Before I begin, I’d like to say a special hello to Alasdair (not that I’m trying to compete with Mike or anything. Hehe).
Anyway, for those of you who have never had the pleasure of experiencing the London nightlife, this blog is for you.
Although it depends on where you go, you’re likely to see loads of people roaming the streets, or standing in front of packed pubs carrying their beers (since you’re allowed to drink in public places). If you decide to brave Soho, you will see a whack of tourists clutching camera bags and money belts, and you’ll see Londoners. You can always tell who is a Londoner; the men are usually wearing patent leather loafers, and the women are wearing those ugly pointed shoes that are a throwback to the Gina shoes of the 80s. If you’re feeling adventurous, you brave Leicester Square, although it’s jam packed with tourists and British tweens.
As you walk down the street, you pass about five or six pubs, all of which are packed. You choose one, and are lucky enough to find a table. I order cider, and am laughed at. No one here drinks cider past the age of 17, apparently. It’s the drink that most kids first get wasted on here, since they sell it in three-litre bottles at the grocery store for a small price. But I don’t care. I drink my cider with pride. Every pub in London sells crisps (potato chips). But there’s something different about these crisps. They’re either cheese and onion flavoured, or barbecue chicken flavoured. On Saturday night, I ate Doritos with lime flavour; they were really good surprisingly. In all the time I’ve been here, I have not seen one bag of sour cream and onion chips, all dressed, or even ketchup flavour. It’s a little sad if you ask me. But then again, what do you expect from a people whose version of peanut butter is just a bunch of ground peanuts. I’ve never tasted anything quite as gritty as British peanut butter, nor do I plan to ever again.
Anyway, after you’ve drunk yourself into a stupor, it’s time to go home. It seems early to you, since last call is at 11 pm. But no. You’ve missed the last tube, since the last train left the station before midnight. You’re faced with two options: take an overpriced cab, or take the night bus. You don’t want to take the cab, because you’re likely to get raped or attacked by the driver. You remember hearing about the study that says at least one woman is raped each week by a gypsy cab driver. Besides, how bad can the night bus be? you think to yourself. Only you have no idea.
It’s raining outside, and it’s cold. You walk to the bus stop, passing several men peeing in the open-concept public urinals, and try to plan your route home. Turns out you have to change buses twice to get home. You’re not exactly thrilled about the prospect of taking two buses full of drunks home, but what other choice do you have? You check the information stand at the bus stop, and see that the bus is due shortly. So you brave the rain, and the cold, and the wind, and wait for the bus. But it doesn’t come. You keep checking the information stand, but now it’s just taunting you. The bus is supposed to be there, but it’s not. If the information stand could laugh at you, it would. Finally, about 45 minutes later, not one bus, but two buses pull up. You get on, and give the driver a dirty look.
You find a seat, and try to relax. The bus turns a corner and hits traffic. This is the time when all the Londoners with cars decide to do a little drunk driving. So it’s now 2 am, and you’re in gridlock. Unbelievable.
Finally, the bus stops at Trafalgar Square. You disembark, and try to find the stop where you can catch the bus that will take you home. You have a hard time telling which direction you’re travelling in. Finally, you get to the bus stop, but this time you don’t bother checking the information stand. There are already 20 people waiting there. Most of them are crowded under the shelter, since the rain has not stopped. Behind you, a young girl watches her drunk date shuffle his feet in a pathetic jig as he sings “Raindrops keep falling on my head.” Please please please don’t let them be getting on the same bus as me, you think. About 20 minutes later, your bus shows up. And hey, that annoying drunk guy is getting on the same bus. By this time, you’re cold, wet, sober, and ready to punch someone in the face. You just want to get home, and can’t remember why you thought taking the bus was a good idea. You make a pledge to yourself to never ever take the night bus again. From now on, you decide to either be a candyass and leave the pub early, or to blow big bucks on a cab. As far as you’re concerned, it’s worth it.
When you finally do get home, you’re tired, wet, cold and in a foul mood. You’ve forgotten all the fun you had on your night out. All that remains is the foul memory of the night bus. Your eye twitches; if anyone saw the way you looked at this moment, they would think you’re deranged, and possibly dangerous.
And that, my friends, is why I’m never taking another night bus in this city. I don’t care if it costs me 50 quid to get home, I’m taking a cab.
Anyway, Monday was my first day of work. Or rather, it was the first day I spent in the office where I will be working. I didn’t actually do much of anything, other than get introduced to a whole bunch of people and take an extended lunch on the company. Nice. I’m really starting to love this place. I have my own desk and my very own phone line, which means I get voicemail. I know it’s silly, but it’s the first time since the Eyeopener that I have voicemail at work, and I’m excited about it. :) Everyone in the office is really nice, and there’s even a guy from Canada working there. We have a little kitchenette, with a microwave, toaster and dishwasher. There are communal dishes, utensils and mugs, and all the free coffee and tea you can handle. It’s a pretty nice set up. The only thing I hate about work is the commute. Londoners are complete pigs when it comes to public transportation. Everyone pushes, pulls and kicks to get onto the bus or tube. It’s disgusting. Monday morning, it took me over an hour to get to work – it should only take about 35 minutes. Near the end of the trip, I was ready to kill someone.
Of course, the commute during regular business hours isn’t that bad – that is, when you compare it to the horrors of the night bus. But I’ve already told you about that.
‘til next time,
S.
