I've been feeling nostalgic as of late. And I was hoping that reminiscing about my trials and tribulations in the LDN would knock some sense into me. But I'm afraid not. Despite the rampant idiocy I encountered on a daily basis I miss London something fierce. Let's take a casual walk down memory lane . . . .


Four men with top hats are trying to cross the street. It starts off like a bad joke doesn’t it? Seriously though. Sunz and I were walking home one day and happened upon, you guessed it, four men in top hats. To be more specific, four men in top hats hoisting a mahogany box on their shoulders. Performance art was my immediate deduction. However, upon closer inspection I realize the box was a casket. I felt bad for a split second and then resumed my performance art theory. I told Sunny, “Don’t stare and whatever you do, DO NOT make eye contact, otherwise they’ll drag us into their avant-guard bullshit.” I was 100% sure it was “art” when I heard one of the pall bearers ask a passer-by “Do you know where the pet cemetery is?”

I’m sure these dudes were art students or some crap trolling the neighborhood behind the Tate Modern for suckers. I suspect they were doing a reactionary piece to make fun of the Average Joe. Hell, I’d put money on it.

I mean what the hell kind of reaction do you think you’d get when a bunch of guys holding a small coffin, carnations spilling from lapels ask . . . “Which way to the pet cemetery?”

Bloody artists. Go back to your piles of felt and sacks of lard, and leave the rest of us out of your twisted little alternate dimension.


Then there was the time I saw the biggest dip-shit ever.

Well I didn’t actually see him. I saw his sweet ride. I can’t be sure if it was a Lamborghini or a Ferrari… frankly, it doesn’t matter. All I know is it had numerous horses under the hood, it was about an inch off the ground (which meant the roof reached my belly button and it was an excruciating pearlescent orange. What made it even cooler (an by cooler I mean nauseating) was the personalized license plate.

BICEP.(heaving with laughter)


I walked under a ladder right in front of Sunny the other day just to freak her out, and to illustrate a point. The point being I survived. We figured that the bad luck I should be expecting will probably be her death, as she almost got hit by 3 cars while we were walking around that day. Which brings me to the whole superstitious English thing. I have found out why folks are terrified of stepping over 3 drain hole covers in a row (refer to black cats etc. e-mail) Apparently it’s not just general bad luck they're destined to receive. It’s a specific area of life that will be crippled with bad luck. The Moronic English believe that they’ll suffer in the sack if they walk across these consecutive bits of city planning. For crying out loud. It’s not the pavement. It’s British genetics.


Now for some observations.

If you’re unlucky enough to get knocked up in England, and even more unlucky should you spawn a baby girl you are required (by law it would seem) to give your offspring one of the following loathsome names.




(most have a floral aesthetic. Also read: petunia, iris and stink weed)

Hell . . . if you feel adventurous, use a couple of them for a repulsive double barrelled job (Izzie Poppy de Stick Up Your Ass)

Next up. Negativity.

Why I hate Ugg Boots. (except the pair strewn on my bedroom floor) I hate them because Daisy Von Rothschild-Church-Gibson has been putting on her Uggs every Sunday since fall 2003. She meets her equally floral and useless friends for brunch in Primrose Hill/Maida Vale/Westbourne Grove. She arrives a carefully disheveled mess. Shuffling to greet Izzie and Stink Weed with two wretched air kisses on either cheek. She looks like a paraplegic learning to walk again. Or a newborn fawn struggling to stand on shaky knock-kneed weight bearing legs. The heels of her Uggs are crusty and grey, the soles are riding up on the outside of her feet (imagine trying on your dad’s boots when you were teeny and not filling the foot bed entirely). This means Daisy is scuffing along on the suede ankle portion of the boot. Not only does this look great. It sounds great too. If you hear an irritating scuffing sound (often the sound carries from up to a block away) it’s undoubtedly a girl in her early-mid 20’s abusing her Uggs. Uggs should be worn in 2 places. And 2 places only. Australia and my flat.

So in retrospect, it's good to know some things never change (read: inappropriately worn footwear and my hatred for it) Some things that do change are baby names. Everyone take a count of how many little Eva and Ava's you know. The numbers are staggering.