Back to Blighty 1


Official break off or break up from work is 16th December and (there is or there isn’t, but WTF) enough money for a nostalgia-driven pre Christmas Trip to London. Oh wow! A walk down Oxford Street to see the lights. A trip to Harrods. Romantic and nostalgic bues rides across the city that was once mine. Time to see friends. Shopping for London inspired Christmas gifts! meeting Friends. F*** me! I am so happy to be going home, especially in the pre-Christmas London magic. I’ve got a nostalgic driven erection, bigger than the biggest ever Blighty One.

And after hours traveling I emerge From the fathoms of St Pancras station to draw in my first addictive nicotine on the mad London streets. People talking and shopping and commuting and red buses everywhere, and I light up and breathe in my addiction, supplemented by a keen whiff of good old London life. This is heaven. this is life, this is London, and, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. And next day on a trip up the Strand, outside St mary Le Strand two pigeons are sitting on top of Dr Johnson’s hard and the poor old statuesque gent is covered in bird crap – and this happily sums up the reality of an ex-pat on a nostalgia driven, festive trip to his former land.

In London, the world is grey. In London, even on the brightest of days, there is always a hint of grey in the heavens or in the heart. I stand on Westminster Bridge just wondering how the f*** Canaletto ever managed to pint this city in blue sky and sky blue azure spring glory. This is not Venice. I guess you get the brief from your patron and tell the best lie you can.

Crossing the Thames from St Paul’s Cathedral, via the Millennium Bridge to the Tate Modern. Grey, grey and more grey and arrived by the Tate, a Christmas market selling the same crap we get in France, but three times more expensive because it is French. I’m starting to learn, “just stay home”, but I am in love with the idea of going home for the holidays, so to get back home, I’be got to go somewhere else to get home again.

The Tate isn’t great – an exhibition from Robert Rauschenberg – there’s collage silk screen, sculpture and … a primary school art class could do as good (with some guidance) WTF is this guy. I’ve fallen into that age old, middle class shit -” Hey this is major exhibition, it misy be great, but it isn’t, therefore it ain’t the artist who is crap, it must be me.”

So , in my first throes of officially analyzed depression, I say to myself that I am in a bad way and I must come back later (and off tranx) to appreciate this fine art (which i did and I still found it crap.)