Posts Tagged 'London'

Smoking, big style

I’ve been in London about a week now and, you know what, I quite like the place. It may be large, people may not be that chatty but, you know what, I quite like that as well. Generally, there’s lots I like about the place.

For those expecting tales of London-style debauchery, living it up in the capital’s most dubious bars every night repeatedly ending up in compromising positions with Kate Moss and Amy Winehouse while Pete Doherty injects us all with heroin in the buttocks, that hasn’t happened, and nor would I want it to. And, anyway, I can’t imagine ever approaching Pete Doherty for any reason whatsoever other than to tell him he’s a massively overrated musician, and musician is pushing it.

Anyway, I’m alive, and nobody has tried to attack me with weaponry of any sorts. But there are a few things that baffle me about London, despite my general liking of the city.

1. London Transport System. Efficient it may be, but travelcards and Oyster cards and cards in general.  I’m sure its simply once Ive settled, but trains have always thrown me. Some years ago, I accidentally ended up in Barnstaple due to a train error. I’m just not good with them.

2. Fat people running up escalators, then stopping at the top.

Amusing, yet pointless.

3. Wearings jumpers over your shoulders, tieing the garment’s arms in a loose knot around your neck.

I’ve never been in step with fashion, but this just confuses me.

4. The London Paper and London Lite.

I’ve yet to work out what purpose they save. I’ve read one virtually every day and still don’t feel like I’ve actually learnt anything. I’m not a big fan of Metro, but it reads like Proust, Dickens, Shakespeare and JK Rowling rolled into one.

5. The large selection of Cornish pasties available.

I don’t have a problem with this, I just wonder if London has reached Cornish-pasty saturation point.

Apart from that, everything can be described as good. I will have something more sensible to say soon, once I move house properly and get settled, but expect more idiotic confusion over trains and pasties in the meantime.


Wherever I lay my jacket… (I don’t have a hat)

This blog will probably be taking a quick hiatus for a few weeks. Not because I have nothing to say, for once, but simply that I move up to London this weekend, start work on Monday and at some point need to find a house. All of which may prove problematic to regular (ha!) blogging. Or irregular blogging. Or even now-and-then blogging.

But I may find a spare half an hour somewhere to waffle tripe about tripe, or even black pudding. I may be unusual among vegetarians that I used to quite like black pudding.

Anyway, a few random searches that have come my way.

1. To the person who looked for Who is Gary Andrews, I suggest you click on the about page. Although that needs updating.

2. I absolutely love the fact somebody found this blog by searching for: “Who should I be tonight, Matthew?”

Right, back to the boxes.

Honestly, it’s not that interesting

Like having ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife, I’ve had several ideas for vaguely sensible posts. However, as ever, real life predicates against me being able to have the time to write anything. So instead here’s another update as to why I’ve been too busy to blog, at which point everybody reading this leaves to play scrabble on Facebook. If Alanis Morrisette could have fitted that into her MOR lyrics, I’m sure she would have. She’d have also been able to tell the future, and may have been burnt at the stake as a result. You can’t have it all, I suppose.

The reason for inactivity here is London. You know, that big place I’m moving to in a few weeks time and don’t have anywhere to live yet? Well, I’ve been attempting to rectify that. Spare moments are spent desperately scouring websites for spare rooms, flats, houses or cardboard boxes. Having a list of a dozen potential sites isn’t enough. You always need one more just to be on the safe side. Truly, is the equivalent of a very large hit of opium for househunters. Soon people will find me rocking in a corner, eyes rolling, muttering the words: “But it has NO TUMBLE DRYER.”

This weekend I attempted my first, and hopefully last, traipse of rooms in London. I say traipse. It’s more like a job interview, which the difference that at least if I don’t get the job, I still have an existing one to fall back on. If I don’t get a house, I better find a darn sturdy cardboard box. The interview can be imagined something like this:

“So, Mr. Andrews. We see you’re looking for a flat or house. Why do you want this particular one?”

“Well, I’m moving up to London soon and I really don’t like the idea of being homeless. Can I have this one?”

“Not yet. We have more questions for you. What will you bring to the house?”

“Well, I can cook. And I’m reasonably quiet. And tidy. But I’m not a hermit. At least I don’t think I am. I like normal things like sports, doing down the pub, watching TV and films and other things. I’m like the Danny Murphy of the flatmate world. Not spectacular, but average and largely trouble free, and I won’t hanker after a move to Chelsea because, frankly, I’m not good enough for there. They all wear their jumpers over their shoulders and I could never carry that look off.”

“I see. We’ll be in touch. Maybe.”

Anyway, I’ve seen all kinds of houses. Big houses, small houses, flats above shops, flat-pack furniture, mould-infested houses, so-neat-if-your-breathe-they’ll-whip-out-the-disinfectant houses. And one really lovely house that would be absolutely perfect, with housemates who seem lovely.

I was called back for a ‘second’ interview last night, during which I completely forgot to mention my Olympic-class tea brewing skills, which I’m hoping hasn’t counted against me. But I like the house, I like the people and hopefully they think I’m lovely enough to join their house. And I am lovely. Well, mostly. If a bit misanthropic at times. Essentially I’m a stuffed toy version of Charlie Brooker.

So, time will be spent fretting, and brewing Olympic-class tea, and praying to all the Gods of Housing that I get the place until I get the phone call, or email. Although I’d happy buy them all champagne dinners or even hack off my left arm (face it, I’m majorly right handed and useless in goal, so it wouldn’t be a great loss) for this place, I didn’t say that. Because then I’d appear like I was a try-hard. And nobody likes a try hard.

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December 2022

Throw letters together and send them to me

Yes, this is my name. And my email. Use it wisely or you're not getting a biscuit with your tea: garyllewellynandrews [at] gmail [dot] com