5 things that happened in London

1. Tracy Barlow

With 10 minutes to get from the train to my brother’s school in order to arrive on time for a friendly 5-a-side football match, I must embark on my first ever solo journey on the London Underground. I jump off the train with purposeful alacrity and dodge and duck my way down the crowded platform. I spy Tracy Barlow off Corrie, who I’d seen but two and a half hours earlier at Manchester Piccadilly; I’d flashed her a friendly smile, hoping not only to portray my knowledge of who she was, but also demonstrate my appreciation of Coronation Street as a whole, as well her long-running integral role as part of Manchester’s cultural furniture. She scowled with notable displeasure and looked the other away. Mildly vexed, I thought no more of it. Confronted with her once again, no longer on home turf, I consider giving her a knowing glare, convinced she would be served a guilty reminder of her ingratitude to an amiable fan, though I haven’t got the time nor the desire so I push on ahead to keep to my strict timeframe.  I try to decipher my brother’s tube directions “Old street, Northern Line, bank branch South.” I literally have no idea what this means but hope it will all become apparent as I approach. I whack my Oyster card on the yellow circle to slink through the turnstile. The doors stay obstinately shut. Not enough funds on the card. Shit. Could do without this. A girl in the queue for the Top-up machines dilly dallies with her purse, a firm believer in the old adage “You snooze, you lose” I shamelessly queue jump and ignore any murmurs of displeasure coming from a throng of commuters behind me. The turnstiles fling open, back on track. Eyes fleeting from sign to sign, map to map, I jockey for position as the crowd slows painfully as we reach the descending escalators. Slow coaches with no place to go stick to the right and let the mechanism take them down underground, go-getters stay left and descend at double speed. I choose left and swiftly pass the patient book readers, phone tappers and smoochers when who should I pass for a second time? My old foe Tracy Barlow, texting away, oblivious to the presence of her accidental stalker. “We meet again, Tracy” I don’t say, and press on once more. Northern Line, here we go, South Branch, yes. Old street, this is the one, success! The tube whooshes in on cue. I smile, and exhale, satisfied with the ease of proceedings. My shoulder gasps for air when I release it from the suffocating grip of my overnight bag. I take a seat, happy. An attractive woman sits down across from me. I look up casually to steal a glance. Bloody Tracy Barlow.

2. Lap of London

Following a telephonic communication breakdown, I don’t get to football on time. I’m very pissed off. Not only have I packed and carried a pointless extra bag full of boots and kit, but in the rush I’ve also worked up quite a sweat; a sweat I was hitherto fine with as I anticipated a post match shower would be available to solve the problem. As it is, I’m stranded in London, perspiring with a couple of hours to kill. On the plus side, I’m stranded in London with a couple of hours to kill. I take out my phone and Google map where I am in relation to the city centre. After a couple of false starts, misjudging the direction of the blue circle, I turn around and head briskly in the right direction. Immediately my eyes begin to take in the wonder of London’s snazzy architecture, each building a celebrity in its own right. The Shard, Gherkin and Walkie-Talkie all make Tracy Barlow a long forgotten non-occurrence. The South Bank croons in the sunset, smooth, chilled, glamorous. Everyone is so young and beautiful my eyes are unsure as to who’s a movie star or just a passerby; I hope my hair hasn’t been too badly affected by the sweat. I take a moment and stop by the riverside, outdoor book stall. Rifling through collections of poems and plays in such surroundings, I feel warm with contentment and long for a permanence of such a lifestyle. I leave the gentle buzz of the riverside and plunge into a cacophony of city life, flash cars, red buses, neon lights, glaring screens, colour, concrete, glass, supermodels on posters, shop windows, musicals, cool people, posh people, incredibly well dressed people, homeless people, showbiz people, move I’m in a rush people. Everything is huge, everything is loud and I love it. My phone rings. My brother has finished football and is now in the pub. I open Google maps and relish the walk and warmly anticipate the destination.

3. Cause offence in a heated debate.  

A few drinks inside us, meal finished, we head for more drinks. After hours of jovial chat, law of averages would demand at least one touchy subject be broached. We all smile whilst standing our ground, talk a little louder, gesticulate wilder, talk a little louder still, are we shouting? I have the habit, when drunk, of punctuating an argument by casually dropping in “You’re a dick” as an affirmation of the point I’m trying to make. Unfortunately it tends to piss people off a bit. In this case, calling someone a “boring bitch” also brings the lively debate to a sour end. The receiving party sensibly takes leave of the table, allowing the remaining voices of reason to ‘tut tut’ and offer irritatingly well balanced dressing downs to me, the offender. I stubbornly maintain I was gallantly standing up in the face of a campaign against freedom of expression, yet tactically concede my delivery was a little off skew. A minute later, all is forgotten, save feeling slightly aggrieved at coming off as a bit of a prick.

4. Football Match.

Sun shining, hangover pleasingly tame, what better way to cease the day than head to the nearest football ground for a Saturday afternoon of sporting entertainment. A lazy start to the day means we’re running a little late. Approaching the ground we hear a sudden, joyous roar. “Shit, someone’s scored” we say to each other. A man standing by a tree offers feeble reassurance, “It’ll just be the players, coming out onto the pitch.” “Will it fuck” I think. The cheer was too short, sharp and celebratory, not building and hopeful. Crowd sound analysis aside, we rush to the ticket office, then for the gate. Another cheer! “Dammit, we’ve missed another!” We clarify the score with an amiable steward. 2-0. We’re only five minutes late! We take our seats in the stand. There doesn’t seem to be much adherence to the allocated block/row/seat system going on, just a kind of find a space you like the look of and set up camp vibe. The local crowd seem to be a laid back, friendly bunch, perhaps owing to the two early goals instantly killing any threat of defeat. Everyone seems to know each other, stood around in groups casually chatting away, ‘What did you get up to last night?’ ‘How were you feeling this morning?’ ‘How did the wedding go last week?’ ‘How’s the wife?’ ‘What’s going on with that girl you’re seeing?’ Some even network from group to group, like we’re all mates sat around in a pub on a Saturday night. Latecomers give well meaning V-signs to the greetings of “What time do you call this?” hollers from the seating behind me. Someone calls me “guv’nor” when asking to squeeze past. I feel very much at home and warmed by football’s power to inspire such positive community spirit. With pie in hand and cup of tea in the other, brother to the side of me and football in front, despite the seeming mundanity of the situation, I feel almost euphoric with contentment. Euphorically comfortable. Another cheer goes up; this time we’re part of it. 3-0. Finally get to see a goal.

5. Money

Dolled up, we head into the City. London is alive. Everywhere looks cool, everyone looks cool. After a few warm-up drinks, 8 of us squeeze round a table to eat. The lighting is low, a warm glow of candles, flatters the efforts made by everyone to look the part.  The relaxed vibe is momentarily flung into mild panic as a lady on the next table’s scarf becomes overly acquainted with one of the many candles. Flames fly, the woman wails as she stupidly spins the scarf in the air as a Hellish helicopter. Diners contort their bodies away from the danger until an efficient waiter snatches the blazing rag, chucks it on the floor and stamps on it with unscrupulous desire for caution. The lady looks on in horror; I’m unsure if it’s due to the shock of a supposed near death experience or the sight of a waiter stomping her expensive shawl to nought but ash. The menu is our oyster! Word spreads that we’re splitting the bill, starters definitely, cocktails a must, egg in a cocktail? I’ll have another. Money is no object, until of course the time comes to pay it. Eyes widen, air is sucked through gritted teeth when the grand total is revealed. Looks of suspicion are shot around at suspected big spenders though guilt lies in all of us as we chastise ourselves for the caprice shown but minutes earlier. The £50 I took out of the cash-point to cover the whole night suddenly seems laughably lacking as I hand it over to add to the stack of notes portraying our shameful profligacy. Wallet wounded, we head off to a nearby bar; patted down on the door, I didn’t realise hipsters carried guns; we enter a vacuum of metal surfaces and electronic sounds. “Two pints of Coors, please.” I holler across an impractically expansive bar top. The girl starts pouring pints, multi-tasking the till and calls back, “£10.40!” I assume my order must have distorted in the vast void between us. “Just two pints!” I clarify in response. The girl nods bemused and confirms clearly “Ten pound forty.” It dawns on me that £10.40 is in fact the correct price for my modest order as my balls disappear into my body and my wallet implodes. We sip our drinks conservatively then head sheepishly back to the all too familiar cash-point. The machine is deep inside a pokey corner shop; we crowd the narrow aisles as sober locals struggle to squeeze around us to make a few now less convenient, convenience purchases. The machine whirrs violently as the first of our group asks it for money. “How much are you getting out??” my brother flabbergasts as a hefty wad juts from the slot. “200 quid” our mate replies all skinny jeans, hair and panda eyes. “What do you need 200 quid for??” By this point she’s already taking the dosh and rubbing it gratuitously into the crotch of her jeans in a mock display of ridiculous extravagance. “Cos I’m FUCKING LOADED” she declares, drunk and joyous, wealth of notes cascading to the shop floor, we piss ourselves at the ludicrous spectacle before regaining some sense of decorum and pick up the strewn cash. The regular shoppers don’t bat an eyelid. “Sorry no cash available” reads the machine. Moneybags has emptied it. Those in the queue forming behind us seem less than impressed by the whole performance as we offer drunk and apologetic shrugs whilst squeezing past them out the door. We head out in search of another hole in the wall. I briefly consider the effects this haemorrhaging of cash could have on the rest of my month but with the glittering lights of buildings on a skyline I could look at forever, I find I couldn’t care less.