Let's do the timewarp again!

Figure 1. Screw Time. We're Britain. We make time our bitch.

The clocks have changed.

There are no words.

There are no words to express my confusion and trauma at such an event. Time is now lying to me. This is the most stoopid thing the Brits could have come up with. I mean really! This place doesn’t do much (Susan Boyle and Wagner off the X-factor are exceptions to this) wrong, but damn, they got it so so wrong this time. They can colonise the entire globe, but that gives them no right to screw up the concept of time. So time has moved back an hour… I dreamt I missed everything and was subsequently fired from my postal duties at my awesome company. My electrical equipment all self-adjusted [creepy. I know.] so I awoke at the CORRECT version of 9am and all my electrics said 8am. BUT, the clock said 9am. One word: mindfuck. Then it got dark at 16h30. But this would be normal time – 17h30, instead, we changed the bloody clocks so it actually is getting dark earlier. I just can’t get it. I’m gonna need counseling for trauma as a result of this!

Figure 2. Juanita the lesbian-stripper-chilean-miner costume didn't come out this year, but Captain Awesome did!

This weekend was Halloween. And boy-oh-girl, did the devil come out to play. And by out, I didn’t just step out of the closet in the most fabulous attire I could find, no, I broke down the doors and flamed my way all over London. I shook my lettuce, threw myself on questionably straight landed gentry, stole road-construction equipment and had unplanned walking tours of London city.

To start with, we hit up Goldfish at a concert on Friday night. I have watched them rock out SA on an almost weekly basis. But this concert was mind-blowing. We were in a concrete cavern. Thick, freshly painted concrete walls filled to well-over the legal persons capacity. A light show that had us tripping like hippies at a trance party without the drugs! Not to mention the music which can only be described as Berlin-Rave and was topped of with eastern-European bouncers who spoke minimal English... It.was.AWESOME! And half the concert audience was Saffa. So not only were the well-built jocks and boets from SA throwing their testosterone all over the club, but the waspish, tall, rosey cheeked, wavy haired british gents were there too. The bar was 5 people deep, and being the slimey little fishy I am, I weaseled my way into a uncomfortably tight spot in amongst a group of jocks whilst I waited for my two “Double vodka and cranberries, but spare the cranberry dahling!”. I didn’t need to pay for any form of inappropriate groin thrusting as I was getting my full dose as the mentally-not-so-clever jocks kept pushing up against me. So I just happily smiled and thought: “shame, steroids really do shrink your penis…”. As the vodkas flowed like water, my inner-klepto raged. Having been caged for so long, my itchy little fingers began to wander… I managed to table-bar 2 half-full brandy and cokes off a table near-by and the stage list and the red bull off the light technician when he turned around. As always, I looked innocent and wide-eyed when accused and stuck to my rule: Deny, falsify and re-accuse. It worked. I escaped! BAM. My partner in crime stole suckers from the bathroom, so it wasn’t just me…. Haha. Oh, and to start, they full body search you at the door (I know, free groping at the door – it was like being at a strip club!), not for cocaine, heroin, alchohol, crystal meth, your fully loaded glock… no, they strip-searched you for – wait for it – chewing gum! Luckily, we smuggled ours into the venue in my partner in crime’s bra. One always needs chewing gum. You never know when you will have to SURPRISE a spamoni!

Following our debaucherous concert, we stumbled our way up to Shoreditch where we slid left, right and centre with all the “Rah-Rah, my daddy gave me a range rover in white for my birthday, but I wanted a black one, so he gave me a pony to apologise” types. We ended up having a mass schmodel photo shoot which, use this a fore-warning for your own lives, is never a good idea whilst hammered. I look like a wasted chipmunk in most of the photos. Haha.

Figure 3. You heard him. This guy looks legit.

I’ve got my BAM back. So I have a blind-date on Tuesday night. I’m wingmanning for a friend who like his BF who is a girl. So, I’m amped. The guy is uber hott. Do I know what to wear. NO! Is this stressing me out…? YES! I have to go straight from work, so I can’t even rock the uber trendy clothing from home. I’m gonna have to pull something miraculous. And, I’ll have to put my face on in the work bathrooms, heaven forbid some director walks in while I am applying my face in the mirror… Will this be sucsexful? I sure do hope so! I am DTF. ß Google it. I’m not worried he will like me because I’ve got my BAM on! Plus, he’s uber hott and has such a hott name. Yeah, I have facecreeped him already. And I’m a totally trophy-wife. Oooo, and in other news, I signed up for this dating webiste thing and put all my zexy pictures up. But, as with the one I did for jest at varsity, it does worry me about the older man-boy love going on. Already, I have had dating/sex requests from 63 yr old men. Shame on you! Don’t you have grandchildren to bake cupcakes for?? Disgusting. But some hott 32 yr old management consultant [KA-CHING!] who is tall, dark and (vaguely) respectable wants to go on a date. As long as there is free drugs alcohol candy I’m in. As they say, you gotta risk it for a chocolate biscuit. Well, if I wanna get to husBANK number 3 by 30, I better start risking it for the whole fucking chocolate factory! Besides, we all know I’m easier than a tranny at a pride parade… so, he had me at hello! Dating 2 people in one week, yup, this little goldfish is starting to swim in the big bad London ocean. And once I start playing the game, all rules are out the window – I’m a Killer Queen!

Figure 4. When in doubt/the weather is bad/the gingers attempt world domination – then do as it says

Now, for the only complaint I have at this point: If another Brit bitches about the weather, I will stab them in the face with my pen. I have never met such a bunch of pansies. It is barely cold, in fact, for me, I adore this weather! Yet everyday, they complain about it… shuuuuutuuuuuup about the weather and turn the heaters off for the love of all things holy!

BAM! It’s about to get hott in here!

PS: I LOVE THIS PLACE! I constantly feel alive and electric. It is like there is a current of awesome energy that I am plugged into everyday. I am happy and peaceful. And the people here are fun!

TBS

Figure 1. Bathroom Relief… Something one is unable to experience in bathroomless London

TBS = Tiny. Bladder. Syndrome.

Yes, I suffer from TBS. I neeeeeeeeeeeeeed to peeeeeeeeeeeeeee like ALL the time! When I leave the house. When I reach the bus stop. When I reach the tube. Halfway to my destination. When I reach my destination. In the restaurant. After the meal. Before I journey home. When I get home. Five minutes after getting home. (You get the idea!)

But, in London, there are NO toilets. Anywhere. None in the tube stations, unless you strike lucky and get one of the 3 of 250 stations that have a bathroom. And, one must scrounge for a petty 30 pence – of course which you do not have. And furthermore, there is NO way to acquire the said exact amount of 30 friggin pence.

I am constantly in a desperate state of needing to pee in this place.

London Lemmings

Figure 1. Eight Points on the dismount London Lemmings!

After a muchly enjoyable and party filled travel around Greece, I have settled back into the London life. So hear are a few words from the Queen-in-waiting herself about the initial tribulations of London Life:

1. 1. The hula-hoop

Take all notions of the personal-space-box “hula-hoop” and discard them as this is not the country to have these issues. Personal space is merely a figment of your imagination and is frowned upon in London land. Upon climbing onto the tube (or in fact entering into any London airspace) you are too discard your personal space hula-hoop as throngs of London Lemmings pile into your space and not only breathe every imaginable, highly contagious germ onto you but spread their sweaty, panicked aroma through your peaceful and fuity-scented aura. Thankfully I don’t have space issues… Oh. Wait. I DO!!!!!!!!

In order to combat said space invaders, I have debated carrying an extendable baton with a voltage charge on the end to extend and zap the little buggers! Either that or walking around with a huge sign that says: “I am a carrier of the Ebola Virus. Please keep your distance.”

2. 2. Public transport

Germ phobias… What germ phobias? Again this is a concept to be discarded at Heathrow airport upon your arrival. Piling onto an overcrowded public transport mode is par for the course. As the desire of the bloody British to insist on having the heater on and the windows closed at all times! As one grasps onto a grimey, filthy pole, seat or handle I can just feel the germs diffusing into my body. Particularly in rush hour when the said grasping apparatus are warm and gooey with the sweat and god-knows-what of the crowds of London Lemmings.

I have given in to the eventual acknowledgement that my chances of catching the SARS virus, Bird Flu, Swine Flu, Flu, TB, Ebola, Flesh eating bacteria, Septicemia and one of the innumerable highly contagious diseases are very high and I must now stop trying to prevent by emptying tins of wet wipes and bottles of hand sanitizer onto me daily and stock up on medications and health care scheme to deal with the treatment once the inevitable happens.

To further add to this germtastrophe that is London public transport is the lack of open windows. Stuck in a (heated) tube in a tunnel – air is bloody scarce to start with for crying in a bucket – we all must sit with no windows open. The same goes for buses, trains and taxis. And don’t get me started on the shops where it is like shopping in a sauna… A strategic move really. As one gets more and more uncomfortable and loses dangerous amounts of bodily fluid through sweating, ones shopping decisions become more and more rash and impulsive. In fact, one even resorts to merely buying the first item on the rack without even trying it on! Leads to much buyer’s remorse. None that I have experienced just yet as I look fabulous in everything!

3. 3. Claustrophobia

Refer to the above points and PANIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And now, for the crux of London Life – being a London Lemming!

London lemmings

In order to survive in this super fast paced lifestyle, one must become a London Lemming. This entails losing all ability to direct oneself or make independent decisions whilst in a crowd or travel situation. I in fact have fallen prey to this situation a number of times whilst offloading out of a tube germ capsule and been swept up in the crowds of London Lemmings throbbing their way through the underground caverns and ended up on the wrong platform which only resulted in me taking a full 10 minute hike back down to the correct tube platform! But the funniest activity I have come across is to watch these fascinating creatures as they herd themselves around the public transport maze that is London. Often times they have no idea what they are doing and just follow each other. I have no doubt that more often than they’d like to admit they end up in east Scotland or (heaven forbid) Wales just by mindlessly droning on to the wrong tube and ending up where they had no intention of ever being.

Apart from lemming-looking, a significantly fun thing to do that makes me giggle and snort hysterically is when one descends the steps of a station in desire to board a tube. As one lowers themselves into the caverns of the underground, there is generally a notice board with times till the next tube leaves placed in a far corner of the station. It is oodles of fun to take note that the tube only leaves in 5 minutes time and, from the back of a substantial group of London Lemmings, sprint myself through the middle of them, bag and ipod flailing behind me and launch myself down the stairs in an overtly desperate effort to make the tube on time. Once settled, I watch the ensuing pandemonium that erupts amongst the gaggle of London Lemmings. Usain Bolt and Caster Semenya have nothing on how rapidly these lemmings can cover ground. As the misguided panic sets in that the tube is leaving immediately, hilarious panic ensues. Grannies hoist up their Zimmer frames and use them to plough callously through the crowd. Every pensioner for themselves! Women in their designer heels (that launch them into the stratosphere they are so high) leap flights of stairs in a single Jimmy Choo-ed bound and stride across platforms, hurdling the hustling grannies and legging themselves into the nearest carriage with speed that would leave Caster and Usain gagging for it. Men have been seen to extend themselves, tie swishing behind and coat tails flapping like a loose lettuce, using their briefcases to bash small children to the floor in their desperate attempt to hurl themselves into the apparently imminently departing tube capsule of claustrophobia. As these London Lemmings, once settled in the tube, gasp for air after their extremely panicked scramble with sweat slowly dripping of their immaculately styled bodies, the guilt begins to set in as they recall the small children and pensioners they left for dead behind and the looks of embarrassment begin to show as the tube remains stationary for at least another 4 minutes! All this whilst I giggle into my ipod at the results of mass hysteria.

Figure 2. Seat of the Queen

For now though, I am in love with London Life! It is thoroughly enthralling and makes me feel alive!

On the goldfish front, I have been keeping my lettuce chaste and pure. There was the one French-English lad from Brixton who I was cheekily snogging on Ios during my Greek Island adventure. But, despite him asking me to call him and saying he was excited to meet up in London, he never responded to my voicemail or SMS (I make it sound like I only left one of each… I didn’t…) and thus, is an asshole! But it is ok, I am in no way phased. Britain is an untainted village just ripe to be pillaged!

And this my friends is the FIRST of my BRITISH BAM!

BAM!