) is just a slash in the bedpan of travelling experiences overall. Despite not being a student or pensioner I feel I’m currently living some sub-par combo existence of the two…
Many lifeforms at some point during their 20s seem to either straight up adopt or heavily flirt with the notion of a better life in the wider conurbation of Capital City. The majority move back home or outside the ring of Hades that is the M25 in search of better air, water, soil, drainage, etc. Alright then AND value for money if you’re really that shallow & being pedantic. Alas instalments of one weekend in London are about my breaking point (I would’ve written ‘tipping point’ but everywhere expect you to tip people who often have the same skills as you but are in an infinitely more competitive environment).
Snow did make the whole scene is little easier to swallow however (I strongly advise you read John Doran’s vice column ‘Menk’ for more on the emotive loveliness of snow; http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/menk-by-john-doran-crystal-world-with-winter-flowers). Something about its nonjudgmental delicate arrival just sends your sense of unruly mischief spinning & unites all walks of life (as they all look idiotic trying to walk on new ice over older black). Well, that and my mate slipped arse over tit in the west end whilst doing a circular jig muhahahahaaaaaaaar (ahem, pause). Shared moments not of schadenfreude but pleasurable reminiscences are more valuable than any trumped up door fee or novelty Del Boy cocktail in our fair capital. It is these that will keep me coming back (albeit occasionally) to catch up chasing quality boozers into a cocked hat with the boys from the black stuff sporting anti-swastika tattoos OI! OI!